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Quote by Meeta Ahluwalia

“Short wintry nights taken over by a trail of memories from long ago like rain drops pounding the window”

Quote by Meeta Ahluwalia

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Meeta Ahluwalia

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“زندگي در چشم من شبهاي بي مهتاب را ماند شعر من نيلوفر پژمرده در مرداب را ماند ابر بي باران اندوهم خار خشک سينه ي کوهم سالها رفته است کز هر آرزو خاليست آغوشم نغمه پرداز جمال و عشق بودم... آه... حاليا خاموش خاموشم ياد از خاطر فراموشم روز چون گل مي شکوفد بر فراز کوه عصر پرپر مي شود اين نو شکفته در سکوت دشت روزها اين گونه پرپر گشت لحظه هاي بي شکيب عمر چون پرستوهاي بي آرام در پرواز رهروان را چشم حسرت باز اينک اينجا شعر و ساز و باده آماده است من که جام هستي ام از اشک لبريز است مي پرسم: با فريب شعر بايد زندگي را رنگ ديگر داد ؟ در نواي ساز بايد ناله هاي روح را گم کرد ؟ ناله ي من مي تراود از در و ديوار آسمان اما سرا پا گوش و خاموش است همزباني نيست تا گويم به زاري: اي دريغ جام من خالي شدست از شعر ناب ساز من فريادهاي بي جواب روز چون گل مي شکوفد بر فراز کوه روشنايي مي رود در آسمان بالا اما من... هم چنان در ظلمت شبهاي بي مهتاب هم چنان پژمرده در پهناي اين مرداب هم چنان لبريز از اندوه مي پرسم: جام اگر بشکست ؟ ساز اگر بشکست؟ شعر اگر ديگر به دل ننشست ؟”

GriefPoem
Author:فریدون مشیری
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“The Hibernal Realm by Stewart Stafford The compass knows not which way to go, And Life's submerged in winter's snow, The path before us fit for sleds, Dusted with a blizzard's web. Clear a path and the light the way, And get us through to break of day, Step through the ice-encrusted door, That shows the way to the dawn thaw. Stay too long in the hibernal realm, And the chill begins to overwhelm, Sit, rest, and take respite, And become at one with fading light. See The Winter King and then bow down, With frostbite smile and holly crown, Icicle sceptre makes the heartbeat slow, Lonely as the North wind blows. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

PoetryColdPoemWinterSnowPoemsBlizzardFrostbiteWinter KingWintry
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“You know that book of poems I’m always carrying around? [...] In one of her poems, she calls hope the ‘thing with feathers,’ and I always think about that…. Maybe when we hope for something, the hope flies off to find whatever it is we’re thinking about…and then it brings it back to us. And when there’s nothing else we can do, at least we can hope.”

PoetryHopePoemWingsFlyingFlightFeathersHopingEmily DickinsonHope Is The Thing With Feathers
Book:Aru Shah and the City of Gold
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“There's nothing more debauched than thinking. This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed on a plot laid out for daisies. Nothing's sacred for those who think. Calling things brazenly by name, risque analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects, discussion in heat--it's music to their ears.”

ThinkingPoetryPoemThought
Book:View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
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