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#1 |
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"Notturno"
Tonight, my forehead gleams and sweat drips in each eye, my thouguthts blaze through dreams, tonight, of beauty I shall die. The souls core is pure passion, deep in the pit of night, a blazing cone. Hush, weep in silence. Let us weep and let us die. We¨ll die alone. Augustin Tin Ujevic - Croatia |
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#2 |
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#4 |
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#5 |
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Blessen morning, you cascade
roaring lightfalls in this room. How can pain make me afraid, dead already, in my tomb? Well, perhaps you ca ignite buried sparks from ash and dust since the lilac and the light still swell longing in your breast. When I lift your vell, you show lines of quiet, forms of grace in shelveas of books, row on row-- then the whole rooms careworn face. Yet, theres something still I miss from this crib without a cross, a smile on darling lips, the kiss of flowers in a waterglass. Blassed morning, while you dress this room in your translucent robe, I have no fear of death´s caress. Only give love back to this Job. A. T. Ujevic |
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#6 |
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I loved you; even now I may confess,
some embers of my love their fire retain; but do not let it cause you more distress, i do not want to sadden you again. Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet Iloved you dearly with pangs the jealous and the timid know; so tenderly I loved you, so sincerely, I pray God grand another love you so. Alexsander Sergejevich Pushkin |
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#7 |
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There is a Smille of Love,
and there is a Smile of Deceit, and there is a Smile of Smiles, in which these two Smiles meet; And there is a Frown of Hate, and there is a Frown of Disdain, and there is a Frown of Frowns which you strive to forget in vain, For it sticks in the Heart´s deep Care, and it sticks in the deep Back bone, and no Smile that ever was smil˙d, But only one Smile alone. That betwixt the Cradle and Grave it only once Smil´d can be, but when it once is Smil´d, there˙s an end to all Misery. William Blake |
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#8 |
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A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London
Never until the mankind making Bird beast and flower Fathering and all humbling darkness Tells with silence the last light breaking And the still hour Is come of the sea tumbling in harness And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead And the synagogue of the ear of corn Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound Or sow my salt seed In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn The majesty and burning of the child's death. I shall not murder The mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth. Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. After the first death, there is no other. --Dylan Thomas. |
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#9 |
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A Poison Tree by William Blake (Songs of Innocence and of Experience, 1789)
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunned it with my smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veil'd the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree To his Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell (1650 approx.) Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. |
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#10 |
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#11 |
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I like the work of the late Spike Milligan, I appreciate it can be classed as doggerel rather than pure poetry but it brings a smile to the face:
Silly Poem Said Hamlet to Ophelia, I'll draw a sketch of thee, What kind of pencil shall I use? 2B or not 2B? - Spike Milligan Have A Nice Day 'Help, help, ' said a man. 'I'm drowning.' 'Hang on, ' said a man from the shore. 'Help, help, ' said the man. 'I'm not clowning.' 'Yes, I know, I heard you before. Be patient dear man who is drowning, You, see I've got a disease. I'm waiting for a Doctor J. Browning. So do be patient please.' 'How long, ' said the man who was drowning. 'Will it take for the Doc to arrive? ' 'Not very long, ' said the man with the disease. 'Till then try staying alive.' 'Very well, ' said the man who was drowning. 'I'll try and stay afloat. By reciting the poems of Browning And other things he wrote.' 'Help, help, ' said the man with the disease, 'I suddenly feel quite ill.' 'Keep calm.' said the man who was drowning, ' Breathe deeply and lie quite still.' 'Oh dear, ' said the man with the awful disease. 'I think I'm going to die.' 'Farewell, ' said the man who was drowning. Said the man with the disease, 'goodbye.' So the man who was drowning, drownded And the man with the disease past away. But apart from that, And a fire in my flat, It's been a very nice day. - Spike Milligan |
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#12 |
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BEAUTY
by KHALIL GIBRAN And a poet said, "Speak to us of Beauty." Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech? The aggrieved and the injured say, "Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us." And the passionate say, "Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us." The tired and the weary say, "beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow." But the restless say, "We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions." At night the watchmen of the city say, "Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east." And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, "we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset." In winter say the snow-bound, "She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills." And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair." All these things have you said of beauty. Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror. |
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#13 |
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There is a smile and a gentleness inside.
