The Flickr Poem Image Generatr

I am like the Japanese poet
who longed to be in Kyoto
even though he was already in Kyoto.

I am not exactly like him
because I am not Japanese
and I have no idea what Kyoto is like.

But once, while walking around
the Irish town of Ballyvaughan
I caught myself longing to be in Ballyvaughan.

The sensation of being homesick
for a place that is not my home
while being right in the middle of it

was particularly strong
when I passed the hotel bar
then the fluorescent depth of a launderette,

also when I stood at the crossroads
with the road signs pointing in 3 directions
and the enormous buses making the turn.

It might have had something to do
with the nearby limestone hills
and the rain collecting on my collar,

but then again I have longed
to be with a number of people
while the two of us were sitting in a room

on an ordinary evening
without a limestone hill in sight,
thousands of miles from Kyoto

and the simple wonders of Ballyvaughan,
which reminds me
of another Japanese poet

who wrote how much he enjoyed
not being able to see
his favorite mountain because of all the fog.

new luminous green
softness of summer
tree in the orchard

many thanks for all visits

The cure of time
taken with early stops from the November dew to the uproar when spring awakens.

It pauses in the embrace, exhausted, waving on the shores until the full moon of August sinks into the sea.
Then the decayed arrives, and the earth once trodden by bare feet is renewed...and even the most melancholic recites a poem to the love that departed on the last summer night.

How many will remain to come, walking with different skins and forgotten footprints from childhood.

Will this cure have a sweetness on still-juicy lips or will it bring forth some furrow, shy and salty, in that same mouth.

It is a heartbeat in the chest
a creation without absence
the train of life.
Møøn.

youtu.be/VKarAOLYNCI?si=PxxFG1uN0VvD4KzA

Let us go back together to the hills.
Weary am I of palaces and courts,
Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,—
Come, my beloved, let us to the hills.

Let us go back together to the land,
And wander hand in hand upon the heights;
Kings have we seen, and manifold delights,—
Oh, my beloved, let us to the land!

Lone and unshackled, let us to the road
Which holds enchantment round each hidden bend,
Our course uncompassed and our whim its end,
Our feet once more, beloved, to the road!

Fragmento tomado del poemario "El suicidio del pez" de Leonardo Morán

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.

As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye

and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.

Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.

Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore

the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.

Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.

Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,

not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.

1 Old Man

Old man, it's four flights up and for what?
Your room is hardly bigger than your bed.
Puffing as you climb, you are a brown woodcut
stooped over the thin tail and the wornout tread.

The room will do. All that's left of the old life
is jampacked on shelves from floor to ceiling
like a supermarket: your books, your dead wife
generously fat in her polished frame, the congealing

bowl of cornflakes sagging in their instant milk,
your hot plate and your one luxury, a telephone.
You leave your door open, lounging in maroon silk
and smiling at the other roomers who live alone.
Well, almost alone. Through the old-fashioned wall
the fellow next door has a girl who comes to call.

Twice a week at noon during their lunch hour
they puase by your door to peer into your world.
They speak sadly as if the wine they carry would sour
or as if the mattress would not keep them curled

together, extravagantly young in their tight lock.
Old man, you are their father holding court
in the dingy hall until their alarm clock
rings and unwinds them. You unstopper the quart

of brandy you've saved, examining the small print
in the telephone book. The phone in your lap is all
that's left of your family name. Like a Romanoff prince
you stay the same in your small alcove off the hall.
Castaway, your time is a flat sea that doesn't stop,
with no new land to make for and no new stories to swap.

taught in UK before Courtauld Institue post WW2

Danish haiku poem related to numismatics

Danish haiku poem related to numismatics

Danish haiku poem related to numismatics

Δεν ψάχνω λιμάνι, γίνομαι ο ορίζοντάς μου.

Έλυσε τα σκοινιά από το λιμάνι της σιγουριάς,
και άφησε το μικρό της καράβι
να παραδοθεί σ’ έναν ήλιο που μιλούσε δίχως λέξεις.
Δεν φοβήθηκε τα κύματα.
Φοβόταν μόνο τις μέρες που δεν κυμάτιζε τίποτα μέσα της.

Κάθε αυγή, ο ουρανός της ψιθύριζε καινούργια χρώματα,
κι εκείνη τα μάζευε σαν κοχύλια
ένα για κάθε μέρα που δεν έμεινε ακίνητη.
Ίσως να μην έφτανε ποτέ κάπου.
Ίσως ο προορισμός να ήταν
το ίδιο το ταξίδι, το άγνωστο, η τόλμη.

Αλλά ήξερε κάτι πολύτιμο:

Όσο η καρδιά σου ξέρει να τραντάζεται…
δεν είσαι χαμένος.


© 2025 Lorrie Agapi – All rights reserved.

**My heart, my words. Please respect them.**

Dear reader,

These words you are reading right now, whether it's a poem, a short story, or a thought is a piece of my soul. I write with passion, each word flowing from my heart, deeply connected to me. My writings are not just words; they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them. are not just words they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them.
If you plan to take them without my permission, know this: you are also taking a piece of my soul. And with every stolen word, I will always be present within the lines you use.

So be mindful… You never know what lies hidden between the lines, for words hold a power that goes far beyond the visible.💫

"O travellers from somewhere else to here,
Rising from Sheffield Station and Sheaf Square
To wander through the labyrinth of air.

Pause now, and let the sight of this sheer cliff
Become a priming-place which lifts you off
To speculate
What if..?
What if..?
What if..?

Cloud-shadows drag their hands across the white;
Rain prints the sudden darkness of its weight;
Sun falls and leaves the bleaching evidence of light.

Your thoughts are like this too: as fixed as words
Set down to decorate a blank facade
And yet, as words are too, all soon transferred

To greet and understand what lies ahead —
The city where your dreaming is re-paid,
The lives which wait unseen as yet, unread."

p 12

Secession from Art Societies

A C Art Gallery