Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikThe Art of Poetry by Jorge Luis Borges
January 17th 2008 04:05
The Art Of Poetry
by Jorge Luis Borges 1899 to 1986
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
Review in Poem by Dexter
A definition hard to distil,
To still inspire and emote while itemizing.
Refining form to share an ideal,
A rare mode, a style unachievable in my reflection.
Beauty of medium, illuminated in prose,
Metaphor and symbol weaved.
Envy of comprehension,
Figures of historical intellect lead by example.
Education and imagination conjured truth,
Artistic honesty subjective, sharing muse.
Where can I find such insight?
by Jorge Luis Borges 1899 to 1986
Jorge Luis Borges 1899 to 1986
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
Review in Poem by Dexter
A definition hard to distil,
To still inspire and emote while itemizing.
Refining form to share an ideal,
A rare mode, a style unachievable in my reflection.
Beauty of medium, illuminated in prose,
Metaphor and symbol weaved.
Envy of comprehension,
Figures of historical intellect lead by example.
Education and imagination conjured truth,
Artistic honesty subjective, sharing muse.
Where can I find such insight?
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