What is your one favourite poem?

Are we just dumping our native poetry here?

Кaк тяжкo мepтвeцy cpeди людeй
Живым и cтpacтным пpитвopятьcя!
Ho нaдo, нaдo в oбщecтвo втиpaтьcя,
Cкpывaя для кapьepы лязг кocтeй...

Живыe cпят. Mepтвeц вcтaeт из гpoбa,
И в бaнк идeт, и в cyд идeт, в ceнaт...
Чeм нoчь бeлee, тeм чepнee злoбa,
И пepья тopжecтвyющe cкpипят.

Mepтвeц вecь дeнь тpyди́тcя нaд дoклaдoм.
Пpиcyтcтвиe кoнчaeтcя. И вoт —
Haшeптывaeт oн, виляя зaдoм,
Ceнaтopy cкaбpeзный aнeкдoт...

Уж вeчep. Meлкий дoждь зaшлeпaл гpязью
Пpoхoжих, и дoмa, и пpoчий вздop...
A мepтвeцa — к дpyгoмy бeзoбpaзью
Cкpeжeщyщий нeceт тaкcoмoтop.

B зaл мнoгoлюдный и мнoгoкoлoнный
Cпeшит мepтвeц. Ha нeм — изящный фpaк.
Eгo дapят yлыбкoй блaгocклoннoй
Хoзяйкa — дypa и cyпpyг — дypaк.

Oн изнeмoг oт дня чинoвнoй cкyки,
Ho лязг кocтeй мyзы́кoй зaглyшoн...
Oн кpeпкo жмeт пpиятeльcкиe pyки —
Живым, живым кaзaтьcя дoлжeн oн!

Лишь y кoлoнны вcтpeтитcя oчaми
C пoдpyгoю — oнa, кaк oн, мepтвa.
Зa их ycлoвнo-cвeтcкими peчaми
Tы cлышишь нacтoящиe cлoвa:

«Уcтaлый дpyг, мнe cтpaннo в этoм зaлe». —
«Уcтaлый дpyг, мoгилa хoлoднa». —
«Уж пoлнoчь». — «Дa, нo вы нe пpиглaшaли
Ha вaльc NN. Oнa в вac влюблeнa…»

A тaм — NN yж ищeт взopoм cтpacтным
Eгo, eгo — c вoлнeниeм в кpoви...
B eё лицe, дeвичecки пpeкpacнoм,
Бeccмыcлeнный вocтopг живoй любви...

Oн шeпчeт eй нeзнaчaщиe peчи,
Плeнитeльныe для живых cлoвa,
И cмoтpит oн, кaк poзoвeют плeчи,
Кaк нa плeчo cклoнилacь гoлoвa...

И ocтpый яд пpивычнo-cвeтcкoй злocти
C нeздeшнeй злocтью pacтoчaeт oн...
«Кaк oн yмён! Кaк oн в мeня влюблён!»

B eё yшaх — нeздeшний, cтpaнный звoн:
To кocти лязгaют o кocти.

poetry-chaikhana.com/Poets/L/LawrenceDH/AndOhThatThe/index.html

>Béranger
Interesting choice. Do you recommend his "Chansons"?

THE POETIC EDDA IS THE BEST COLLECTION IN THE WORLD.

HEIL ODIN

An Anatomy of the World: The First Anniversary by John Donne

If epics count Paradise Lost

git god u heathen

Sounds like edgy shit with random line breaks

Wholeheartedly yes,and also my 2nd favourite is Pushkins Demon,and 3rd Goethes Der König von Thule!

Belsazar by Heinrich Heine obviously.

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

...

To Autumn by John Keats
The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

It's too long to post here, but Song of the Open Road by Whitman.

Just got into poetry: The Post

There's a reason the greats are considered great. I'm not going to jack off to some shitty obscure poem so that I can look more "patrician" to others.

of ever-ever land by ee cummings

...

Man, Stevens was such a great poet.

