"bine" poems - Hello Poetry

Sons of the soil. Daughters of the soil. Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage. Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege. You are Africa, Africa is you. A nation so diverse and true. A real rainbow nation. Deeply rooted in our tradition. Nna ke mo Tswana, ebile ke motlotlo ka bo Tswana bame. Nna ke mo Pedi, ebile ka ikgantsha ka go nna mo Pedi. Mna ndi ngum Xhosa, ubona nje, ndiyazi dla ngo buXhosa bam. Mina ngi ngum Zulu qobo, futhi ngiyazi qhenya. On this day, remember who you are. On this day, commemorate who you are. Take pride in your true identity. Let there be peace and serenity. In South Africa our land. Together may we all stand. Le ga ole moTswana wa Afrika. Noba ungu m'Xhosa wase Afrika. Le ha ole mo Sotho wa Afrika Borwa. Are rataneng. Masi thandaneni. On this day, speak your mother tounge. On this day, sing your clan song. A moTswana eme a kgibe. UmXhosa maka phakame axhentse. UmZulu maka sukume agide. A moPedi a emelle bine. Sons of the soil. Daughters of the soil. Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage. Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege.

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Sep 24, 2019

Sep 24, 2019 at 5:57 AM UTC

nikki-tshawe

Happy Heritage Day South Africa

Sons of the soil. Daughters of the soil. Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage. Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege. You are Africa, Africa is you. A nation so diverse and true. A real rainbow nation. Deeply rooted in our tradition. Nna ke mo Tswana, ebile ke motlotlo ka bo Tswana bame. Nna ke mo Pedi, ebile ka ikgantsha ka go nna mo Pedi. Mna ndi ngum Xhosa, ubona nje, ndiyazi dla ngo buXhosa bam. Mina ngi ngum Zulu qobo, futhi ngiyazi qhenya. On this day, remember who you are. On this day, commemorate who you are. Take pride in your true identity. Let there be peace and serenity. In South Africa our land. Together may we all stand. Le ga ole moTswana wa Afrika. Noba ungu m'Xhosa wase Afrika. Le ha ole mo Sotho wa Afrika Borwa. Are rataneng. Masi thandaneni. On this day, speak your mother tounge. On this day, sing your clan song. A moTswana eme a kgibe. UmXhosa maka phakame axhentse. UmZulu maka sukume agide. A moPedi a emelle bine. Sons of the soil. Daughters of the soil. Wake up and rejoice, for its the day of your heritage. Celebrate your culture, for it is your privilege.

32

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

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2.9k

Thomas Hardy

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

32

4/20 99 indescri- bible, colum- bine. This launched, a devious plan- something the whole world needs to understand: Society makes its mark, their wish came true. &elieve; me when i say they thought nothing of me or you. they only drew you near. You be- lieved, to them, you we- re dear. But then one day, you realized, you were no longer their peer. Leaving their reputation: smeared. You told them your worries you said them LOUD and clear, they didn’t give a **** instead they riddled you with fear. they really shouldn't care. but you had to leave your mark, when living in their massed produced ware forced you to spend your days in the dark. it is true within everything they do. they do not really care. society serves to exploit me while exploiting you, too. ------------------------------------ So this is where we stand, among all the **** in the land. and we still wonder why another man’s grass is far more grand. we must eradicate everything we were told to ever know do you know the devil may live within your own very home? So many sit and wait with their message in a bottle, but what we need to do is go heavy on the throttle. Build yourself a sanctuary, somewhere in merry's land become Mr. Manson, or maybe you prefer, Scarlett Johansson.

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Apr 24, 2016

Apr 24, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC

stone-the-bear

pinheads - *a poem for columbine*

4/20 99 indescri- bible, colum- bine. This launched, a devious plan- something the whole world needs to understand: Society makes its mark, their wish came true. &elieve; me when i say they thought nothing of me or you. they only drew you near. You be- lieved, to them, you we- re dear. But then one day, you realized, you were no longer their peer. Leaving their reputation: smeared. You told them your worries you said them LOUD and clear, they didn’t give a **** instead they riddled you with fear. they really shouldn't care. but you had to leave your mark, when living in their massed produced ware forced you to spend your days in the dark. it is true within everything they do. they do not really care. society serves to exploit me while exploiting you, too. ------------------------------------ So this is where we stand, among all the **** in the land. and we still wonder why another man’s grass is far more grand. we must eradicate everything we were told to ever know do you know the devil may live within your own very home? So many sit and wait with their message in a bottle, but what we need to do is go heavy on the throttle. Build yourself a sanctuary, somewhere in merry's land become Mr. Manson, or maybe you prefer, Scarlett Johansson.

