Butterflies – world poems

Love is like a butterfly
in so many, many ways.
It brings a bit of sunshine
even on gloomy days.

It makes our souls feel lighter
just to know it’s there
And gives our spirits wings,
as if floating in the air.

It carries us to places
that we never knew before
And comes in many sizes,
shapes and hues galore.

Once we’ve seen it,
we wish to hold onto it so tight
But like a frail butterfly,
we must allow it free flight,

For if we should try
to cage it up
and hold it in a pen,
We’ll surely crush its wings,
and it’ll never fly again.

To keep that love glowing
in our hearts each day,
We must remember
always to give some of it away.

Every little bit we give
to someone else to share
Comes back tenfold,
and we’ve so much to spare.

Put your love
on gossamer wings,
and give it flight;
It will return to you,
and bring you much delight.
– Unknown

The butterfly counts
not months but moments,
and has time enough.
– Rabindranath Tagore

Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly,
And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking.
Which was the real—the butterfly or the man ?
Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?
The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea
Returns anon to the shallows of a transparent stream.
The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city,
Was once the Prince of the East Hill.
So must rank and riches vanish.
You know it, still you toil and toil,—what for?

Li Po

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I'm happy;
Happy that it's not true

Pablo Neruda

To a Butterfly

Stay near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy !
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father’s family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:—with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

William Wordsworth


Women Transported

An exhibition on life in Australia’s convict female factories is currently at the Fremantle Prison until July 3rd 2011

An estimated 1 in 5 Australians has an ancestor who spent time in a convict female factory, which were very similar to the English workhouses.This confronting and inspiring exhibition from the Parramatta Heritage Centre reveals the harsh lives of women who were incarcerated. Letters, photographs, domestic items and artefacts tell the story, although very little material survives from these women. Their contribution has been largely ignored, yet they are the ‘mothers of the nation’ – women with grit who survived the dire conditions of late 18th and early 19th century colonial Australia.

Lark Rise to Candleford – Flora Thompson

‘As she went on her way, gossamer threads, sun from bush to bush, barricaded her pathway, and as she broke through one after another of these fairy barricades she thought, ‘They’re trying to bind and keep me’. But the threads which were to bind her to hernative county were more enduring than gossamer. They were spun of love and kinship and cherished memories.’

Final paragraph from Change in the Village, Candleford Green , Larkrise to Candelford, written by Flora Thompson 1876 – 1947

Final M.A show, Preston, Lancashire, UK