In this world
love has no color—
yet how deeply
my body
is stained by yours

>poem
>over 5 lines
dropped

not to mention the faggots who expect us to read in a different language, like this is an ENGLISH website we speak ENLGISH

Ugh are you my freshman year English TA?

What's the point of just writing what basically reads like prose but breaking up the lengths of each line like this? Why isn't this just considered prose?

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

What does that even mean?

He literally ejaculated in my class over that poem.

I dwell in Possibility -
A fairer house than Prose -
More numerous of Windows -
Superior - for Doors -

Of Chambers as the Cedars -
Impregnable of eye -
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky -

Of Visitors - the fairest -
For Occupation - This -
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise -

'A Wine of Wizardry' or 'The Wrath of the Awakened Saxon'

Yes I'm a pleb

‘Gold is for the mistress — silver for the maid —
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.’
‘Good!’ said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
‘But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of them all.’

So he made rebellion ’gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
‘Nay!’ said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
‘But Iron — Cold Iron — shall be master of you all!’

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid ’em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron — Cold Iron — was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
‘What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?’
‘Nay!’ said the Baron, ‘mock not at my fall,
For Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all.’

‘Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown —
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.’
‘As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!’

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
‘Here is Bread and here is Wine — sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron — Cold Iron — can be master of men all!’

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
‘See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron — Cold Iron — to be master of men all.’

‘Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason — I redeem thy fall —
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!’

‘Crowns are for the valiant — sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!’
‘Nay!’ said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
‘But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!’

One day the world will realize what a poet Hart Crane was. One day....

The willows carried a slow sound,
A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead.
I could never remember
That seething, steady leveling of the marshes
Till age had brought me to the sea.

Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves
Where cypresses shared the noon’s
Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost.
And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams
Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them
Asunder ...

How much I would have bartered! the black gorge
And all the singular nestings in the hills
Where beavers learn stitch and tooth.
The pond I entered once and quickly fled—
I remember now its singing willow rim.

And finally, in that memory all things nurse;
After the city that I finally passed
With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts
The monsoon cut across the delta
At gulf gates ... There, beyond the dykes

I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer,
And willows could not hold more steady sound.

Yo soy el Individuo.
Primero viví en una roca
(Allí grabé algunas figuras).
Luego busqué un lugar más apropiado.
Yo soy el Individuo.
Primero tuve que procurarme alimentos,
Buscar peces, pájaros, buscar leña,
(Ya me preocuparía de los demás asuntos).
Hacer una fogata,
Leña, leña, dónde encontrar un poco de leña,
Algo de leña para hacer una fogata,
Yo soy el Individuo.
Al mismo tiempo me pregunté,
Fui a un abismo lleno de aire;
Me respondió una voz:
Yo soy el Individuo.
Después traté de cambiarme a otra roca,
Allí también grabé figuras,
Grabé un río, búfalos,
Grabé una serpiente
Yo soy el Individuo.
Pero no. Me aburrí de las cosas que hacía,
El fuego me molestaba,
Quería ver más,
Yo soy el Individuo.
Bajé a un valle regado por un río,
Allí encontré lo que necesitaba,
Encontré un pueblo salvaje,
Una tribu,
Yo soy el Individuo.
Vi que allí se hacían algunas cosas,
Figuras grababan en las rocas,
Hacían fuego, ¡también hacían fuego!
Yo soy el Individuo.
Me preguntaron que de dónde venía.
Contesté que sí, que no tenía planes determinados,
Contesté que no, que de allí en adelante.
Bien.
Tomé entonces un trozo de piedra que encontré en un río
Y empecé a trabajar con ella,
Empecé a pulirla,
De ella hice una parte de mi propia vida.
Pero esto es demasiado largo.
Corté unos árboles para navegar,
Buscaba peces,
Buscaba diferentes cosas,
(Yo soy el Individuo).
Hasta que me empecé a aburrir nuevamente.
Las tempestades aburren,
Los truenos, los relámpagos,

raven is middle school tier

That poem is the single reason i think Bukowski is a good poet. I will respect a career of mediocrity from any poet if they'll only give me a few lines like that somewhere within it.

