angil's PhotoBlog

At a window

2013-05-21T11:13:04Z

At a Window BY CARL SANDBURG Give me hunger, O you gods that sit and give The world its orders. Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love, A voice to speak to me in the day end, A hand to touch me in the dark room Breaking the long loneliness. In the dusk of day-shapes Blurring the sunset, One little wandering, western star Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow. Let me go to the window, Watch there the day-shapes of dusk And wait and know the coming Of a little love.

The Monks

2013-05-20T12:57:07Z

A MONK AND A VAMP By Narasimha Rao A monk was concentrating upon God In front of a vamp’s house Whenever a visitor came He would pick up a stone and threw it Years rolled on and the stones piled up The monk became old and the vamp sick There was a huge heap of stones The monk would look at it in surprise The dooms day arrived The monk was sent to hell And the vamp to heaven What a Paradoxical judgment! The monk asked God “Why did you send me to hell And the vamp to heaven”? God replied,” you concentrated on her fraud But she concentrated on God. She dedicated her soul to me And only her body to the visitors”

My bed is the rock

2013-05-19T13:09:25Z

Cold Mountain By Hanshan Cold Mountain is hidden in white clouds It’s peaceful to be cut off from the busy world I use dry grass for cushions in my mountain home My only light is the round moon My bed is the rock beside the green pool Tigers and deer are my companions I delight in this happy peaceful life Forever beyond the world of men

Empty House

2013-05-18T13:53:18Z

The Empty House BY WALTER DE LA MARE See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies— ‘Remove, remove thy searching gaze, Innocent of heaven’s ways, Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright, On secrets hidden from sight.’ ‘Secrets,’ sighs the night-wind, ‘Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wails a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy.’ ‘Once, once … ’ the cricket shrills, And far and near the quiet fills With its tiny voice, and then Hush falls again. Mute shadows creeping slow Mark how the hours go. Every stone is mouldering slow. And the least winds that blow Some minutest atom shake, Some fretting ruin make In roof and walls. How black it is Beneath these thick boughed trees!

Tiergarten

2013-05-17T13:04:11Z

The Garden BY MARK STRAND It shines in the garden, in the white foliage of the chestnut tree, in the brim of my father’s hat as he walks on the gravel. In the garden suspended in time my mother sits in a redwood chair: light fills the sky, the folds of her dress, the roses tangled beside her. And when my father bends to whisper in her ear, when they rise to leave and the swallows dart and the moon and stars have drifted off together, it shines. Even as you lean over this page, late and alone, it shines: even now in the moment before it disappears.

Open window

2013-05-16T12:48:41Z

My Open Window By Kairee Franzen Last night I fell asleep to the pitter patter of graceful rain Splashing against the roof over my open window. As I lay there, I silently bathed myself in numerous thoughts Of how perfectly peaceful this feeling was. My window, Open to such a vast world. And here I was, listening to its beauty. Here I am, living its wonder. But the absence of one thing lingered over my heart, Something I miss, Something that would have completed this moment, Something that should have wrapped around me, An empty space that should have been filled. This morning I woke up And looked out of my open window, Again at the beauty, Again at the vastness, Again at the wonder, And I knew that none of it matters to me Without the missing piece.

The Bridge Builder

2013-05-15T11:13:58Z

The Bridge Builder BY WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE An old man going a lone highway, Came, at the evening cold and gray, To a chasm vast and deep and wide. Through which was flowing a sullen tide The old man crossed in the twilight dim, The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned when safe on the other side And built a bridge to span the tide. “Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near, “You are wasting your strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day, You never again will pass this way; You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide, Why build this bridge at evening tide?” The builder lifted his old gray head; “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said, “There followed after me to-day A youth whose feet must pass this way. This chasm that has been as naught to me To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

Master and servant, all come from the same piece

2013-05-14T12:18:16Z

The incomplete story of the poor and the rich By Kyle Henderson The thankful eat what they can, The never enoughs send back every plate People need people Masters need servants Servants don't need masters The wants have because they have wants, Beggars can't choose but they don't choose to beg

The invisible gardeners

2013-05-13T12:32:23Z

The Gardeners By Felix Dennis An ancient pair of gardeners shelter from the rain, Dreaming of old roses that will never come again; Sharpening their secateurs, sorting out their seeds, Sipping on their mugs of tea: “What this garden needs Is a decent compost shredder,” says the younger of the two, Polishing a steel spade to make it shine like new. “An’ if the guv’nor springs f’r it, As I dare say he will, We might bring up the mower — It’s well over the hill.” He glances at his colleague from the corner of his eye, But age is sly and only sighs in lieu of a reply. Head gardeners are silent men who look before they leap, They know that compost shredders and mowers don’t come cheap; And there’s a world of difference — be their backs bent or straight — Between a hopeful sixty-three And wiser sixty-eight.

Wild Swan

2013-05-12T10:31:03Z

Love the Wild Swan BY ROBINSON JEFFERS “I hate my verses, every line, every word. Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try One grass-blade’s curve, or the throat of one bird That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky. Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch One color, one glinting flash, of the splendor of things. Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax, The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings.” —This wild swan of a world is no hunter’s game. Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast, Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame. Does it matter whether you hate your...self? At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.