Home | Contact Us

Poems On / About WORK  4/18/2015 10:03:19 PM
Search For Poems & Poets:


Best Poems About / On WORK
<< prev. page

Page: 1 10 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 50 60 70 80 85

next page >>



Fall Leaves

Of all the seasons fall is the most beautiful in Oklahoma. Sunshine warms the body and soul to perfection like the toaster occasionally toasts my bread. I struggle so often to get the perfect toast but for sunshine we leave ourselves at the mercy of sun. Surprisingly life is really wonderful with out the weight of trying to be perfect or having no say in spread of sunshine and many wonderful things that are gifted to us.

After unusually wet early October, we are now blessed again with sunny weather. It is just so nourishing and heartwarming to take a walk around neighbor hood or drive around town to watch the trees bursting with colors of fall. Sun leaves a golden hue on top of the trees still with leaves. Rain and wind has littered the ground with leaves. I sit out and watch those dry leaves falling and dancing in air for a while before their gentle and quiet fall. Even in their demise they offer beauty and solace to the onlookers. Some of them get stuck in cobwebs trembling and quivering in space like hanging between eternity and mortality.

On those warm, beautiful and quiet days of fall the only annoying thing is the sound of leaf blowers and big monster lawnmowers. We have to bear them like many other nuisances of modern life. I have been delaying to call my lawn mower guy to stretch the lovely sight that my yard, still full of leaves, offers me. I have never bagged leaves accept for once and have stayed away from it because of the strain that it causes to my back. But I am not yet ready to let go of those leaves by those nasty blowers either.

So I surveyed the leaves covered front yard. It was smaller than my back yard. With winds calm it looked like millions of tiny fishes were basking under the bright sun. I had left the scene untouched for as long as I could but it was time to come out of my imaginative state and do some cleanup. Still In my desire to get close to nature's simple beauty I decided to give raking a try but this time with a feminine touch and make my work enjoyable rather then speedy. At my age in figuring out the quality of life, speed is the last factor any way. So I over looked the big black trashcan and the heavy shovel and picked my tall kitchen wastebasket, dust pan, roll of small trash bags, my step stool, gloves and the lightest wooden rake. Set everything on side and raked a small area. The lawn was so full of leaves it took only couple of minutes to make a big pile. I made few piles knit closely and sat on step stool as close to big pile of leaves as I could. I laid down the wastebasket vertically and with the help of dustpan and some time just with hands filled it up. More than three fourth full I took out the plastic bag and stuffed it a little more with leaves.
The sun's rays warming my face and soft breeze keeping me cool I was amazingly happy to be able to work in my yard and be close to those leaves. Often I took out my gloves to feel them. In their brown color with transparent thin veins they were as alive as I am with my flesh and blood under my brown skin. Kissed by the morning dew some were still wet and moist like my own drippy nose. I worked for an hour interrupted only by a green grasshopper that said hello and flew away. A brown butterfly blended so well with leaves that I almost bagged it. I stopped for few minutes to watch it flutter and fly. While filling the bags some leaves escaped their destiny. I stopped and watched them dancing away to the street. Some settled on the concrete but some flew a little further to destination unknown.

I worked for about an hour and filled about ten bags. A little tired I got up and looked around. The fact that I barely had made a dent in that yard full of leaves hardly bothered me. The pleasure that I found in working every minute of that hour was immense. In next few days I worked few more hours at my slow and easy speed to fill nine or ten bags at a time. Finally the front yard was showing more green than brown but the autumn clouds and cold wind returned. My back yard is still untouched and full with those crisp and tender brown leaves. The trees are almost bare now. As much as I would like to work in my back yard to be close to this soul touching weather I know it would be a bit too much for me. Eventually it would be cleaned up with those monster blowers mercilessly but not before I enjoy few more weeks of fall with the yard full of leaves. In the mean time I have to figure out how to dispose of those fifty or so feather light bags.
Savita Tyagi

Read more poems from Savita Tyagi >>>



Transparent Sounds Of Hoofs

Transparent sounds of hoofs may sound like thuds
or clangs to those who are insensitive to sense;
translators’ works will turn out to be duds
if meaning is of minor consequence.
Originally no text is opaque
except to those who give it less respect
than they would give a horse which they forsake
and shoot because they don’t like its defects.

Richard Pevear (“Tolstoy’s Transparent Sounds, ” NYT, October 13,2007) writes about the translation of “War and Peace” which he made in collaboration with Larissa Volokhonsky:

I’ve said “translator, ” and in a sense my collaboration with Larissa is so close that the two of us make up one translator who has the luck to be a native speaker of two languages. We work separately at first. Larissa produces a complete draft, following the original almost word by word, with many marginal comments and observations. From that, plus the original Russian, I make my own complete draft. Then we work closely together to arrive at a third draft, on which we make our “final” revisions. That working situation has its advantages. Translators are always in danger of drifting into the sort of language that is commonly referred to as “smooth, ” “natural” or, as they now say, “reader friendly, ” but is really only a tissue of ready-made phrases. When that happens to me, as it sometimes does, Larissa is there to stop me. Where I have my say is in judging the quality of our English text, that is, in drawing the line between a literal and a faithful rendering, which are not at all the same. If the translation does not finally “work” in English, it doesn’t work at all. I’ll take an example of what that collaboration can produce from Tolstoy’s description of the Russian Army crossing the river Enns. After a good deal of confusion, the hussar captain Denisov finally manages to clear the infantry from the bridge and send his cavalry over. As the first riders move onto the bridge, Tolstoy writes, “On the planks of the bridge the transparent sounds of hoofs rang out.” The Russian is unmistakable — prozrachnye zvuki, “transparent sounds” — and I find its precision breathtaking. It is pure Tolstoy. To my knowledge, it has never been translated into English. What we find in other versions is the “thud” or “clang” of hoofs, and it is likely that I would have done something similar if Larissa had not brought me back to what Tolstoy actually wrote. His prose is full of such moments of fresh, immediate perception. Coming upon them and finding words for them in English has been one of the most rewarding aspects of our work.