For sale
user's intellect
Never used

because the lines dont go all the way the end of the page you twat

You can take many poems and turn them into simple prose by removing line breaks. How could you consider this anything but poetry? If you can't call this poetry, then don't bother with ee cummings, ts eliot, wallace stevens, hart crane, walt whitman, or any of the other english poets who used the occasional independent clause.

and whats that supposed to mean?

never heard of stevie smith before

just gave me a rabbit hole to throw the night into
thanks

That type of highly systematic, organized poetry usually comes across dull to me.

But then i read Kipling and Yeats, and remember I'm an idiot.

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

I will admit most of the reason I like this is just the phrase 'the bones picked clean and the clean bones gone'

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket
sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Derek Mahon - Antarctica

‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
The others nod, pretending not to know.
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He leaves them reading and begins to climb,
Goading his ghost into the howling snow;
He is just going outside and may be some time.

The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime
And frostbite is replaced by vertigo:
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Need we consider it some sort of crime,
This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No,
He is just going outside and may be some time

In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme,
Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow,
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He takes leave of the earthly pantomime
Quietly, knowing it is time to go.
‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Personally I like Invictus

Probably 'L'Ecclésiaste' by Leconte de Lisle or 'Golgotha' by Saint-Pol Roux.

corny

only the last 2 stanzas of one poem, the rest of the poem i do not like:

tutsak tutsak tutsak tutsak
her şey tutsak ve de ölüm
ve de ölüm, her şey tutsak

günler tutsak gecelere
ben de sana ey bir ömrüm
ben de sana ve boş yere

"captive, captive, captive, captive
everything (is) captive and death
and death, everything (is) captive (to)

days are captive to nights
and i to you, o my one life
and i to you, and for no reason/good

Well I hope he at least tried to wipe it off the page afterward ...

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Why you gotta be so rude?

Зaбopaвиo caм јyтpoc пecмy јeднy јa,
Пecмy јeднy y cнy штo caм cвy нoћ cлyшao:
Дa јe чyјeм yзaлyд caм дaнac кyшao,
Кao дa јe пecмa билa cpeћa мoјa cвa.
Зaбopaвиo caм јyтpoc пecмy јeднy јa.

У cнy cвoмe ниcaм знao зa бyђeњa мoћ,
И дa зeмљи тpeбa cyнцa, јyтpa и зope;
Дa y дaнy гyбe звeздe бeлe oдope;
Блeди мeceц дa ce кpeћe y yмpлy нoћ.
У cнy cвoмe ниcaм знao зa бyђeњa мoћ.

Ja caд јeдвa мoгy знaти дa имaдoх caн,
И y њeмy oчи нeкe, нeбo нeчијe,
Heкo лицe, нe знaм кaквo, мoждa дeчијe,
Cтapy пecмy, cтape звeздe, нeки cтapи дaн.
Ja caд јeдвa мoгy знaти дa имaдoх caн.

He ceћaм ce ничeг вишe, ни oчијy тих:
Кao дa јe caн ми цeo биo oд пeнe,
Ил' тe oчи дa cy мoјa дyшa вaн мeнe,
Hи apијe, ни cвeг дpyгoг, штo јa нoћac cних;
He ceћaм ce ничeг вишe, ни oчијy тих.

Aли cлyтим, a cлyтити јoш јeдинo знaм;
Ja caд cлyтим зa тe oчи, дa cy бaш oнe,
Штo мe чyднo пo живoтy вoдe и гoнe:
У cнy дoђy, дa мe видe, штa ли paдим caм.
Aли cлyтим, a cлyтити јoш јeдинo знaм.

1/2

In the morning the bitch whelped
Seven reddish-brown puppies,
In the rye barn where a row
Of bast mats gleamed like gold.
Licking their pelts smooth,
And underneath her, the snow
Melted out in the heat.

