Wednesday, April 30, 2008

The Poet-King of Seville

(written by Al-Mu'tamid, King of Seville
born 1027, Spain
died 1095, Aghmat, near Marrakech, Morocco)

She stood in all her slender grace
Veiling the sun’s orb from my face:
O may her beauty ever be
So veiled from times inconstancy!
It was as if she knew, I guess,
She was a moon of loveliness;
And may aught else the bright sun veil
Except the moon's own lustre pale?

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

I am A Poet

(Written by Obinna Nwerem aka… Young Black Poe)
I have written a lot of poem
It was never my dream
But through the eve of time
I have gotten good at it
Written more than great poets
Each sang different songs
Elegant in rhythm
Some sang of roses, dreams and love
While some shed tears for Angela
But none yet to be published
Though it was never my dream
How can I write of such poems
For people to read yet no-one to
"Wait you will be in papers"
A lady said to me holding my hand
How long must I wait for the paper people
Is this what others had to encounter
I wonder if they wrote for the paper people
But I am a poet
Not because I ought to be.

YemechaChal Imnet

YemechaChal Imnet( amharic)= Harmony between Faiths

Thursday, April 24, 2008

George Washington

(Written by George Washington --President of the United States, 1789-1797)

From your bright sparkling Eyes, I was undone;
Rays, you have, more transparent than the sun,
Amidst its glory in the rising Day,
None can you equal in your bright array;
Constant in your calm and unspotted Mind;
Equal to all, but will to none Prove kind,
So knowing, seldom one so Young, you'l Find
Ah! woe's me that I should Love and conceal,
Long have I wish'd, but never dare reveal,
Even though severely Loves Pains I feel;
Xerxes that great, was't free from Cupids Dart,
And all the greatest Heroes, felt the smart.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

The Love Letter___Napoleon Bonaparte

Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine De Beauharnais
Paris, December 1795

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil.
Sweet incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart!
Are you angry?
Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried? ...
My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives!
You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.
Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.