Parting at Heathrow Airport
by Peter Davey from his collection of poems "Poems From Long Ago" peterdavey2.wordpress.com

Those sunlit clouds
away beyond the wire and concrete hills
remind me that you’re out there still, that we
who overlay the bones of time
with dreams
will always meet again

Sketch by Peter Davey

Parting At Heathrow Airport by Peter Davey read by Sonia Vilim

GOING PUBLIC 24.01. 2014

LOVE'S NEARNESS
translated by Henry Van Dyke

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
          Across the sea;
And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer
          I think of thee.

I see thy form when down the distant highway
          The dust-clouds rise;
In darkest night, above the mountain by-way
          I see thine eyes.

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning
          Aloud rejoice;
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning
          I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed,
          Yet thou art near.
The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved
          If thou wert here!

From the German of Goethe, 1898.

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/
Image: Peter Davey

Love´s Nearness by J.W. von Goethe read by Sonia Vilim in English

A Winter Eden
By Robert Lee Frost 

A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.

Source: www.public-domain-poetry.com
Image: Peter Davey



Sonia Vilim reads A Winter Eden by Robert Lee Frost

What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life Vocal Cover by Sonia Vilim

Daily missive by Peter Forster for Tuesday the 29th of March.
A Slow Decline Into Reclining

Even in waning
There is passion.
As fires subside
Glowing embers
Still blaze and spark,
Bringing a heat
That can raise
The dead,
Chasing fear 
From beneath its 
Claustrophobic shadow
Into the brightling
Light of day
Where it is 
More clearly seen.
The icy grasp
Given a more 
Gentle discursive
Melting.
Until with the
Turning of
Forget me not eyes,
An unhurried look
Of dreamy
Languorous lingering,
Hooded lids
Half as heavy with sleep
As with sorrow,
Unfathomable,
Deepening in mystery,
Old years fall away
In the easy 
Repose of reclining,
Imagination roams 
Over widened oceans
Floating in warm
Currents,
With dolphins
Skinny dipping
And a taste of salt,
Carried into a realm
Of infinite
Beauty,
Held back in time
Until with just
A smile and a kiss 
You are free.

Sonia Vilim reads Daily Missive by Peter Forster A Slow Decline Into Reclining

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

Sonia Vilim reads Dreams A Poem by Langston Hughes

Music
Music, like an ocean, often carries me away! 
Through the ether far, 
or under a canopy of mist, I set sail 
for my pale star. 
Breasting the waves, my lungs swollen 
like a ship’s canvas, 
night veils from me the long rollers, 
I ride their backs: 
I sense all a suffering vessel’s passions 
vibrating within me: 
while fair winds or the storm’s convulsions 
on the immense deep 
cradle me. Or else flat calm, vast mirror there 
of my despair!

Charles Baudelaire 

Sonia Vilim reads  Music by Charles Baudelaire

The Fallen...
by Lynn Gerrard                                                           

No more the beauty

Of another day to see

Nor the warmth

Of summer's breath

To brush the cheek

Only the mournful thud

Of soil upon the grave

And loved ones

Grieving harmonies

As they weep

Enjoy the author's treasure chest on: http://thegrumblinggargoyle.blogspot.sk/2014/11/the-fallen.html

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard 2.8.2012
Soundtrack: © Copyright Sonia Vilim 01.07.2016

Recorded with the kind permission of the author.


The Fallen sung by Sonia Vilim A Poem By Lynn Gerrard

You took a piece of my heart Wassyl, gladly it remains in your hands forever.