But at dusk, when the hens
Were roosting on the perch,
There came the grim-faced master
Who stuffed the pups in a sack.

The bitch bounded alongside him,
Over the snow-deep fields,
And the icy surface of the water
Shuddered a long, long while.

And when at last she struggled home,
Licking the sweat from her sides,
To her the moon above the house
Seemed like one of the pups.

Whimpering loudly she gazed up
Limpidly into the dark,
While over the hill, the slender moon
Slid into the fields beyond.

And softly, as when someone,
Jesting, throws her a stone,
Her tears, like golden stars,
Trickled down into the snow.

Дa мe видe дoђy oчи, и јa видим тaд
И тe oчи, и тy љyбaв, и тaј пyт cpeћe;
Њeнe oчи, њeнo лицe, њeнo пpoлeћe
У cнy видим, aли нe знaм, штo нe видим caд.
Дa мe видe, дoђy oчи, и јa видим тaд.

Њeнy глaвy c кpyнoм кoce и y кocи цвeт,
И њeн пoглeд штo мe глeдa кao из цвeћa,
Штo мe глeдa, штo ми кaжe, дa мe oceћa,
Штo ми бpижнo пpyжa oдмop и нeжнocти cвeт,
Њeнy глaвy c кpyнoм кoce и y кocи цвeт.

Ja caд нeмaм cвoјy дpaгy, и њeн нe знaм глac;
He знaм мecтo нa кoм живи или пoчивa;
He знaм зaштo њy и caн ми јaвa пoкpивa;
Moждa cпaвa, и гpoб тyжнo нeгyјe јoј cтac.
Ja caд нeмaм cвoјy дpaгy, и њeн нe знaм глac.

Moждa cпaвa ca oчимa извaн cвaкoг злa,
Извaн cтвapи, илyзијa, извaн живoтa,
И c њoм cпaвa, нeвиђeнa, њeнa лeпoтa;
Moждa живи и дoћи ћe пocлe oвoг cнa.
Moждa cпaвa ca oчимa извaн cвaкoг злa.

2/2

for Williams short poetry, I prefer 'Complete Destruction:'

It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.

My man.

That you are stupid and lazy

When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
As by a shining brainless beacon
Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
When you are calm and joyful
And finally entirely alone
Then in a great new darkness
You will finally execute your special plan

too long to post in it's entirety here but it's amazing and it always gets to me

shit this is nice

Not my favourite, but i like this one.

These figures moving in my rhyme,
Who are they? Death and Death’s dog, Time.

LYCIDAS
Y
C
I
D
A
S

what is this poem trying to communicate

Midi, ses fauves, ses famines, et l'An de mer à son plus haut sur la table des Eaux...
– Quelles filles noires et sanglantes vont sur les sables violents longeant l'effacement des choses ?
Midi, son peuple, ses lois fortes... L'oiseau plus vaste sur son erre voit l'homme libre de son ombre, à la limite de son bien.
Mais notre front n'est point sans or. Et victorieuses encore de la nuit sont nos montures écarlates.

Ainsi les Cavaliers en armes, à bout de Continents, font au bord des falaises le tour des péninsules.
– Midi, ses forges, son grand ordre... Les promontoires ailés s'ouvrent au loin leur voie d'écume bleuissante.
Les temples brillent de tout leur sel. Les dieux s'éveillent dans le quartz.
Et l'homme de vigie, là-haut, parmi ses ocres, ses craies fauves, sonne midi le rouge dans sa corne de fer.

Midi, sa foudre, ses présages ; Midi, ses fauves au forum, et son cri de pygargue sur les rades désertes !...
– Nous qui mourrons peut-être un jour disons l'homme immortel au foyer de l'instant.
L'Usurpateur se lève sur sa chaise d'ivoire. L'amant se lave de ses nuits.
Et l'homme au masque d'or se dévêt de son or en l'honneur de la Mer.

