THE ART OF DROWNING – BILLY COLLINS

I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.

After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn’t you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.

How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn’t any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.

Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,

a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.

Billy Collins

Image

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Rumi

Alice Mason Artist

18449481_1491623440858797_1528995332076621803_oIf anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This…

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THE SLOW MAN (ALLAN AHLBERG)

Pixabay

The phone rings
But never long enough
For the slow man.

By the time
The set’s switched on
His favourite programme’s over.

His tea grows cold
From cup to lip.
His soup evaporates.

He laughs, eventually,
At jokes long since
Gone out of fashion.

Sell by dates
And limited special offers
Defeat him.

He comes home
With yesterday’s paper
And reads it… tomorrow.

 

(The Slow Man by Allan Ahlberg)

The End

PLETHORA of CHIMERAS

The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
demolishes the clouds
and wrings the snow
counting the pebbles.
But you never told me
why you deceived me,
why with pain
and injustice did you desire
to say that the end
always in tears
is cast to flames.

~ Dimitris P. Kraniotis

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And After That The Rain by Yehuda Amichai

Leonard Durso

And after all that–the rain.
When we learned to read the book of lingering
And the book of parting,
When our hair learned all the winds
And our sweet free hours
Are trained to run all around
In the ring of time.

After all that–the rain.
A big salty sea
Comes to us, stammering
Sweet and heavy drops.

And after all that–the rain.
See, we too
Pour down
To the one who receives us and doesn’t remember,
the spring earth.

translated by Benjamin & Barbara Harshav

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Proof

Eyes + Words

10/4/2017

“You may never have proof

ofyour importance but you are more

important than you think. There are always

those who couldn’t do without you. The rub

is that you don’t always know who.”

– Robert Fulghum


Photography by Martin Reisch

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FEELING TRAPPED (POETRY)

Shadow

Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag

You shed light on my blind spots, thought I

had my life figured out. Responsibility was a bad

word, one that you’d consistently bring up. And when

I looked into your luminous lights, I had realized my

true crime. I had been running away from myself,

yet you can’t run away from your shadow.


Photographer Unknown

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An Artist

Life is all about PAIN

IMG_20170202_130113.jpg

Pale fingers

filled with nicotine

On the white paper moved well..

Red eyes

In the imaginary world

glanced and gazed !

I wonder

How far your imaginations reach?

But they never fly over my roof

Where I stand

Each night

With a wish to feel you !!!


Come out of my dreams and imaginations.

Thank you dear Artist. Please contact me, if you ever see this !

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