Monday, February 27, 2017

The poet & the children:To some Birds Flown Away(Excerpt) by Victor Hugo

Richard Clayderman-Corazón de Niño

To Some Birds Flown Away
(Excerpt:The Inward Voices)
Victor Hugo

(The original In French:A des oiseaux envolés
Extrait de "Les Voix intérieures")

Children, come back - come back, I say -
You whom my folly chased away
A moment since, from this my room,
With bristling wrath and words of doom!
What had you done, you bandits small,
With lips as red as roses all?

What crime? - what wild and hapless deed?
What porcelain vase by you was split
To thousand pieces? Did you need
For pastime, as you handled it,
Some Gothic missal to enrich
With your designs fantastical?
Or did your tearing fingers fall
On some old picture? Which, oh, which
Your dreadful fault? Not one of these;
Only when left yourselves to please
This morning but a moment here

'Mid papers tinted by my mind
You took some embryo verses near -
Half formed, but fully well designed
To open out. Your hearts desire
Was but to throw them on the fire,
Then watch the tinder, for the sight
Of shining sparks that twinkle bright
As little boats that sail at night,
Or like the window lights that spring
From out the dark at evening.

Then if to see my verses burn,
Should seem to you a pleasant turn,
Take them to freely tear away
Or burn. But, oh! not so I'd say,
If this were Méry's room to-day.
That noble poet! Happy town,
Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own!
Daughter of Homer, fair to see,
Of Virgil's son the mother she.

To you I'd say, Hold, children all,
Let but your eyes on his work fall;
These papers are the sacred nest
In which his crooning fancies rest;
To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar,
For new-born verse imprisoned still
In manuscript may suffer sore
At your small hands and childish will,
Without a thought of bad intent,
Of cruelty quite innocent.
You wound their feet, and bruise their wings,
And make them suffer those ill things
That children's play to young birds brings.

But mine! no matter what you do,
My poetry is all in you;
You are my inspiration bright
That gives my verse its purest light.
Children whose life is made of hope,
Whose joy, within its mystic scope,
Owes all to ignorance of ill,
You have not suffered, and you still
Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down
The poet-writer weary grown.

What warmth is shed by your sweet smile!
How much he needs to gaze awhile
Upon your shining placid brow,
When his own brow its ache doth know;
With what delight he loves to hear
Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near,
Your joyous voices mixing well
With his own song's all-mournful swell!

Come back then, children! come to me,
If you wish not that I should be
As lonely now that you're afar
As fisherman of Etrétat,
Who listless on his elbow leans
Through all the weary winter scenes,
As tired of thought—as on Time flies—
And watching only rainy skies!

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Spiritual fulfillment by Arthur Miller

If a person measures his spiritual fulfillment in terms of cosmic visions,
surpassing peace of mind, or ecstasy, then he is not likely to know much
spiritual fulfillment. If, however, he measures it in terms of enjoying
a sunrise, being warmed by a child's smile, or being able to help someone
have a better day, then he is likely to know much spiritual fulfillment.
Arthur Miller

Friday, February 24, 2017

Forget conventionalism by Susan B. Anthony

Forget conventionalism; forget what the world thinks of you stepping
out of your place; think your best thoughts, speak your best words,
work your best works, looking to your own conscience for approval.
Susan B. Anthony

Thursday, February 23, 2017

The beast In Man:Reforming Humankind by Boris Pasternak

I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down
by threats — any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution
after death — then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion
tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself.

What has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel
but an inward music:the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful
attraction of its example.
Boris Pasternak

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Be Motivated by Beau Taplin

We all have slow days, off days, days we feel tired or uninspired,
but they are nothing to concern yourself with.
Like an ocean the stillness is just another of our natural states.

Soon, the winds will pick up, the waves will rise,
and your imagination will flow again.
Beau Taplin

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Hymn to the Night by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Hymn to the Night
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o’er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

HAVASI — The Road

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Ave Maria -Lara Fabian


Un Ave Maria LYRICS
Lara Fabian

Avant même que l'on ne soit vie, on est pris
Dans un nid de chair et de tendresse
Une étreinte infinie qui nous lie
Nous délivre une sagesse
Tout déjà est acquis
Mais pour qui dès ce cri
Trahissons-nous le geste d'amour qui unit
Désunit et nourrit les regrets

Un Ave Maria dont l'enfant ne serait pas
Une statuette, une prière sans foi
Mais une lettre offerte
A ceux qui n'écrivent pas
Pour que les mots résonnent enfin
Comme un Ave Maria

A voux, à nous, à ceux qui
Trouveront une paix, une terre, une harmonie
Une infinie raison, sans raison d'être, sans être honni
Et ceux qui "mal y pense", qu'ils le pensent
À bientôt, mais dans une autre vie
Dans celle-ci qu'on se donne
Une chance de tout recommencer