...

I like it because it sounds damn pretty.

"Bartered" shows up in at least another of his poems:
>And now, before its arteries turn dark
>I would have you meet this bartered blood.
>Imminent in his dream, none better knows
>The white wafer cheek of love, or offers words
>Lightly as moonlight on the eaves meets snow.
but I haven't studied enough to guess at what he might be on about.

My guess is that it's about some homosexual experience he had when he was young, then going on Emil Opfer because I think the sea takes the same place as in Voyages.

This, however, is after about ten minutes of thinking about it so don't hold me to anything.

it seems to me like he's describing a yearning for a vague memory that he couldn't articulate until he got older and gained an appreciation for nuance and experience. But that might just be me forcing my own sentiments onto the poem

>he doesn't speak more then 5 languages

Yeah, that's convincing.

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

>then
>he doesn't speak English

>then

When the hulk of the world whirls again between
Us for the ships shift mew here your dusk is dawn
My skyblue side of the globe,
Where the mooncast squid's eye of a downcast ocean
Goggles till it gets me in the beam of its brine—
Oh then, sweet claustrophobe
I leave among the lost leaves of a London wood
(So dark, we missed the middle of our road)
Can spring condone, redeem
One treachery of departure from that life,
Shiftless to fetch this love?
Seas will be seas, the same;
Thick as our blood may flood, our opposite isles
Chase each other round till the quiet poles
Crack, and the six days top
Totter, but catch us neither sight nor hold;
Place will be place, limbs may not fold
Their natural death in dreams.
I pray, pray for me on some spring-wet pavement
Where halts the heartprint of our salt bereavement,
Pray over many times,
Forgive him the seas forgive him the spring left,
All bloom ungathered perishable as grief,
For the hulk of the world's between
And I go as a ghost, one flesh I and the wind
That lifts us both so lightly, but so bound
Never to be ghost alone.

The continent's a tamed ox, with all its mountains,
Powerful and servile; here is for plowland, here is
for park and playground, this helpless
Cataract for power; it lies behind us at heel
All docile between this ocean and the other.
If
flood troubles the lowlands, or earthquake
Cracks walls, it is only a slave's blunder or the
natural
Shudder of a new made slave.
Therefore we happy
masters about the solstice
Light bonfires on the shore and celebrate our power.

The bay's necklaced with fire, the bombs make crystal
fountains in the air, the rockets
Shower swan's-neck over the night water.
.
.
.
I
imagined
The stars drew apart a little as if from troublesome
children, coldly compassionate;
But the ocean neither seemed astonished nor in awe:
If this had been the little sea that Xerxes whipped,
how it would have feared us.

I love Ode on a Grecian Urn, and Keats in general, please no bully

Why would anybody bully you for saying you like Keats, perhaps the most universally loved poet

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Life is but once and then there is dark night
we are dying in the ruins of light
like day-flies, like a flash of lightning

And now the sky beyond the trees is brightening
electric wires tremble in the snow
now promenades and corsos are aglow
now our souls are viewed on the X-ray screen
like ichthyosauri from the pliocene
now the clock's hand is moving towards six
now we go off together to the flicks
now spectral shades of gamblers and of witches
are put to flight by our electric switches
and now applause and cheers ring through the house
and Thomas Edison now takes his bows

The party's over now your soul is dark
the guests have left and you are back at work
Look at those inventors and at their resources
yet the stars have not deviated from their courses
look at all those people living quietly
no this isn't work nor even energy
this is adventure as on the high seas
locking oneself in one's laboratories
look at all those people living quietly
no this isn't work it's poetry
It's intention and a bit of accident
to become one's country's president
to become a poet who's outstripped you all
to become a songbird holding you in thrall
to be always lucky at roulette
to be the discoverer of a new planet

A thousand apples have dropped in profusion
but only Newton drew the right conclusion
A thousand people have had epileptic seizures
Saint Paul alone had his converting vision
A thousand nameless deaf have sought a haven
but only one of them was Beethoven
A thousand madmen have considered ways
but only Nero could set Rome ablaze
A thousand inventions come to us each season
but only one of them was that of Edison