58

Incorporeal wooing -- benighted brown study, slow to bleed, turning on its axis, wintergreen leaf in free fall, when all alone the butterfly escapes the killing jar, to parlously play along this dulcet bine, strumming crura, like Orlando to faire Rosalind in the Valley of Hinnom, "a hunger uncurbed by nature's calling," which prayerfully ascends, asking for cotyledon to appear by break of day/dream.

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Aug 3, 2020

Aug 3, 2020 at 10:41 AM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Valley of Hinnom

Incorporeal wooing -- benighted brown study, slow to bleed, turning on its axis, wintergreen leaf in free fall, when all alone the butterfly escapes the killing jar, to parlously play along this dulcet bine, strumming crura, like Orlando to faire Rosalind in the Valley of Hinnom, "a hunger uncurbed by nature's calling," which prayerfully ascends, asking for cotyledon to appear by break of day/dream.

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Now! the damson crush of swallow wing to foal the brays of uwound April, in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail that agitate these pagan grains. Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak the gates of prickled secrecy, the platted creed of wren-song yolks the whiting peeks of May. Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn of nether-world calligraphy with missives of anemone to prose the woke terrain, so a gattling shack of magpies prat along the miscreants of bine that heckle servile atrophy in lung sweet roots of anchored sage

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Apr 13, 2017

Apr 13, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC

alistair-william-bullen

These Pagan Grains

Now! the damson crush of swallow wing to foal the brays of uwound April, in chattered sleeks of broom gleam hail that agitate these pagan grains. Where bud-nip rusts of Bullfinch creak the gates of prickled secrecy, the platted creed of wren-song yolks the whiting peeks of May. Where an absinthe canter quills a yarn of nether-world calligraphy with missives of anemone to prose the woke terrain, so a gattling shack of magpies prat along the miscreants of bine that heckle servile atrophy in lung sweet roots of anchored sage

16

We are born for death So why do we mourn? Most of us will be afraid Over time some of it will fade. Time is fleeing so hold on tight. We complain, because death puts us in a bine. But, shouldn't we live to be kind? We should not fear what we cannot control. As I say for death let it roll; Let go of all tears and put up a cheer.

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Aug 23, 2017

Aug 23, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC

JaneMarieCooper

Death

We are born for death So why do we mourn? Most of us will be afraid Over time some of it will fade. Time is fleeing so hold on tight. We complain, because death puts us in a bine. But, shouldn't we live to be kind? We should not fear what we cannot control. As I say for death let it roll; Let go of all tears and put up a cheer.

10

"lo que hacemos en nuestra vida privada es cosa nuestra" dijeron las Seis Enfermeras Locas del Pickapoon Hospital de Carolina mientras movían sus pechos con una dulzura tan carecida a Bine ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? alguno dijo ¿y si Dios fuera las Seis Enfermeras Locas de Pickapoon? dijo alguno ¿y si Dios moviera sus pechos dulcemente? dijo ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? corrían rumores acerca de las Seis las habían visto salir de hospedajes sospechosos con una mirada triste en la boca las habían visto en una cama del Bat Hotel las habían visto fornicando con sastres zapateros carnicero de toda Pickapoon ¿y acaso Dios no sale de los hospedajes con una mirada triste en la boca? alguno dijo ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? ¡tetas de Dios! ¡blancos muslos de Dios! ¡lechosos! dijo ¡leche de Dios! gritaba por los techos de toda la ciudad así que lo quemaron hicieron una hoguera alta al pie de la colina del Este y también quemaron a las Seis Enfermeras Locas de Pickapoon todas eran rubias y cada día habían visto a la muerte trabajar eso es todo así acaban con los temblores mortales e inmortales en Carolina y otros sitios de Dios ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? ¿y si Dios fuera las Seis Enferrneras Locas de Pickapoon? dijo alguno

