The Poet at Play 2 – ‘Dream’ in many languages

I was writing a poem today, and wanted to name a character.

For inspiration I looked at an old poem of mine, and borrowed its structure, but then the poem soon had a life of its own.  Sorry can’t tell you which one, as it is top secret.

I decided that I wanted the character’s name to be significant to the topic.

Perhaps ‘Dream’ in another language would be appropriate, so I found a website to help me.

It has so many beautiful sounding words for DREAM.

Here are some of the words for dream that also seem to me like wonderful names.

There is something so musical about them.

You can find the language they are from by visiting the link  IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES

Sanjati
Ala
Sognare
Ruya

The other thing that I find inspires poems are things of beauty I see, like the tree image shared for this blog.

I have written a few poems based on it, but what would you write about this tree?

It has an interesting true story, in that is was destroyed by a cyclone.

Yet, this image will always fill me with joy and make me want to dance.

But it is also a tree of my imagination now and a place where an adventure might begin.

The tree is a place for stories of the make believe.

 

(c) Words and Image June Perkins

 

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Tall Trees

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When in the presence of tall trees
I always look up
and see how Jack was
tempted into
the land of giants.

Some seem tricky but doable
with their overhangs and grooves but
it’s the straight ones
with no footholds that
leave me wondering.

By June Perkins

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Divine Love in the Holy Tree

sunsetmtlamington
Mt Lamington National Park, Queensland

 “O God, my God! Praise be unto Thee for kindling the fire of divine love in the Holy Tree on the summit of the loftiest mount: that Tree which is ‘neither of the east nor of the west,’ that fire which blazed out till the flame of it soared upward to the Concourse on high, and from it those realities caught the light of guidance…”

-‘Abdu’l-Baha, Selections From the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Baha

 

This months Nineteen Months Contribution

IMAGINE A TREE

Melissa Shaw-Smith

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Multi-chambered
fortress, tree house, throne
toe holder, ship’s mast
staircase to the heavens
galleon of the woods above
tentacle crawling roots below
battle scarred silver hide
xylem and phloem
carrying fingerprints
of centuries, absorbing
earth and air, detritus
one fleeting moment of many
flickering image—
ghost at the back of an eyelid—
the chestnut mare
scratching her rump
against a beech sapling
green with fast flowing growth
on a June evening
in a cloud of golden gnats
and her tail swishing
from side to side
the memory ingrained
in a low-slung limb
a moss saddled horse.

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The Forests Speak

For the Tasmanian Forests

In my slow growing long lasting huon
There are the stories of your grandfather’s hands
And gaze taking me all in

I carry you in my arms to the safety of Earth mother to
Shield you from storms and yet you would
Forget
I belong to your children and grandchildren

Would you unfriend my many shades of green
Lime and moss on rolling hills
See them parched yellow crying
Stripped pine

Would you delist me from your protection
Hold me at a distance
Forget that I am your breath
Forget my distinct scent
In timber in new life as your love seat

Would you let me be overharvested
So people of today are the last ones
To say they saw the Ancients
Who had to make way for too many tree farms

Together we braved the tempest
Of droughts and fires
And as we survive should not our
Bond be stronger?

Would you lie down in
My green tears
To cleanse your heart?

Could you learn to bless me
Let me be the forest at your back
The open arms that
Lovers long for?

(c) June Perkins

The Tree

tree shadow
Bridget Mckenzie – Flickr Creative Commons

The shadow of the gnarled tree creeps
across the grass
Growing longer and longer as the sun
goes down.
The knotted wood, the twisted branches
sway in the winter wind.

All is still.

The moon rises, the shadows grow
Shorter and shorter
till they fade.

All that is left is the darkness
the blowing wind
and a tree without a shadow.


By June Perkins
Written as a child, was about 12 years old, published in Brilliant Star.