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LIGHTHOUSE IN THE NIGHT ~ POEM BY ALFONSINA STORNI

in Poetry of Art by

The sky a black sphere,
the sea a black disk.

The lighthouse opens
its solar fan on the coast.

Spinning endlessly at night,
whom is it searching for

when the mortal heart
looks for me in the chest?

Look at the black rock
where it is nailed down.

A crow digs endlessly
but no longer bleeds.

Alfonsina Storni

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LAST FIRE ~ POEM BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

in Poetry of Art by

Love,through your spirit and mine what summer eve
Now glows with glory of all things possess’d,
Since this day’s sun of rapture filled the west
And the light sweetened as the fire took leave?
Awhile now softlier let your bosom heave,
As in Love’s harbour, even that loving breast,
All care takes refuge while we sink to rest,
And mutual dreams the bygone bliss retrieve.
Many the days that Winter keeps in store,
Sunless throughout, or whose brief sun-glimpses
Scarce shed the heaped snow through the naked trees,
This day at least was Summer’s paramour,
Sun-coloured to the imperishable core
With sweet well-being of love and full heart’s ease.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

painting Daydream by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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SALVATORE QUASIMODO ~ WHAT IS POETRY…

in Poetical Visions by

‘Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.’

Salvatore Quasimodo

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JOHN KEATS ~ DREAMERS

in Poetical Visions by

“The problems of the world cannot possibly be solved by skeptics or cynics whose horizons are limited by the obvious realities. We need men who can dream of things that never were.”
John Keats

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ALFRED LORD TENNYSON ~ SADNESS

in Poetry of Art by

“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some devine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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PABLO NERUDA ~ ON HIS POETRY

in Poetical Visions by

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
~Pablo Neruda, quoted in Wall Street Journal,, 14 November 1985

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MURIEL RUKEYSER ~ ON POETRY

in Poetical Visions by

Breathe-in experience,
breathe-out poetry.

~Muriel Rukeyser

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SYLVIA PLATH ~ ON POETRY

in Poetical Visions by

“The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.”
Sylvia Plath

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ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK ~ MELANCHOLIC POET

in Poetical Visions by

“Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant – because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax – the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies”
Alejandra Pizarnik (April 29, 1936 – September 25, 1972) was an Argentine poet.

She was born on April 29, 1936 to Russian Jewish immigrant parents in Avellaneda, , a suburb of Buenos Aires, Argentina.  A year after entering the department of Philosophy and Letters at the Universidad de Buenos Aires, Pizarnik published her first book of poetry, La tierra más ajena (1955). Soon after, she studied painting with Juan Battle Planas.  Pizarnik followed her debut work with two more volumes of poems, La última inocencia (1956) and Las aventuras perdidas (1958).

From 1960 to 1964 Pizarnik lived in Paris. There she worked for the journal Cuadernos, sat on the editorial board of the magazine Les Lettres Nouvelles, and participated in the Parisian literary world.

She died in Buenos Aires of a self-induced overdose of  seconal.

Source Wikipedia

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JEAN COCTEAU ~ ON BEING A POET

in Poetical Visions by

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
~Jean Cocteau

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