- WOW! What poet hasn't felt the feelings contained in this poem?
Love it. Thanks for sharing it.
--- In VoicesOfThePhilosophersStone@yahoogroups.com, mary
> And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
> in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
> it came from, from winter or a river.
> I don't know how or when,
> no, they were not voices, they were not
> words, nor silence,
> but from a street I was summoned,
> from the branches of night,
> abruptly from the others,
> among violent fires
> or returning alone,
> there I was without a face
> and it touched me.
> I did not know what to say, my mouth
> had no way
> with names
> my eyes were blind,
> and something started in my soul,
> fever or forgotten wings,
> and I made my own way,
> that fire
> and I wrote the first faint line,
> faint, without substance, pure
> pure wisdom
> of someone who knows nothing,
> and suddenly I saw
> the heavens
> and open,
> palpitating planations,
> shadow perforated,
> with arrows, fire and flowers,
> the winding night, the universe.
> And I, infinitesmal being,
> drunk with the great starry
> likeness, image of
> I felt myself a pure part
> of the abyss,
> I wheeled with the stars,
> my heart broke free on the open sky.
> ~ Pablo Neruda ~
> God says nothing, he just remains silent.
> Stop violence against women
And when it is done it is done,
only it is never done.
And because you live
always moving on to somewhere else
you paint again
the edges of vision.
(c) Eric Ashford 2006