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Olimpia Sarb Poems
I read properly a book on parents, That kind book in which parents talk about life
The Way I Love
My Heart Is A Sad Ballerina
My heart is a sad ballerina, Happiness is leaving Her fluid movements. Who will come to dance
My Rainbow Angel
You are My Rainbow Angel. You reflect your full colours in me. My heart becomes - for your sake -
MY HAIR - A FRAME FOR YOUR BEAUTIFUL FL...
You want to put a red flower in the loneliness of my hair. But my hair isn’t long enough To become a frame for your beautiful flower. Your hand has to wait, your fingers need to sigh
I am writing about you, my beloved, but you keep asking yourself what is happening
On remembering. I was walking through an orchard overcrowded with plum,
IN MY SOUL AN UNFORGIVING CLOCK
In my soul - an unforgiving clock, All the things of this world - in a hurry, Time should disappear, I wish, At least today,
My Heart knows more than Words can speak, My Arms know more than Heart desires, My Eyes know more than Arms can bring, My Self knows craving in the Fires.
YOUR VOICE (POETRY OF AN IDEA)
A wonderful poem - Einstein’s thought: Darkness is nothing but the absence of Light. But Darkness takes no denial in a poem. Loneliness does not exist, I say,
THIS POEM SLEPT IN MY HEART
This poem slept in my heart Before I gave it a name, Before my hands and my longing Sent it in your way.
INSALUBRIOUS STATIONS OF INSOMNIA
I hesitate to go to bed. I'm terribly afraid That I will not dream with you tonight. Thought settlements are lurking,
Father - A Bird Of Leaves
I will never forget my Dad. When I was a child, He used to walk with me, sometimes, through the city, by taking my hand into his, And telling me about all the hills
OUT OF MERE HABIT
What does a woman usually do After drudging in the kitchen So that ordinary things would sleep, dutifully, Within the cares’ dark ring of the day?
Comments about Olimpia Sarb
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I read properly a book on parents,
That kind book in which parents talk about life
To their children
At a time when they are already gone
From people, from words.
I read, I do not get enough to see them and to touch them,
These obedient angels, rotating like a twirl of air around me,
Set the temperature of my heart,
The slow road on which I have to walk every day,
The bread I need, the books, worries, clouds, thoughts.
I read about the miraculous way they
Dedicate a life with fewer tears for me,
And I worship, reading their prayers,