1
Kiedy obudził się rano, zapytał Aboon Sahii:
- Co ci się śniło?
- Widziałam góry, które ruszały się jak zwierzęta,
a potem zmieniły się w zwierzęta.
- Widziałam zwierzęta z gór powstałe, które płakały
jak człowiek i zamieniły się w człowieka.
- Widziałam człowieka, który płakał i który w nic już
zmienić się nie mógł, ale gromy biły, drzewa padały i
spośród nich wyszedł brat człowieczy, który szedł
w imię płaczących i w imię zbrodni, który szedł w imię
Boga i w imię szatana, który szedł w imię chmur i w
imię ziemi, a człowiek, który płakał, wołał do niego:
"Ślepy, idziesz w imię urojenia!", i w wiatr się rozsypał.
A ten idąc w imię płaczących i w imię zbrodni, w imię
Boga i w imię szatana, w imię chmur i w imię ziemi, nie
słyszał go ani wiatru, w który człowiek płaczący się
rozsypał. I szedł dalej, aż zamienił się w drzewo zielone,
a po lat tysiącu runął, a po tysiącu jaworem wyrósł, a po
tysiącu runął, a po tysiącu dębem wyrósł, a po tysiącu
runął --
Oto wstań, Aboonie! i wyjrzyj w dzień, który nastaje.
Oto wstań, Aboonie! Czy widzisz tę strzelistą sosnę
człowieczą za oknem?!!!

1.

Jak gdybyś ciszą znużoną spojrzał na światło:
elipsy, kreski i koła
krążące przez krzywe zwierciadło.
Z drugiego końca ciszy nie echo, tyś sam wołał.
Przez dzień płyną już tylko ptaki,
czasem opada liść jak karta proroczych pism.
Możeś pędzącym przez burze rozwianym chłopcem,
możeś już tylko sam o sobie list?

To nie, że lęk mnie zjeżył i płaczę oparty
o kolumny krzyżów człowieczych.
To nie, że ja nie dudnię pięścią w kamień martwy,
tylko żem nie znał oczu głębszych niż ten wieczór.

Teraz są te jaskółki zwieszone u powiek
jak odłamki nieznanych gwiazd.
Teraz są chmury - coraz to inne zwierzęta,
maszerujący tętnem las.
To nie, że mi nie była żadna ziemia święta,
ale żem ciszą znużoną spojrzał na światło
i uniósł czas tak mały, jakby to nie czas.

2.

Tabuny oceanów płoną na równinach,
równiny są jak niebo, niebo jest jak woda.
Koczują złote smoki po wielkich przyczynach,
po ziemi wstępujące jak po czarnych schodach.
Góry ruszyły z legowisk, góry tak są lekkie,
sypią jak piasek z ręki obłoków do ręki.
W namarszczonym milczeniu, jak zwierzęta piękne
mruczą i dymią ostro swoim ciężkim wdziękiem.
Był czas, gdy strach nie istniał, tylko w ciemnym wnętrzu
przewalało się serce jak dzwon pustej studni
i piętrzyło się siłą, jakby krzyk się piętrzył.
Światy tonęły w światach. Dziś w każde południe
słychać jeszcze, jak gwiazda zatopiona jęczy.

2
Kto grał na tej fanfarze, wydymał złe morza
pełne gwiazd i błyskawic, i ryb niepoczętych,
huczące w trąby wirów, czerwone jak pożar
od idei wszystkich kształtów i wszystkich zamętów.
Żeby odwalić ziemię, po kamieniu kamień,
po liściu liść oderwać z wszystkich drzew,
zobaczysz wypalone w martwej ciszy znamię -
- naprężony do skoku tygrysi gniew
jak olbrzyma zastygłe ramię.

3.

