poem of the day: He marked the page with a match by Vera Pavlova

He marked the page with a match 

Vera Pavlova (link)

He marked the page with a match
and fell asleep in mid-kiss,
while I, a queen bee
in a disturbed hive, stay up and buzz:
half a kingdom for a honey drop,
half a lifetime for a tender word!
His face, half turned.
Half past midnight. Half past one.

(poem of the day) ‘Piano Practice’ by Rainer Maria Rilke

Photo of Rainer Maria Rilke

Photo of Rainer Maria Rilke (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Piano Practice

Rainer Maria Rilke

The summer hums. The afternoon fatigues;
she breathed her crisp white dress distractedly
and put into it that sharply etched etude
her impatience for a reality

that could come: tomorrow, this evening–,
that perhaps was there, was just kept hidden;
and at the window, tall and having everything,
she suddenly could feel the pampered park.

With that she broke off; gazed outside, locked
her hands together; wished for a long book–
and in a burst of anger shoved back
the jasmine scent. She found it sickened her.
Translated by Edward Snow
Rainer Maria Rilke

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/piano-practice/

Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke

Letters to a Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke (Photo credit: elycefeliz)

(poem of the day) ‘Sensation’ by Rimbaud

Polski: Autograf Arthura Rimbauda

Polski: Autograf Arthura Rimbauda (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sensation

Arthur Rimbaud

On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside – as happy as if I were with a woman.

Arthur Rimbaud
March 1870

http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/SensationE.html

Arthur Rimbaud standing in front of a tree in ...

Arthur Rimbaud standing in front of a tree in Harar (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l’herbe menue :
Rêveur, j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme,
Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la nature, heureux comme avec une femme.

Détail statue Arthur Rimbaud

Détail statue Arthur Rimbaud (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

(poem of the day) ‘Testimonial’ by Rita Dove

Testimonial
by Rita Dove

Back when the earth was new
and heaven just a whisper,
back when the names of things
hadn’t had time to stick;

back when the smallest breezes
melted summer into autumn,
when all the poplars quivered
sweetly in rank and file . . .

the world called, and I answered.
Each glance ignited to a gaze.
I caught my breath and called that life,
swooned between spoonfuls of lemon sorbet.

I was pirouette and flourish,
I was filigree and flame.
How could I count my blessings
when I didn’t know their names?

Back when everything was still to come,
luck leaked out everywhere.
I gave my promise to the world,
and the world followed me here.

Rita Dove, “Testimonial” from On the Bus With Rosa Parks. Copyright © 1999 by Rita Dove. Reprinted by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc..

Source: Poetry (January 1998).

(poem of the day) ‘March Elegy’ by Anna Akhmatova

March Elegy

by Anna Akhmatova

Akhmatova, Anna by Amedeo Modigliani

Akhmatova, Anna by Amedeo Modigliani (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won’t let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody’s dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there’s nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who’s that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.