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839

Juan Gelman

Preguntas

"lo que hacemos en nuestra vida privada es cosa nuestra" dijeron las Seis Enfermeras Locas del Pickapoon Hospital de Carolina mientras movían sus pechos con una dulzura tan carecida a Bine ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? alguno dijo ¿y si Dios fuera las Seis Enfermeras Locas de Pickapoon? dijo alguno ¿y si Dios moviera sus pechos dulcemente? dijo ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? corrían rumores acerca de las Seis las habían visto salir de hospedajes sospechosos con una mirada triste en la boca las habían visto en una cama del Bat Hotel las habían visto fornicando con sastres zapateros carnicero de toda Pickapoon ¿y acaso Dios no sale de los hospedajes con una mirada triste en la boca? alguno dijo ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? ¡tetas de Dios! ¡blancos muslos de Dios! ¡lechosos! dijo ¡leche de Dios! gritaba por los techos de toda la ciudad así que lo quemaron hicieron una hoguera alta al pie de la colina del Este y también quemaron a las Seis Enfermeras Locas de Pickapoon todas eran rubias y cada día habían visto a la muerte trabajar eso es todo así acaban con los temblores mortales e inmortales en Carolina y otros sitios de Dios ¿y si Dios fuera una mujer? ¿y si Dios fuera las Seis Enferrneras Locas de Pickapoon? dijo alguno

27

The Darkling Thrush. I leant upon a coppice gate, When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to me The Century's corpse outleant, Its crypt the cloudy canopy, * The wind its death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead, In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited. An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, With blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, And I was unaware. 31 December 1900 By Thomas Hardy

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Dec 21, 2018

Dec 21, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC

mary-gay-kearns

The Darling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

The Darkling Thrush. I leant upon a coppice gate, When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to me The Century's corpse outleant, Its crypt the cloudy canopy, * The wind its death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead, In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited. An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, With blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, And I was unaware. 31 December 1900 By Thomas Hardy

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"Doream ca tu sa-mi fii alaturi, Dar ai disparut si m-ai lasat plangand. Vedeam sute de frumoase meleaguri. Dar doar tu-mi erai frumoasa in gand." Am sa te fac sa te ineci in sange Si o sa iti vezi mama *** te plange. Asa *** plang si eu de cateva luni incoace Din cauza ca tie nimic nu-ti mai place. Orice as face, nu e bine. Oricat as incerca, tot nu o sa te am langa mine. Tot ce faci e sa ma ignori Fara sa stii, sau poate cu buna stiinta, ca asa ma dobori. in plansete o tot tin Si doar asa mai *** sa dorm. Din al tau sange as face vin Si doar cu el as putea sa te transform. Dar degeaba, eu nu te *** rani. Tu poti si o tot faci. Caci tu pentru mine esti un zeu Iar eu pentru tine m-as lupta cu mii de draci. Am ganduri rele, Incerc sa le alung. Sentimentele-mi sunt grele Si de realitate as vrea sa ma disjung. Tu o sa-mi ramai vesnic in gand Si eu doar cu gandul am sa raman, vesnic plangand.

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Oct 16, 2020

Oct 16, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC

kristenroth

Extaz/agonie

"Doream ca tu sa-mi fii alaturi, Dar ai disparut si m-ai lasat plangand. Vedeam sute de frumoase meleaguri. Dar doar tu-mi erai frumoasa in gand." Am sa te fac sa te ineci in sange Si o sa iti vezi mama *** te plange. Asa *** plang si eu de cateva luni incoace Din cauza ca tie nimic nu-ti mai place. Orice as face, nu e bine. Oricat as incerca, tot nu o sa te am langa mine. Tot ce faci e sa ma ignori Fara sa stii, sau poate cu buna stiinta, ca asa ma dobori. in plansete o tot tin Si doar asa mai *** sa dorm. Din al tau sange as face vin Si doar cu el as putea sa te transform. Dar degeaba, eu nu te *** rani. Tu poti si o tot faci. Caci tu pentru mine esti un zeu Iar eu pentru tine m-as lupta cu mii de draci. Am ganduri rele, Incerc sa le alung. Sentimentele-mi sunt grele Si de realitate as vrea sa ma disjung. Tu o sa-mi ramai vesnic in gand Si eu doar cu gandul am sa raman, vesnic plangand.

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It’s the poem I carry inside, Here, by my heart, where it’s always stayed, And even I cannot decide If I’ll ever write what it’s begged to be made I feel its soft pulse, its quiet hum, Yet, why am I scared to give it a name? Or is it that, though its fire may come, Heavy words would shatter its delicate flame? *** (original poem, Romanian) Despre poezia nescrisă E poezia pe care o port cu mine, Aici, în piept, în dreptul inimii era Şi chiar nici eu nu ştiu prea bine Dacă am s-o mai scriu cândva. Îi simt vibraţiile moi, i-aud bătaia mică, Însă de ce nu *** s-o scriu, de ce s-o scriu mi-e frică?. Ori, deşi arde focul ei şi pieptul mi-l străbate, Grele cuvintele-ar strivi făptura-i fină, poate?