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; 
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


My personal tribute to Wassyl Slipak - MIF Sonnet 18 by W. Shakespeare sung by Sonia Vilim

Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
By John Donne (1572–1631)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

Image:  Painting The Death of Procris by Piero di Cosimo cca 1495


Death, be not proud by John Donne read by Sonia Vilim

Today, it's been three months since the loss of a remarkable man gone to soon holding up a mirror to our frail society Wassyl #Slipak. I would like to honour his memory with the following words:

Taras Shevchenko, poem "Song" 
(Dumka "Teche voda v synje more")

The  waters  flow  down  to  the  sea
And  never  more  return;
A  Cossack  goes  to  seek  his  fortune,
—  Fortune  there  is  none.
The  Cossack  journeys  far  away
Where  dance  the  dark  blue  waves,  —
Like  them  the  Cossack’s  heart  is  dancing,
But thought  speaks  and  says:
“Where  do  you  journey,  without  asking?
To  whose  care  abandoned
Father,  and  your  dear  old  mother,
And  a  fair  young  maiden?
In  foreign  parts  the  folk  are  strange,
And  hard  to  live,  indeed,
Among them ;  — none  to  share  your  tears,
No  one  with  whom  to  speak”.
The  Cossack  sits  there  on  the further
Shore  —  the  blue  waves  dance.
He dreamed  that  he would find  good  fortune:
Sorrow  crossed  his  path.
And the cranes  fly  in  long  skeins
Towards  the  furtheh  shore.
The  Cossack  weeps  —  the  beaten  tracks
Are  overgrown  with  thorns.


Taras Shevchenko
"Dumka / "Teche voda v synje more""
(Думка/"Тече вода в синє море")
1838, S - Peterburg (С.- Петербург)

Translated by Vera Rich

Original publication:
Taras Shevchenko, “N. N. (Meni trynadtsiatyi mynalo…),”
Zibrannia tvoriv u 6 tomakh, Кyiv: Naukova dumka,
2003, p. 36–37.

Source:
Taras Shevchenko. Works. Volume 12. Shevchenko's poetry in translations.
Edited  by  Bolidan  Krawciw.  Printed by  Mykola Denysiuk Printing Company
Chicago,  Illinois  —  USA, 1963,  page 33

Image: Wassyl Slipak from the archive of Wassyl Slipak Foundation

Sonia Vilim recites the Poem Song "Teche voda v synje more" by Taras Shevchenko

SONNET 130
by William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,                                         But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Painting: George Romney, Emma Hart as Circe (circa 1782).
Photo: Tate.

Sonia Vilim recites Sonnet No 130 by William Shakespeare

Cross 
by Langston Hughes

My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?

Sonia Vilim reads the poem Cross by Langston Hughes

GOING PUBLIC 01.02.13 - www.goingpublicproject.wordpress.com

Night Thoughts (Nachgedanken) is Heinrich Heine´s conclusive poem from his cycle Timepieces (Zeitstücke) published in 1844 and composed in his exile in Paris.  The beginning verse has become a well-known saying. At that time, the central European countries found themselves in a general pre-revolutionary situation. This piece does not represent a direct analysis of the political situation in Germany, but focuses much more on the relationship to his country, referring to Germany as his beloved “Mother” he hadn´t seen for twelve years and with whom he kept up a correspondence.

http://www.uah.edu/society/events/2001/fall/poetryreading2.html 
© Copyright 1998-2007, The Society for Ancient Languages.
Image: Sketch by Peter Davey  

Nachtgedanken
Denk ich an Deutschland in der Nacht,
Dann bin ich um den Schlaf gebracht,
Ich kann nicht mehr die Augen schließen,
Und meine heißen Tränen fließen.

Die Jahre kommen und vergehn!
Seit ich die Mutter nicht gesehn,
Zwölf Jahre sind schon hingegangen;
Es wächst mein Sehnen und Verlangen.

Mein Sehnen und Verlangen wächst.
Die alte Frau hat mich behext,
Ich denke immer an die alte,
Die alte Frau, die Gott erhalte!

Die alte Frau hat mich so lieb,
Und in den Briefen, die sie schrieb,
Seh ich, wie ihre Hand gezittert,
Wie tief das Mutterherz erschüttert.

Die Mutter liegt mir stets im Sinn.
Zwölf lange Jahre flossen hin,
Zwölf lange Jahre sind verflossen,
Seit ich sie nicht ans Herz geschlossen.

Deutschland hat ewigen Bestand,
Es ist ein kerngesundes Land,
Mit seinen Eichen, seinen Linden,
Werd' ich es immer wiederfinden.