Un Ave Maria dont l'enfant ne serait pas
Une statuette, une prière sans foi
Mais une lettre offerte
A ceux qui n'écrivent pas
Pour que les mots résonnent enfin
Comme un Ave Maria

Un Ave Maria
Pour ceux qui ne prient pas
Pour que la musique soit à nouveau la voix
D'un aveu impudique pour ceux qui ne croient pas
Pour tous ceux qui méritent enfin
Un Ave Maria

Friday, February 17, 2017

O sweet wind by Rumi

O sweet wind
passing over
Love's grass
blow in my direction
for the fragrance
of Love is my wish

Stay Strong by Rupi Kaur

Stay strong through your pain
grow flowers from it
you have helped me
grow flowers out of mine

So bloom beautifully
bloom softly
however you need
just bloom.
Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Valentine's Day quotes:Who need our love? by Oscar Wilde

It is not the perfect, but the imperfect,
who have need of love.
It is when we are wounded by our own hands,
or by the hands of others, that love should
come to cure us - else what use is love at all?
Oscar Wilde

Monday, February 13, 2017

Valentine's Day quotes:The art of love by Osho

Many times I say learn the art of love, but what I really
mean is:Learn the art of removing all that hinders love.

It is a negative process.It is like digging a well:
You go on removing many layers of earth, stones, rocks,
and then suddenly there is water.The water was always there;
it was an undercurrent.

Now you have removed all the barriers, the water is available.
So is love: Love is the undercurrent of your being. It is already
flowing, but there are many rocks, many layers of earth to be removed.

Valentine's Day quotes:Inspirational Love Quotes by Osho

Whenever there is love,
the lover and the beloved
both disappear into love.

Love has to be of the quality that gives freedom,
not new chains for you; a love that gives you
wings and supports you to fly as high as possible.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

One good memory by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

You are told a lot about your education,
but some beautiful, sacred memory, preserved since childhood,
is perhaps the best education of all.

If a man carries many such memories into life with him,
he is saved for the rest of his days. And even if only
one good memory is left in our hearts, it may also be
the instrument of our salvation one day.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Mystical love poems by Hafiz :True love /Tired of Speaking Sweetly/The Stairway of Existence


Nihavent Oriental-NICOS Chatzopoulos
Performed by Cafe Anatolia

True Love

TRUE love has vanished from every heart;
What has befallen all lovers fair?
When did the bonds of friendship part?–
What has befallen the friends that were?

Ah, why are the feet of Khizr lingering?–
The waters of life are no longer clear,
The purple rose has turned pale with fear,
And what has befallen the wind of Spring?

None now sayeth: A love was mine,
Loyal and wise, to dispel my care.”
None remembers love’s right divine;
What has befallen all lovers fair?

In the midst of the field, to the players’ feet,
The ball of God’s favour and mercy came,
But none has leapt forth to renew the game–
What has befallen the horsemen fleet?

Roses have bloomed, yet no bird rejoiced,
No vibrating throat has rung with the tale;
What can have silenced the hundred-voiced?
What has befallen the nightingale?

Heaven’s music is hushed, and the planets roll
In silence; has Zohra broken her lute?
There is none to press out the vine’s ripe fruit,
And what has befallen the foaming bowl?

A city where kings are but lovers crowned,
A land from the dust of which friendship springs–
Who has laid waste that enchanted ground?
What has befallen the city of kings?

Years have passed since a ruby was won
From the mine of manhood; they labour in vain,
The fleet-footed wind and the quickening rain,
And what has befallen the light of the sun?

Hafiz, the secret of God’s dread task
No man knoweth, in youth or prime
Or in wisest age; of whom would’st thou ask:
What has befallen the wheels of Time?

Tired of Speaking Sweetly

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a "playful drunken mood"
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

The Stairway of Existence

Are not
In pursuit of formalities
Or fake religious

For through the stairway of existence
We have come to God’s

We are
People who need to love, because
Love is the soul’s life,

Love is simply creation’s greatest joy.

The stairway of existence,
O, through the stairway of existence, Hafiz

You now come,
Have we all now come to
The Beloved’s

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Understanding by Baruch Spinoza

The endeavor to understand is the first and only basis of virtue.

I have made a ceaseless effort not to ridicule, not to bewail,
not to scorn human actions, but to understand them.

The more clearly you understand yourself and your emotions,
the more you become a lover of what is.
Baruch Spinoza

Thursday, February 2, 2017

The appearance of truth by Joseph Joubert

We love repose of mind so well,
that we are arrested by anything
which has even the appearance of truth;
and so we fall asleep on clouds.
Joseph Joubert

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Ulysses(excerpt) by Lord Alfred Tennyson


I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

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