All poems and recording excerpts remain the right of the original copyright holder, and no infringment is here intended

Monday, November 29, 2010


My abstraction by nature finds an expression through poetry. When I learned the true meaning of ecstasy, I discovered an aspect of my sense of wonder, before unexplored.
In Echoes of nature, I attempt to establish that the man violates it, hits it, hurts it, and yet its ability to remake is superior to our capacity for destruction.
Most likely one day everybody will disappear from the face of the earth, and I am sure she will find a way to create a new life, and its echoes will be like the beat of a heart that never stops.


I like to listen to the echoes of the nature.
In silence, they are present everywhere
like wanting always remember us
they are there, perennial, intransmutables.

They seem waves of a sea that never stops.
They oscillate pendular and they attract my lost glance.
They do not cry, they do not moan, they only are there,
remembering to me that they are echoes of a past.

They are voices of the nature, that announce
Its presence for not to forget,
that the humans, we are of step,
and they, will be always in the dawn.

Debrah Riddleton

Thursday, November 25, 2010


What would be of the man if God had not created the called feeling mercy? When somebody says that the man is the sum of all the men, in fact emphasis to the cruelty, the extreme badness and perversity where upon the humanity has grown until becoming its worse enemy.
In this poem, Debbie Nieldeson flatters a deep reflection to us around that divine one and sublimates capacity of the man to feel sorry itself of the others, the animal, the flora and the fauna. For the simple reason that, otherwise, the humanity would be destined to collapse itself in a killer vortex, because the human passions would find a vast land to obtain what it seemed inevitable: The extinction.

Thanks to Debbie for this beautiful reflection. I hope to bring you more poems of this lovely lady.


Among miasms evil smelling of the life,
ethereal aromas confuse to you.
From the faded walls of silence,
incessant echo of waking up of the time
where the human badness is generated,
you arise what emaciated and dying bird
trying in flight, urgent retired.

What would be of the man if everything were fury, rancor and pride?
If you did not float like absent envelope of the scaffold?
If your white pens were not aloof, not to dye itself of red of blood congealed?

Until now I understand to you. Until now I feel the necessity
of never more to loose you. To believe more in you than in same me.
But for you already nothing would have on the Earth.
But for you the fields would be black,
the oceans would be of the same color that their sands
and would only exist Earth stones.

How majestic your silver plated crystal tail.
You seem goddess, with veil of immaculate fiancé.
If someday you disappeared of the life
I would prefer to die with you, and to hope that someday,
as you were born, it would invent somebody you
and not to die between the anything.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


One of the reflections deeper than I have become in this stage of my life, is to try to understand the feelings of the man who goes to the war.
Desperation and anxiety to enter a battle as well? Natural value by the simple fact to be men? Disdain by the death then is no alternative some? The list of reflections seems interminable.
Nevertheless, from my perspective of woman whom never before will see front a prepared enemy blind my life I to him, I offer this poem of the famous James Joyce, an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century, in which reflects with masters the frustration that undergoes a man who is immersed in the worse nightmare of his life.

(Statue of James Joyce on North Earl Street, Dublin)

I Hear an Army

 I hear an army charging upon the land,
 And the thunder of horses plunging; foam about their knees:
 Arrogant, in black armour,behind them stand,
 Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the Charioteers.

 They cry into the night their battle name:
 I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
 They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
 Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

 They come shaking in triumph their long grey hair:
 They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
 My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
 My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

Monday, November 22, 2010


 Exploring in the network, I found this gorgeous poem dedicated to the Desert of the Sahara. Its poetic composition, as well as their phrases threaded with gentleness and deep love by the nature, gave like result this poetic piece of very high level. The scientists have settled down the theory that desert saying sometimes was sea, because advanced studies using end technology, demonstrated that under their withered face covered with sand, still great deposits of the vital liquid exist. Thanks to ArthArt, that authorized the publication of its shining work. For us, it is the task of interpreter, of including/understanding and of doing ours the preoccupation of the deterioration that the man carries out on the Earth face, although in this case, it was the own nature the one that decided to carry out its assignment.

To the desert of the Sahara, that sometimes was sea on the Earth.
Dryness. Broken stone. The water moved away to skies
in ignominious flight. No longer it cries, only moans sand tears.
The before green thing burned crisp in bonfires,
today pothooks, once poetry.
Their delicate birds forgot the footpath
to look for the life in others homes.
Their high mountains were diluted in sun rivers,
resembling tombs set afire by the fire.
Nevertheless, its new beauty surprises to me
when its mystical gaseous atmosphere
it seduces to me in so gentile caress,
and the infinite horizon fills of my silhouette that is extended.
I feel like then part of him, of its misfortune
turned into wise clothes.
There are no scars in its soul,
nor tracks that to follow on its sand.

ArthArt (Pseudonym)

Sunday, November 21, 2010


To a Cat

Mirrors are not more silent
Nor the creeping dawn more secretive;
In the moonlight, you are that panther
We catch sight of from afar.
By the inexplicable workings of a divine law,
We look for you in vain;
More remote, even, than the Ganges or the setting sun,
Yours is the solitude, yours the secret.
Your haunch allows the lingering
Caress of my hand. You have accepted,
Since that long forgotten past,
The love of the distrustful hand.
You belong to another time. You are lord
Of a place bounded like a dream.

Jorge Luis Borges

Everybody, anytime in his life, has talked to a cat. The language is very simple, as simple like to say inexistent words like “cushi”, “bitshio”, or simply “little cat”.
Almost never, talk to it in bad words, or shouting with disgust. It is like talking with a baby.
However, to write a poem to a cat is something we never think about it. Maybe you got the inspiration by observing your own cat. Sure, you will fell a set of emotions for each warm moment lived with your pet.
I ask when you look at this beautiful poem, please read it as the emotion, so you can fully connect with the poem and also understand.
Jorge Luis Borges was an excellent poet, but I am sure he was distinguished by something so simple like: To talk to a cat!


This second blog is the way to say to the world all the things I have achieved along my life. In my first blog, I showed you my experience infant vision.
Perhaps my childhood was normal, surrounded with my parent’s love, a classical education and many friends. Now, mi perception has changed, and it makes me feel so bad.
Dear blogger friend: I am sure the poetry is simply another way to view the world, but something is true, and is that particular comprehension of each word, each instant, and the deductive analysis we make about them. The best way to learn poetry, is not studying the writers, the philosophers, or anybody dedicated to this art. I think the best way is understand the life, in all different manifestations, any try to say with simple words what we look, feel, perceive. A common definition establishes that “poetry is an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response.
In this order of ideas, I found transcendental the brief comprehension of process of life, and probably, we will transform our sensibility and capacity of look the world “trough another perspective”
I hope sincerly you enjoy tis space:
Debrah Riddleton