Nour Beydoun• Show poetry

Madness is the inability to communicate your ideas. It's as if you were in a foreign country able to see and understand everything that's going on around you, but incapable of explaining what you need to know or of being helped, because you don't understand the language they speak there.
-Paulo Coelho, VERONIKA DECIDES TO DIE





He might have seen in this woman, so picturesque in her attire and mien, and with the infant of her bosom, an object to remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent: something which should remind him, indeed, but only by contrast, of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. Here there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne.
-Nathaniel Hawthorne




Dream, my precious one, dream of beautiful things.. I forbid you to be afraid or to remember..

You understood my soul, I thought, and now, others are coming, only to sack my heart of all its riches. What am I to do? We argued, yes, you and I, but it was with loving respect, was it not?
I cannot endure without you. Please come for me, from wherever you are.

-Anne Rice, Blood and Gold-







Saddest Poem - Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.




---
The Doors -- The end

[..] It hurts to set you free, but you'll never follow me.. The end of laughter and soft lies.. The end of nights we tried to die [..]

---





Dominus tecum virorum forlissime.. Vade in hac fortitudine tua.. Ego ero tecum.
[Juges, VI, 12, 14, 16.]
All art is quite useless.
-Oscar Wilde


Even as I'm holding you, you're letting go
-Alice Walker

Apprehendi te ab extremis terrae, et a longinquis ejus vocavi te: elegi te, et non abjeci te: ne timeas, quia ego tecum sum.
-[Is., XLI, 9 et 10]


Real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

Jim Morrison




You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same.

Kurt Cobain