She is the lady of my Silence
Trailing wearily, with very gentle step
Shedding the white lilies of her complexion in the mirror;
Barely convalescent, she watches everything in the distance,
The trees, a passerby, the bridges, a stream,
Where wander the great clouds of daylight,
But who, still too feeble, is suddenly struck
With the tedium of living and a feeling of loathing,
And more subtle, being ill and half-exhausted,
She says: ‘The noise hurts me; have the windows closed…’
Georges Rodenbach (1855 – 1898) Belgium
Poetry does not need experts. It needs a public who appreciates it. Contemporary poetry is so bad, so forgettable, so banal that people have turned their backs on it. Where are Yeats, Frost, and Auden when you need them? Poor poetry. How far she has fallen.
ReplyDeleteI read a Persian poem on your site a while back. How much beauty and life there was in it-
Thanks for your comment and interest, Betsy. Poetry - like all art - is a very personal thing, and one person's inspiration will be another's turn-off. I'm glad you liked at least one of the poems I posted here. I try to include a wide range of poems from all parts of the world and from the past as well as the present.
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