Le balcon


Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses,
Ô toi, tous mes plaisirs! Ô toi, tous mes devoirs
Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses,
La douceur du foyer et le charme des soirs,
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses !

Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon,
Et les soirs au balcon, voilés de vapeurs roses,
Que ton sein m’était doux! que ton coeur m’était bon !
Nous avons dit souvent d’imperissable choses
Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon.

Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées !
Que l’espace est profond ! que le coeur est puissant !
En me penchant vers toi, reine des adorées,
Je croyais respirer le parfum de ton sang.
Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!

La nuit s’épaississait ainsi qu’une cloison,
Et mes yeux dans le noir devinaient tes prunelles,
Et je buvais ton souffle, ô douceur! ô poison !
Et tes pieds s’endormaient dans mes mains fraternelles.
La nuit s’épaississait ainsi qu’un cloison.

Je sais l’art d’évoquer les minutes heureuses !
Et revis mon passé blotti dans tes genoux.
Car à quoi bon chercher tes beautés langoureuses
Ailleurs qu’en ton cher corps et qu’en ton coeur si doux ?
Je sais l’art d’évoquer les minutes heureuses !

Ces serments! ces parfums! ces baisers infinis,
Renaîtront-ils d’un gouffre interdit à nos sondes
Comme montent au ciel les soleils rajeunis
Après s’être lavés au fond des mers profondes ?
Ô serments! ô parfums! ô baisers infinis!

Charles Baudelaire

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine


Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.

Les mains dans les mains restons face-à-face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.

Guillaume Apollinaire -
French Poem

A BLESSING IN DISGUISE



Yes, they are alive and can have those colors,
But I, in my soul, am alive too.
I feel I must sing and dance, to tell
Of this in a way, that knowing you may be drawn to me.

And I sing amid despair and isolation
Of the chance to know you, to sing of me
Which are you. You see,
You hold me up to the light in a way

I should never have expected, or suspected, perhaps
Because you always tell me I am you,
And right. The great spruces loom.
I am yours to die with, to desire.

I cannot ever think of me, I desire you
For a room in which the chairs ever

JOHN ASHBERY 1963


The Death of Lesbia’s Sparrow


Mourn, O you Loves and Cupids
and such of you as love beauty:
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
sparrow, the girl’s delight,
whom she loved more than her eyes.
For he was sweet as honey, and knew her
as well as the girl her own mother,
he never moved from her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
chirped to his mistress alone.
Now he goes down the shadowy road
from which they say no one returns.
Now let evil be yours, evil shadows of Orcus,
that devour everything of beauty:
you’ve stolen lovely sparrow from me.
O evil deed! O poor little sparrow!
Now, by your efforts, my girl’s eyes
are swollen and red with weeping.

Let's you and me live it up


Let's you and me live it up, my Lesbia,
and make some love, and let old cranks
go cheap talk their fool heads off.
Maybe suns can set and come back up again,
but once the brief light goes out on us
the night's one long sleep forever.
First give me a kiss, a thousand kisses,
then a hundred, and then a thousand more,
then another hundred, and another thousand,
and keep kissing and kissing me so many times
we get all mixed up and can't count anymore,
that way nobody can give us the evil eye
trying to figure how many kisses we've got.
Catullus (ca. 84-53 B.C.) Roman Poetry

Hark! Hark! The Lark


Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise! 
William Shakespeare

O MISTRESS mine


O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear! your true love 's coming, 
That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 
What 's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty! 
Youth 's a stuff will not endure.
William Shakespeare


what eyes hath Love put in my head


O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

William Shakespeare


I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.Whatever you see I swallow

Poem:I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
My Name and country:Sylvia Plath – Mirror




I walk on the winter beach

I walk on the winter beach 
from here to there 
and beyond where the beach ends 
past indifferent sea gulls 
over beached kelps 
over bleached sea shells 
to the sound of crushing waves 
to the call of ebbing memories 
I walk on the winter beach 
I shall go 
I must go 
alone 
beyond where the beach ends

Suchoon Mo
In all sincerity
It is a pathetic pity 
I merely offer sympathy
With such velocity
This sadness born out of the blue
That decides to levy itself on you

In your fixed stillness
I sense your illness
Accept my sympathy

You lost a pet
Somebody made you upset 
Accept my sympathy

You lost a friend 
Your broken heart is yet to mend
Accept my sympathy
Sylvia Chidi  -  UK

I always wonder what to say

I always wonder what to say
To cheer you up for the rest of the day
I hate it when you seem so sad
It really makes me wish I had
Some sort of special super power
To take me to the top of your ..........


By Danni 



Hela Ra

In a time long past, a figure did arise, With mind aflame and visions in his eyes. HelaRa, a name etched in history's scroll, A genius o...