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#poem

82 messages57 participants13 messages aujourd’hui
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Sonnet a Day

Sonnet 140 - CXL
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet#poem#Shakespeare
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Surazeus

Empty Sky Of Faith

Oak trees that arch over the home-lined lane
conclave our neighborhood with ambience
that shines with grand cathedral elegance
of calm security which shields our lives
from political turbulence

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/04/

surazeus.blogspot.comEmpty Sky Of Faith Empty Sky Of Faith © Surazeus 2025 04 15 Oak trees that arch over the home-lined lane conclave our neighborhood with ambience that shin...
#NationalPoetryMonth#Poetry#Poem
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Assoc for Scottish Literature

mar a rachadh sinn, clann na dùthcha,
mach as a bhaile-mhór, air feasgar àrd
samhraidh…

—Aonghas MacNeacail, “feasgar samhraidh (do Dhaibhidh A. MacDhòmhnaill)”
published in THE HUNTERIAN POEMS, ed. Alan Riach (Freight, 2015)

A poem for #WorldArtDay

David Abercrombie Donaldson, “Landscape outside Glasgow”, c. 1955

artuk.org/discover/artworks/la

feasgar samhraidh (do Dhaibhidh A. MacDhòmhnaill) Aonghas MacNeacail mar a rachadh sinn, clann na dùthcha, mach as a bhaile-mhór, air feasgar àrd samhraidh, gus am b’urrainn dhuinn anail ghlan a tharrainn, eadar nan coca, agus cuimhne ghiùlain leinn air liuthad eallach a chuir lùb anns an druim òg anns an t-sealladh seo, agus an t-soillse mar sgàilean sioda thar na h-àrainn, tha blas na gréine drùdhadh do smuaintean air na làithean ud, a’ deoghail nan cràdh as an sgeul, gun ri fhaicinn ach buaidh fhàis agus buain, seach an t-seann chairt na h-adagan, ’n an sreathan bàna, direach, próiseil, agus deiseil (theireadh cuid) airson ruighle gun ghluasad, ri fonn fann (is dòcha) na h-oiteig thlàth, air an ùrlar fada gorm – ann am fasgadh nan craobh, na taibhsean nach fhaicear, làn-shona, nan còsan fhéin *** (English translation makes the alt text too long – it is attached below the description of the painting)
Landscape outside Glasgow David Abercrombie Donaldson (1916–1996) The Hunterian, University of Glasgow Oil on canvas, c. 1955 An impressionistic painting of a summer landscape in lowland Scotland, under a blue sky. A two-wheeled flat trailer, painted in faded blue paint, sits in the foreground, parked next to an assemblage of agricultural scrap. Beyond, green fields roll away past dark green trees to a hilly horizon. Between the trailer and the trees are to pale gold haystacks. *** summer evening (for David A. Donaldson) Aonghas MacNeacail the way we’d go, children of the land, out of the city, on a high summer’s evening, so that we could draw clean breath, there between the haycocks, where we carried so many memories of hay bundles bending our young backs in this scene, where light spreads like a silken veil across the terrain, a taste of sun permeates your thoughts about those days, drawing all pains out of the story, nothing seen but the sway of growth and gather, and that old cart the stooks, in their pale rows, are straight, proud, and ready (so some say) for a reel without motion, to a faint tune (perhaps) from benign breezes, on the long green floor – in the shelter of trees, those ghosts remain unseen, utterly content, in their own stalls
#Scottish#literature#Gaelic
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Sonnet a Day

Sonnet 063 - LXIII
Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

bot by @davidaugust

#sonnet#poem#Shakespeare
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Richard

Kinda of a bad poem. But every line is pretty much talking about the same thing in a different way, so that was accomplished. I may like it better later on.

The Allium Rancor of Culprit Tuesdays in Multiverse Time
subspacewagon.systems/the-alli

@poetry

subspacewagon.systemsThe Allium Rancor of Culprit Tuesdays in Multiverse Time – Richard J Tilley
Plus via Richard
#Poetry#PoemADay#PoetryLover
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