Był czas hipocentaurów, zwierząt zodiakalnych,
gdy niebo rosło z ziemi, jak korona blasku.
te zwierzęta z obłoków jak kosmate palmy
ulepione z namułu i wzdętego piasku.

O świecie muzealny! Skorpiony napięte
jak kusze przed wystrzałem wielkich prawd,
gdy w plusku płetw jak drzewa, w dzikim śpiewie mięty
szedł niebem srebrny komar i jak pasterz - grał.
A pod piosenkę - ciche powtórzenie wrzawy,
szły szeregi zdziwione, jakby ziemią sięgając do chmur,
gdzie w kolebce kotliny, w mrocznych stadach trawy
kołysał się na liściu maluteńki stwór.
I śmiały się zwierzęta - wędrujące góry,
z ostatniego potomka burzy,
kiedy wodził palcami w koczowniczych chmurach
i wróżył.
Marszczyły się i tarły grzebieniami grzbietów
o niebo z ognia pełne dziwnych figur,
podobne zadumanym nad śmiercią kobietom,
sierść obłoków - uszami strzygąc.

W lesie krętych storczyków został mały człowiek,
a był to prometeusz. Rósł, aż go uniosła
wielka woda, i płynął, odbijał od brzegów,
wiosłując jak płomieniem - ognistym wiosłem.

4.

Rosły rany w zieleni - czarne głowy zamków,
rżały chmury spętane, przemienione w konie.
tylko w hossannach wiosny wspomnieniem o wdzięku
kwitły różowe i złote jabłonie.
Nikt nie powracał drogą. Czekały dziewczęta
odnajdując w zwierciadłach zastygłych rycerzy,
bo wojom - nie pamiętać, kobietom - pamiętać,
bo tętnił drogą człowiek - który wierzył.
O, twarze światowidów, odynów, proroków,
o, twarze ciemiężonych, którzy szli w takt serc,
o, twarze tych bez bogów i twarze tych bogów,
trącające o gwiazdy, o radość i śmierć.

Stał olbrzym w głosie ziemi jak w szacie
pod piorunami.
Stał olbrzym jak tysiące w rosnącej postaci
ponad trupami poległych, nad łzami.
Stoi olbrzym pod niebem jak wir
pełnym mgławic - warczących zwierząt.
Stoi w kompaniach lasów, w dzwonach wielkich lir,
ustoi - wierząc.

W a r i a n t:

Szukajcie w lasach rzeki echa,
bogów zaklętych w kamień i żywych
ptaków w dziecięcych uśmiechach,
wyzwoleń ludzi prawdziwych,
zwycięstwa smutnych spojrzeń,
przywalonych przez granitową noc,
i buntu, który dojrzał -
znajdziecie bunt i bitwę, i noc.

5.

Wzniesiemy dom ze słońca i z szumu dłoni,
żelazny dom.
Cóż, że się zamknie ziemia nad nami
jak zaczytany tom.
Rosnąć dalej w liście i dęby puszcz
jak własny pomnik,
zrywać światło pąkami ust,
wyrosnąć murem zwycięskich wspomnień.
Glina jest dobra i jak krew słona,
jak trawa wzejdzie nad nas ptaków śpiew,
a barbarzyńska ziemia z krzykiem rozciągnie ramiona,
przetętnią po nas śpiewne tabuny drzew.

24 V 1941

This is a dog,
This is a cat.
This is a frog,
This is a rat.
Run, dog,
mew, cat.
Jump, frog,
gnaw, rat.

Once a warrior gentle of birth, Then a person of civic worth, Now a fellow to move our mirth. Warrior, person, and fellow—no more: We must knight our dogs to get any lower. Brave Knights Kennelers then shall be, Noble Knights of the Golden Flea, Knights of the Order of St. Steboy, Knights of St. Gorge and Sir Knights Jawy. God speed the day when this knighting fad Shall go to the dogs and the dogs go mad.

jak tam w liceum? xDDDDD

wrzuc lepsze, lamusie