it is possible...

it is possible at least sometimes...

it is possible especially now

to ride a horse

inside a prison cell

and run away...

it is possible for prison walls

to disappear,

for the cell to become a distant land

without frontiers:

what did you do with the walls?

i gave them back to the rocks.

and what did you do with the ceiling?

i turned it into a saddle.

and your chain?

i turned it into a pencil.

the prison guard got angry.

he put an end to the dialogue.

he said he didn't care for poetry,

and bolted the door of my cell.

he came back to see me

in the morning.

he shouted at me:

where did all this water come from?

i brought it from the Nile.

and the trees?

from the orchards of Damascus.

and the music?

from my heartbeat.

the prison guard got mad.

he put an end to my dialogue.

he said he didn't like my poetry,

and bolted the door of my cell.

but he returned in the evening:

where did this moon come from?

from the nights of Baghdad.

and the wine?

from the vineyards of Algiers.

and this freedom?

from the chain you tied me with last night.

the prison guard grew so sad...

he begged me to give him back

his freedom.

~mahmoud darwish, the prison cell (translated by ben bennani)~

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

~e.e. cummings, i am a little church~

once i spoke the language of the flowers,

once i understood each word the caterpillar said,

once i smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,

and shared a conversation with the housefly

in my bed.

once i heard and answered all the questions

of the crickets,

and joined the crying of each falling dying

flake of snow,

once i spoke the language of the flowers. . . .

how did it go?

how did it go?

~shel silverstein, forgotten language~

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

~e.e. cummings, somewhere i have never traveled~

in the night we shall go in

to steal

a flowering branch.

we shall climb over the wall

in the darkness of the alien garden,

two shadows in the shadow.

winter is not yet gone,

and the apple tree appears

suddenly changed

into a cascade of fragrant stars.

in the night we shall go in

up to its trembling firmament,

and your little hands and mine

will steal the stars.

and silently,

to our house,

in the night and the shadow,

with your steps will enter

perfume’s silent step

and with starry feet

the clear body of spring.

~pablo neruda, the stolen branch~

i am a kind word uttered and repeated 

by the voice of nature; 

i am a star fallen from the 

blue tent upon the green carpet. 

i am the daughter of the elements 

with whom winter conceived; 

to whom spring gave birth; i was 

reared in the lap of summer and i 

slept in the bed of autumn. 

at dawn i unite with the breeze 

to announce the coming of light; 

at eventide i join the birds 

in bidding the light farewell. 

the plains are decorated with 

my beautiful colors, and the air 

is scented with my fragrance. 

as i embrace slumber the eyes of 

night watch over me, and as i 

awaken i stare at the sun, which is 

the only eye of the day. 

i drink dew for wine, and hearken to 

the voices of the birds, and dance 

to the rhythmic swaying of the grass. 

i am the lover's gift; i am the wedding wreath; 

i am the memory of a moment of happiness; 

i am the last gift of the living to the dead; 

i am a part of joy and a part of sorrow. 

but i look up high to see only the light, 

and never look down to see my shadow. 

this is wisdom which man must learn.

~khalil gibran, song of the flower xxiii~

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

~mary oliver, morning poem (excerpt)~