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Quote by كامل فرحان صالح

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أبجدية التجاعيد

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كامل فرحان صالح

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“Where on earth did it come from? You can ask that question of any poem, and one inevitable answer is a simple one: work. No made thing springs up unbidden, even those that seem to. The poem that announced itself to the intoxicated Coleridge, before a knock at the door banished most of it from his memory, or the composition that sprung full blown into the head of Mozart, as he stepped down from a carriage after a satisfying dinner, seemed to pour from the artist's hand, so long schooled those hands had become. But years of labor inform those spontaneous productions. Though a poem over which one struggles may seem labored, it often prepares the way for new writing in which what's been learned emerges with an effortless grace.”

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Book:What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life
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“Saturday Sonnet by Stewart Stafford The Bard once wrote that love is blind, Desire’s muslin cloth veils the eyes behind, As a hog for truffles nosing in dirt, The human sniffs out a way to flirt, Flippant words become overture, And a dungeon-dweller emerges pure, Love’s great story blossoming anew, Past indiscretions in a penitent’s pew, Hearts as one, a confluence of minds, Time to think of the tie that binds, Sure of footing and glad of heart Wheels turning on a bridal cart, Handsome husband, pretty wife, Set out together in this thing called life. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“A Contagion Abroad by Stewart Stafford Overblown epidemic, Inferno pandemic, Death takes a vacation. Bird flu, Bat stew, Churning, gagging virus brew, Man the panic stations. Contaminate, capitulate, Sickly state, funeral date, A lost generation. Depopulate, inoculate, Virologists thwart fate, The world's rehabilitation. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.”

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Author:Stewart Stafford
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“Roads Go Ever On Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on, Under cloud and under star. Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen, And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green, And trees and hills they long have known. The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way, Where many paths and errands meet. The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with weary feet, Until it joins some larger way, Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. The Road goes ever on and on Out from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone. Let others follow, if they can! Let them a journey new begin. But I at last with weary feet Will turn towards the lighted inn, My evening-rest and sleep to meet.”

LifePoem
Book:The Lord of the Rings
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“Regretting" Summer comes... and summer goes- like my dreams of old, Autumn gold turns into winter snow- like my dreams gone cold- I should have taken the grape, not waited for wine- I should have tasted at least While I sat at the feast- And when the wine came my way, I shouldn't have let it pass by Because the cup didn't shine... Now, Summer comes... and summer goes- there is a tear in my eye, Autumn gold turns into winter snow- for my youth has gone by Where are my spring days, My daffodil time? Where are the bird songs, My bells that should chime? Where is the green grass, And the love that was mine? So, Summer comes... and summer goes- and I walk alone, Autumn gold turns into winter snow- and I would give all I own- For just one yesterday- And the chance to play- The game... another way.”

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Author:V.C. Andrews
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“What does being on earth ask of us? The world wants to be rescued from evanescence, to be translated into an immaterial realm that does not perish because it was never exactly alive. To become, in other words, poetry--either in the poem the poet writes out of engagement with things, or in the interior "poem" of anyone who loves the world, the never-said words we come, over time, to carry within us.”

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Book:What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life
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