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Jan 12, 2025

Jan 12, 2025 at 9:40 AM UTC

valentin_eni

The Unwritten Poem

It’s the poem I carry inside, Here, by my heart, where it’s always stayed, And even I cannot decide If I’ll ever write what it’s begged to be made I feel its soft pulse, its quiet hum, Yet, why am I scared to give it a name? Or is it that, though its fire may come, Heavy words would shatter its delicate flame? *** (original poem, Romanian) Despre poezia nescrisă E poezia pe care o port cu mine, Aici, în piept, în dreptul inimii era Şi chiar nici eu nu ştiu prea bine Dacă am s-o mai scriu cândva. Îi simt vibraţiile moi, i-aud bătaia mică, Însă de ce nu *** s-o scriu, de ce s-o scriu mi-e frică?. Ori, deşi arde focul ei şi pieptul mi-l străbate, Grele cuvintele-ar strivi făptura-i fină, poate?

19

Cât poți iubi și să tot rabzi, ca ultimul cuvânt să rămână neschimbat, tot ce se întâmplă e că tu te zbați să ieși din adormirea sentimentelor ce adânc se tot ascund de demult. Vrei să plângi, dar n-ai curaj, crezi că totul se va transforma în țepi, căci odată ce îți ies la mal emoții, te temi că niciodată acestea nu se vor întoarce în mare. Te simți pierdut, și că totul nu mai are sens… dar oare când te vei trezi, din acest sentiment? Când oare vei fi bine, și nu vei mai suferi? Mă întreb în fiecare zi acest lucru necomplicat, și sper că te vei trezi, și poate vei schimba acel ultim cuvânt dat în vânt cuvântul care te-a făcut să suferi și acum, și nu numai pe tine, dar și pe cel iubit…

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Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 10:13 AM UTC

klauvixoiu

Ultimat

Cât poți iubi și să tot rabzi, ca ultimul cuvânt să rămână neschimbat, tot ce se întâmplă e că tu te zbați să ieși din adormirea sentimentelor ce adânc se tot ascund de demult. Vrei să plângi, dar n-ai curaj, crezi că totul se va transforma în țepi, căci odată ce îți ies la mal emoții, te temi că niciodată acestea nu se vor întoarce în mare. Te simți pierdut, și că totul nu mai are sens… dar oare când te vei trezi, din acest sentiment? Când oare vei fi bine, și nu vei mai suferi? Mă întreb în fiecare zi acest lucru necomplicat, și sper că te vei trezi, și poate vei schimba acel ultim cuvânt dat în vânt cuvântul care te-a făcut să suferi și acum, și nu numai pe tine, dar și pe cel iubit…

17

solitudine poate că tu știi mai bine *** mă simt. poate că nu vei știi vreodată. îmi rumegă creierul niște poze, niște intenții, niște gânduri o duceam mai bine fără. 12 ani de școală formativă care m-a îndrumat să devin o larvă. sunt doar un copil veșnic nemulțumit, o să treacă, nu ? mă gândesc la cuvântul "unrequited" de două săptămâni cred că ești tu. însemnătăți infinite și totuși o fi al iubirii o fi restul rămas de la magazin când dau 30 de lei pe țigări o fi creanga ruptă din cireș sau dud când îți venea uber-ul cam acru de n-aș avea atâta furie aș zice că nu te-am iubit aș zice că iubesc amarnic. n-aș mai zice nimic. mă ustură ochii m-au luat în brațe străinii.

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Apr 16, 2022

Apr 16, 2022 at 4:39 AM UTC

stranger_poetry

scrisoare 8

solitudine poate că tu știi mai bine *** mă simt. poate că nu vei știi vreodată. îmi rumegă creierul niște poze, niște intenții, niște gânduri o duceam mai bine fără. 12 ani de școală formativă care m-a îndrumat să devin o larvă. sunt doar un copil veșnic nemulțumit, o să treacă, nu ? mă gândesc la cuvântul "unrequited" de două săptămâni cred că ești tu. însemnătăți infinite și totuși o fi al iubirii o fi restul rămas de la magazin când dau 30 de lei pe țigări o fi creanga ruptă din cireș sau dud când îți venea uber-ul cam acru de n-aș avea atâta furie aș zice că nu te-am iubit aș zice că iubesc amarnic. n-aș mai zice nimic. mă ustură ochii m-au luat în brațe străinii.

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