gershon hepner

Read more poems from gershon hepner >>>



Andy Warhol Paper (For School)

There are a few things one must know about the famous Andy Warhol. One such thing would be the fact that he took the art world into more of an art business. Second his lifestyle was one he lived and took full advantage of. He had many people who would totally dropp their lifestyles and join him in his film work, and live in his art building “The Factory”. Third of all...in his time area everything he did, every move he made...was unheard of. People just didn't do the things he did. It wasn't of the time.

Many think that his paintings were the death of real art, and something entirely different then art. It pushed the people's minds and forced them to see what could be, instead of what is. Most art up to late 1950's had been realism. Fully following the picture in front of them. Like a photo without a camera. When Andy decided to mix in high intensity colors with other clashing, bright colors...many saw this as the death of art. Though his work inspired many to push the usual mediums of art such as paint and canvas to thing much more vast. Thus began the division of Pop-Art vs. Fine Art.
The fine art was seen to be the still life, photo finished art. Portraying images that were safe and soft. The Pop-Art world raved with bright colors and harsh shapes. Mediums spanning from silk screen process, inflatable fabric, to TVs. Like much of his generation, Andy was out to change the ways, and that he did. He pushed people to look past an image and view the meaning. Not just documenting an event, but an emotion. The idea behind Andy's works is controversial. Some believe they were just there, nothing more then bright colors. Though others saw something more then the ascetic value. Was Andy repeating images over and over to grab our attention and make us notice the little things in life? Or was it something much more then that? The sleazy recoloring of the famous Monro, is this his way of showing her commercial value? Or just his way of simplifying her?
Many will never know. Though when asked about his famous soup cans painting in an interview he responded, 'I used to drink it. I used to have the same lunch every day for twenty years, I guess, the same thing over and over again.' (Bailey, Suzanne. History of American Art) What if he simply did this, because he could? That these thoughts and theories are just people's way of trying to reason with his work. Trying to fix something they do not understand. Andy Warhol has succeeded in
astounding many with his work, and puzzling so many more.

Andy also followed his art career with film. In 1965 Andy claimed to step away from the art world to work on filming and his band, he had put together, known as the Velvet Underground. (History of American Art) Although he said this, he still dabbled in his art world from time to time. Though many guess more for the sake of making more money, then expanding his talent. Not much can be said on his works as a director/producer of the later 70+ movies. Because, like Andy, they were very odd.
In his most famous film, “Sleep”, it shows the poet John Giono simply sleeping for six continuous hours. Giono was among the many who stayed at Warhol's “Factory” and made the films with him. Though many know about the movie “Sleep”, his most publicized was “1966's Chelsea Girls”. It was the first, and possibly only, one of its kind. Andy had taken the same story, but filmed it on two rolls of film. One was a more darker picture, catching all the shadows. While the other was a very light film, catching every dropp of light. They would be played simultaneously, side by side. Critics raved that when you watch each side, they both give you the feeling of two totally different stories, yet they are the same. When the film played, one storyline would be turned up to hear over the other, then vise versa. Another movie he had shot was done over and over by many, and more to come even after him. Known as “Blood for Dracula” or “Andy's Dracula”, the film dealt with the classic tale of Dracula. The vampire who comes from Transylvania to seek virgin blood. Though Andy added in some twists, it was still stuck in the average remakes of what Bram Stroker had created. (Wikipedia)
Samantha Bush

Read more poems from Samantha Bush >>>



Work To Do!

i came from a generation
that worked.... was born to
work, daylight to dawn,
for everything we had.
we grew our own food, we
cut firewood, we worked
with our hands.
we were taught to work...
we built houses, bridges,
paved roads... worked on
farms, worked in sawmills,
worked in factories...
whatever it took for food
and shelter...
and if a neighbor got hurt,
or sick, and couldnt work...
we helped him and his family
till he could.

those of us left who can work
are still working, a lot of us are
out of work, and cant find work!

and so the world has changed...
it seems like a lot of people
spend more time avoiding work
than working... a lot of people
look for the easy way out...are
dependent on society...
still a lot of good and willing people
just need help.

they call this progress...based
on technology, and looking out for
number one. seperated, almost islands...
greed has taken the place of the bent back!

so when it all falls apart, and that will
be soon, what happens? who knows how
to survive? who has the backbone?

things to think about, and yes...
work to do!
Eric Cockrell

Read more poems from Eric Cockrell >>>
<< prev. page

Page: 1 10 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 50 60 70 80 85

next page >>


BEST POEMS:  (Click on a topic to list and read the poems)
 angel poems
beautiful poems
death poems
friend poems
 girl poems
home poems
hope poems
kiss poems
 life poems
loss poems
love poems
music poems
 nature poems
rain poems
school poems
sex poems
 soldier poems
summer poems
sun poems
war poems
(c) Poems are the property of their respective owners.
All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge.. 
Contact Us | About Us | Copyright notice | Privacy statement

Poems On / About WORK