art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Wind That Listens
When the noise swells and my thoughts scatter like papers in a storm, I reach for stillness— In my daughter’s smile, in the weight of her resting on my chest, like she knows I need her more than she needs sleep. My husband’s voice finds me, low and steady, reminding me I’m not failing—just feeling. I whisper prayers when the house is loud, when my soul is louder. Sometimes I don’t have the words, but God hears anyway. And when all else fails, I step outside. The breeze moves through me, not just air—but presence. The wind that listens. The wind that speaks. The wind that is Him.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
Before Sunset: And Yet, My Heart Belongs to You
Inspired by Jibanananda Das' poem "Dujon" “Don’t search for me—you haven’t for years— And I haven’t sought you either— Yet beneath the same star— On the far side of the same lighted earth, We dwell— The world’s old roads fade with time, Love slowly disappears, Even stars must one day die— Mustn’t they?” — Jibanananda Das,(Bengali Rhymer)from “ Dujon”) Jesse and Céline’s lives echo these lines— Two hearts that once promised to meet again Six months after that fateful Viennese night. But fate held back its blessing— And years unraveled like loose threads from memory’s cloth. Nothing lasts forever— Not love, not light, not even stars— Not even the etched paths of the earth. Love fades, feelings dissolve. Time may stretch eternal, But love isn’t always written in the stars. Yet memory? Memory clings— Haunting the soul, reviving what time seeks to bury. And so it was for Jesse and Céline— Oceans apart, But minds forever wedded to one lost night. The Atlantic lay vast between them— But their hearts stood on the same shore, Beneath the same star. Yes, they hadn’t seen each other— But had they truly stopped searching? No— They searched, always, Though time stretched six months into nine long years. Nine years later, Jesse—now an acclaimed writer— Tours Paris with his book This Time, A bestseller drawn from that single night, A literary map to find Céline again. And find her, he does— She walks into the bookstore, Paris’ dusk holding its breath. There she stands— The woman who carved his soul with memory. She, too, had read his words. She, too, had remembered. And once more, time tries to steal her away— For Jesse has a flight to catch. But this time, he walks out with her— No hesitation, only stories to be told as they stroll through Paris.
By Riham Rahman about a year ago in Poets
