george-raitt - Hello Poetry

Imagine returning from the Crusades With enough money to build A grand stone house, so far In the mountains that conflict Could never find you again. Sitting in this courtyard, On the uneven flagstones laid Long ago, I like to think They succeeded, at least For a generation or two. But history tells us You can run, but you Cannot hide. So we who hide Must return to confront What is happening In the world.

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Jun 19, 2019

Jun 19, 2019 at 12:30 PM UTC

Near the Col de Pendidis (the Cevennes, France)

Imagine returning from the Crusades With enough money to build A grand stone house, so far In the mountains that conflict Could never find you again. Sitting in this courtyard, On the uneven flagstones laid Long ago, I like to think They succeeded, at least For a generation or two. But history tells us You can run, but you Cannot hide. So we who hide Must return to confront What is happening In the world.

16

In a still night under southern stars, Sleeping in a rough farm shed, From neighbouring farms Across the valley, the dogs bark. In our home city, the sound Of trams rattling down the road Blends into the background noise. But next door, the dogs bark. In this city, both ancient and new, With moonlight streaming In our window across the tiled Rooftops, the dogs bark.

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Jun 16, 2019

Jun 16, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC

Why do dogs bark in the night? (La Seu D'Urgell)

In a still night under southern stars, Sleeping in a rough farm shed, From neighbouring farms Across the valley, the dogs bark. In our home city, the sound Of trams rattling down the road Blends into the background noise. But next door, the dogs bark. In this city, both ancient and new, With moonlight streaming In our window across the tiled Rooftops, the dogs bark.

12

A string of meaningless words, Repeated endlessly, Can be visual art, it seems. In 1942 Gorgio Mirandi painted A still life of a cup and a vase Because they were there, And reflected light. A string of meaningless words Can be art criticism, it seems. And may even be poetry? But string is real: Tied around my finger, I feel it and remember. Stone, glass and steel is real, If you can touch it, Otherwise it could just be An illusion. The finger prints and DNA Of all of us who touched The rusted steel installation, Despite the signs, are real, Though you cannot see them Or feel our presence. Like the shiny parts Of bronze statues touched By each passing viewer, Do these not form part Of the work of art?

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Jun 9, 2019

Jun 9, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC

No touching (Anonymous Museo, Bilbao)

A string of meaningless words, Repeated endlessly, Can be visual art, it seems. In 1942 Gorgio Mirandi painted A still life of a cup and a vase Because they were there, And reflected light. A string of meaningless words Can be art criticism, it seems. And may even be poetry? But string is real: Tied around my finger, I feel it and remember. Stone, glass and steel is real, If you can touch it, Otherwise it could just be An illusion. The finger prints and DNA Of all of us who touched The rusted steel installation, Despite the signs, are real, Though you cannot see them Or feel our presence. Like the shiny parts Of bronze statues touched By each passing viewer, Do these not form part Of the work of art?

28

In vivo; in vitro; in silico; in lapis; In pulverem.

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Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC

Changing forms

In vivo; in vitro; in silico; in lapis; In pulverem.

3

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated Challengers of oblivion. Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly; For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun Die blind and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems.

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Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC

A poem by Robinson Jeffers, 'Stonecutters

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated Challengers of oblivion. Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly; For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun Die blind and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems.

11

The ancients did not Hesitate to build atop Their predecessors. But city walls came Down to make way for narrow Roads to new places.

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Jun 6, 2019

Jun 6, 2019 at 6:13 AM UTC

Narrow road to the exterior (Caceres, Spain)