My Idiotic Plan To No Longer Be An Insomniac.. Or Not.
For the past few years I have been plagued with anxiety, sleeplessness, stress, etc., and in a desperate attempt to lull myself to sleep I have started reading poetry whenever I can't sleep. While reading Federico Garcia Lorca the other night, I decided that I wanted to share the poetry that stuck out in my mind. As such, I've concluded that the best way to share that poetry is to post it on my Livejournal. So, I guess here we go!.
Fair in the Stars by Federico Garcia Lorca
The night open wide.
Spinning on the moon's axis,
God's carousel.
Far from the crowd
Sirius the poet
is sobbing.
Among the girl-stars
Ursa Major is dancing.
The cylinder of the breeze
spins over the treetops.
Dawn on the way,
and a little old star
sells snowy nougat.
The night open wide.
And here is another poem that really hit hard at 3:30ish this morning...
Ocha by Baco Ohama
Barely a bitterness to its taste
Broken and ripped leaves
Dried for passage
Hot water bringing them new life
What is told there in the bottom
Of my half filled tea cup?
Today's patterns
Given form by yesterday's stories
A sigh that is half one of acceptance
and half one of unease
For all is still not told
The days are growing short again
And I wonder if I will feel the panic
Of too little time
Will there be another opportunity
To sip ocha
For hours
Just staring out at the garden
Together
Admiring the poppies for their
Papery pinkness?
Fair in the Stars by Federico Garcia Lorca
The night open wide.
Spinning on the moon's axis,
God's carousel.
Far from the crowd
Sirius the poet
is sobbing.
Among the girl-stars
Ursa Major is dancing.
The cylinder of the breeze
spins over the treetops.
Dawn on the way,
and a little old star
sells snowy nougat.
The night open wide.
And here is another poem that really hit hard at 3:30ish this morning...
Ocha by Baco Ohama
Barely a bitterness to its taste
Broken and ripped leaves
Dried for passage
Hot water bringing them new life
What is told there in the bottom
Of my half filled tea cup?
Today's patterns
Given form by yesterday's stories
A sigh that is half one of acceptance
and half one of unease
For all is still not told
The days are growing short again
And I wonder if I will feel the panic
Of too little time
Will there be another opportunity
To sip ocha
For hours
Just staring out at the garden
Together
Admiring the poppies for their
Papery pinkness?