When I learned the name and address of that, I went to where you sell perfume. I begged you not to trouble me so with longing. Come out and play! Flirt more naturally. Teach me how to kiss. On the ground a spread blanket, flame that´s caught and burning well, cumin seeds browning, I am inside all of this with my soul. Jelaludin Rumi Translatet by Coleman Barks |
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#14 |
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This is Dulce et decorum est written in 1917 by one of my favourite poets - Wilfred Owen the war poet (he came from my home town), who was killed in action on 4th November 1918 aged just 25, a few days before the end of world war 1. My grandfathers brother died the same day as Wilfred at Etaples camp in northern France after being gassed in the trenches (he was 23), so for my family this poem is very special.
Dulce et decorum est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. The Sentry. We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank old, and sour With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, If not their corpses. . . . There we herded from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping And splashing in the flood, deluging muck — The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined "O sir, my eyes — I'm blind — I'm blind, I'm blind!" Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred light He was not blind; in time he'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking air. Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, — I try not to remember these things now. Let dread hark back for one word only: how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath — Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out. |
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#15 |
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Anne Stevenson, 1990:
EROS I call for love But help me, who arrives? This thug with broken nose And squinty eyes. 'Eros, my bully boy, Can this be you, With boxer lips And patchy wings askew?' 'Madam,' cries Eros, 'Know the brute you see Is what long overuse Has made of me. My face that so offends you Is the sum Of blows your lust delivered One by one. We slaves who are immortal Gloss your fate And are the archetypes That you create. Better my battered visage, Bruised but hot, Than love dissolved in loss Or left to rot.' |
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#16 |
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Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love,
I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge, And though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, And though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, It profits me nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude or self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love delights not in iniquity but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there be prophecies, they shall fail. Where there be tongues, they shall cease. Where there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; But the greatest of these is love. |
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#18 |
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#19 |
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I wandered lonely as a cloud:
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, in such a jocund company: I gazed - and gazed - but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils William Wordworth (1804). I was tempted to add all of 'The hunting of the snark', by Lewis Carroll, here's the first section: "Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,As he landed his crew with care;Supporting each man on the top of the tideBy a finger entwined in his hair."Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:That alone should encourage the crew.Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:What i tell you three times is true."The crew was complete: it included a Boots--A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--And a Broker, to value their goods.A Billiard-maker, whose skill was immense,Might perhaps have won more than his share--But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,Had the whole of their cash in his care.There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,Or would sit making lace in the bow:And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,Though none of the sailors knew how.There was one who was famed for the number of thingsHe forgot when he entered the ship:His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,And the clothes he had bought for the trip.He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,With his name painted clearly on each:But, since he omitted to mention the fact,They were all left behind on the beach.The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, becauseHe had seven coats on when he came,With three pairs of boots--but the worst of it was,He had wholly forgotten his name.He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,He had different names from these:His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends,"And his enemies "Toasted-cheese.""His form in ungainly--his intellect small--"(So the Bellman would often remark)"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."He would joke with hyenas, returning their stareWith an impudent wag of the head:And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,"Just to keep up its spirits," he said.He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,No materials were to be had.The last of the crew needs especial remark,Though he looked an incredible dunce:He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark,"The good Bellman engaged him at once.He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,When the ship had been sailing a week,He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,And was almost too frightened to speak:But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,There was only one Beaver on board;And that was a tame one he had of his own,Whose death would be deeply deplored.The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark,Protested, with tears in its eyes,That not even the rapture of hunting the SnarkCould atone for that dismal surprise!It strongly advised that the Butcher should beConveyed in a separate ship:But the Bellman declared that would never agreeWith the plans he had made for the trip:Navigation was always a difficult art,Though with only one ship and one bell:And he feared he must really decline, for his part,Undertaking another as well.The Beaver's best course was, no doubt, to procureA second-hand dagger-proof coat--So the Baker advised it-- and next, to insureIts life in some Office of note:This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire(On moderate terms), or for sale,Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,And one Against Damage From Hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,Whenever the Butcher was by,The Beaver kept looking the opposite way,And appeared unaccountably shy.I'm tempted to put it all on here (would that be too much??), it goes on for ages - so here's a link for the rest of it; http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/c/carroll/lewis/snark/ |
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#20 |
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