Nach Deutschland lechzt ich nicht so sehr,
Wenn nicht die Mutter dorten wär;
Das Vaterland wird nie verderben,
Jedoch die alte Frau kann sterben.

Seit ich das Land verlassen hab,
So viele sanken dort ins Grab,
Die ich geliebt -- wenn ich sie zähle,
So will verbluten meine Seele.

Und zählen muß ich -- Mit der Zahl 
Schwillt immer höher meine Qual;
Mir ist, als wälzten sich die Leichen,
Auf meine Brust -- Gottlob! Sie weichen!

Gottlob! Durch meine Fenster bricht
Französisch heitres Tageslicht;
Es kommt mein Weib, schön wie der Morgen
Und lächelt für die deutschen Sorgen.

Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856)

Nachtgedanken  - by Heinrich Heine - German read by Sonia Vilim

GOING PUBLIC 01.02. 13 - www.goingpublicproject.wordpress.com

Night Thoughts (Nachgedanken) is Heinrich Heine´s conclusive poem from his cycle Timepieces (Zeitstücke) published in 1844 and composed in his exile in Paris.  The beginning verse has become a well-known saying. At that time, the central European countries found themselves in a general pre-revolutionary situation. This piece does not represent a direct analysis of the political situation in Germany, but focuses much more on the relationship to his country, referring to Germany as his beloved “Mother” he hadn´t seen for twelve years and with whom he kept up a correspondence

http://www.uah.edu/society/events/2001/fall/poetryreading2.html 
© Copyright 1998-2007, The Society for Ancient Languages.
Image: Sketch by Peter Davey  

“NIGHT THOUGHTS” 

Thinking of Germany at night 
Just puts all thought of sleep to flight; 
No longer I can close an eye, 
Tears gather and I start to cry. 

So many years have come and passed 
Since I saw my old mother last, 
Twelve years I have seen come and go; 
My yearning and my longing grow. 

My longing’s grown since our farewell. 
Perhaps she cast on me a spell, 
The good old woman I can’t sleep 
And thinking of her— whom God may keep. 

From all her letters I must see 
How deep the love she feels for me, 
The tremblings of her hand betray 
More than her trembling heart would say. 

The mother’s always in my mind, 
Already twelve years lie behind, 
Twelve long years since I did depart 
And clasped the mother to my heart 

Germany will for evermore 
Endure; she’s healthy to the core; 
Returning I shall always find 
Her oaks and lindens left behind. 

My longing for her I could bear 
But for the good old woman there; 
There will always be Germany, 
But the old mother may pass away. 

And since I left the Fatherland, 
The grave has claimed so many a friend 
Whom I have loved—I count the toll 
And fear to death will bleed my soul. 

And count I must, and as I count 
My torment and their numbers mount; 
I feel how their dead bodies heave 
Upon my breast—thank God, they leave! 

Thank God—for a French morning light 
Breaks through my window gay and bright; 
My wife, resplendent as the day 
Smiles all my German cares away.

Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856)

Night Thoughts  - by Heinrich Heine - English read by Sonia Vilim

GOING PUBLIC  02.15. 2013  - "Eingang" by Rainer Maria Rilke
http://www.goingpublicproject.wordpress.com

A wonderful poem on embracing the unknown and overcome fear by setting foot on new soil in order to flourish and thrive.

Eingang (the beginning poem of  "The Book of Images"/"Das Buch der Bilder" 1902)

Wer du auch seist: am Abend tritt hinaus 
aus deiner Stube, drin du alles weißt; 
als letztes vor der Ferne liegt dein Haus: 
wer du auch seist. 
Mit deinen Augen, welche müde kaum 
von der verbrauchten Schwelle sich befrein, 
hebst du ganz langsam einen schwarzen Baum 
und stellst ihn vor den Himmel: schlank, allein. 
Und hast die Welt gemacht. Und sie ist groß 
und wie ein Wort, das noch im Schweigen reift. 
Und wie dein Wille ihren Sinn begreift, 
lassen sie deine Augen zärtlich los...

Source: http://picture-poems.com/rilke/images.html#Entrance

Sonia Vilimova

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