"calderon" poems
Ano nga ba ang buhay? Isang kahibangan,
What is life? A mania,
Ano nga ba ang buhay? Isang ilusyon,
What is life? An illusion,
Isang anino, isang kasinungalingan,
A shadow, a lie
At ang malalaking biyaya'y maliliit pa rin,
And the biggest blessings is still small,
Dahil ang buhay ay isa lamang pangarap,
Because life is only a dream,
At ang pangarap ay pangarap lamang.
And a dream is only a dream.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
Atletico’s progress to this stage has been somewhat sloppy to say the least, following a second leg showing at the Vicente Calderon which allowed minnows CE L’Hospitalet to walk away with an historic 2-2 draw.
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The loss at Valencia on Sunday for a near full strength Real Madrid returning from victory at the Club World Cup and a winter break came as a shock to everyone.
A title race is well and truly on again this season so it may come as some relief for the players of both camps to lock horns away from La Liga.
Failures for both Barcelona and Real Madrid at the weekend mean Atletico are level on points with Barcelona, each a point behind leaders Real but Carlo Ancelotti’s side do have a game in hand.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
I want to sit in a room
And watch the days turn to night
I want to watch the shadows dance in circles
Around the room
Time and time again
I want never to have to get up
To use the bathroom, eat, or shower
I want to give in to the endless chains
Of hopelessness
I want to just sit there
And not have to answer
Just sit there
And feel
The Gold light, the deep dark, and the twilight
I want to sit there
And watch the world pass
As I crumble with each tick of the clock
While I sit there I do not want
Neither your pity nor your condolences for
My wasted life
I want you to take my energy
Like you did time and time before
But…
I want you to take it
And use it to fix
The things in your life that are broken
Use it to make you happy
Because I…
Because happiness refused me
Because it was a tease a time ago
Or
Because I did not love it back like I should have
Because misery seduced me
And then chained me up in its basement
I want to sit there
Because
I could not answer the…
The most complicated question
Are you ok?
Without tearing myself
From the inside
Tahnee Calderon
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
With thunders and lighting,
We bid farewell to the home,
Deserving the European chrome.
The rivals celebrated the win,
We wept in deep sorrow,
Not of defeated, Neither humiliation,
It was something far important,
Our home, died, on a night
even the sky cried.
The night, we won,
Yet lost everything we had,
There was deep sorrow somewhere,
In a city lit up with festive joy,
Thats where Vicente Calderon was,
The home to Los RajiBlancos.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
It has been so long since the last time I've met a soul that is worth wasting hours of sleep upon.
How long has it been since I've seen innocence reflected on my pupils.
Where would the muses whom inspired masterpieces of poetry be?
Or at least someone who can alleviate the ache of writing without a reason.
Where's my Venus?
Where's my Beatrice?
Or can someone just send me a Valkyrie to take me away from this impulsive feeling of digging through languages looking for a pretty rhyme.
Infinite words drop from my heart at the beat I walk through this somber streets.
Blank verses that I let slip through my fingers that if carved in image of the right maiden they could achieve their potential and shine.
How long ago has it been since I haven't polish something worth to show the whole world.
And it is that maybe I'm looking for them in the wrong places.
Maybe she is hiding in a corner of a library dying her soul red with some baroque literature.
Maybe she is hanging dreams from the tips of her hair reading Calderon de la Barca.
Or she could be painting countless worlds on her eyelids with some Marquez...
Yes, that could be it.
Maybe she is hidden between heart and shadow.
And I am here wasting myself away, walking through these ****** streets with three black clouds hovering above me, and two ravens singing along about lack of love.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 9:35 PM UTC
It has been so long since the last time I've met a soul that is worth wasting hours of sleep upon.
How long has it been since I've seen innocence reflected on my pupils.
Where would the muses whom inspired masterpieces of poetry be?
Or at least someone who can alleviate the ache of writing without a reason.
Where's my Venus?
Where's my Beatrice?
Or can someone just send me a Valkyrie to take me away from this impulsive feeling of digging through languages looking for a pretty rhyme.
Infinite words drop from my heart at the beat I walk through this somber streets.
Blank verses that I let slip through my fingers that if carved in image of the right maiden they could achieve their potential and shine.
How long ago has it been since I haven't polish something worth to show the whole world.
And it is that maybe I'm looking for them in the wrong places.
Maybe she is hiding in a corner of a library dying her soul red with some baroque literature.
Maybe she is hanging dreams from the tips of her hair reading Calderon de la Barca.
Or she could be painting countless worlds on her eyelids with some Marquez...
Yes, that could be it.
Maybe she is hidden between heart and shadow.
And I am here wasting myself away, walking through these ****** streets with three black clouds hovering above me, and two ravens singing along about lack of love.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
A José Maria de Heredia
Ce poète terrible et divinement doux,
Plus large que Corneille et plus haut que Shakespeare,
Grand comme Eschyle avec ce souffle qui l'inspire,
Ce Calderon mystique et mythique est à nous.
Oui, cette gloire est nôtre et nous voici jaloux
De le dire bien haut à ce siècle en délire :
Calderon, catholique avant tout, noble lyre
Et saints accents, et bon catholique avant tous,
Salut ! Et qu'est ce bruit fâcheux d'académies,
De concours, de discours, autour de ce grand mort
En éveil parmi tant de choses endormies ?
Laissez rêver, laissez penser son Œuvre fort
Qui plane, **** d'un siècle impie et ridicule,
Au-dessus, au delà des colonnes d'Hercule !
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