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Selected Poems - International

Posted: March 22nd, 2009, 6:43 pm
by trackstar
Eva Gerlach (Dutch)Die Alle Dingen - Which All Things WHICH ALL THINGS ‘Sol qui illustras omnia solus’ (Bruno, Cantus Circaeus) What was it you said, something about piking early on winter mornings when the dark sat round you and your father each apart on the moped, each would hack a hole in the ice and you’d cast your what sort of rod, some hook or other, undersized bait from the bucket: never caught one single pike. And wasn’t there a lamp, didn’t we have it later, blotchy metal, standing model, it could also hang. To keep everything, each single thing, in mind, time and place, substance quantity and quality. Be a god that moves it. Sometimes you saw just one unstirring in the depths, with that pointed mouth they have, patches of grey.

Selected Poems - International

Posted: March 23rd, 2009, 8:11 am
by rmax
StrakhiBy Yevgeny YevtushenkoUmirayut i Rossii strakhi,Slovno prizraki prezhnikh let.Lish na paperti, kak starukhi,Koye-gde eshcho prosyat na khleb.Ya ihk pomnyu vo vlasti i silePri dvore torzhestvuyushchei lzhi.Strakhi vsyudu kak teni skolzili,Pronikali vo vsye etazhi.Potikhonku lyudei priruchaliI na vsyo nalagali pechat.Gde molchat by, krichat priruchali,I molchat, gde by nado krichat.Eto stalo sevodnya dalyokim,Dazhe stranno i vspomnit teper.Tainyi strakh pered chim to donosom,Tainyi strakh pered stukom v dver.Nu, a strakh govorit s inostrantsem,S inostrantsem to shto, a s zhenoi.Nu, a strakh bezotchotnyi ostatsyaPosle marshei vdvoyom s tishinoi.Ne boyalis my stroit v meteli,Ukhodit pod snaryadami v bo,No boyalis poroyu smertelnoRazgovarivat sami s sobo.Nas ne sbili i ne rastili,I nedarom seichas vo vragakhPobedivshaya strakhi RossiyaYeshcho bolshi rozhdayet strakh.Strakhi novyye vizhu, svetleya:Strakh neiskrennim byt so strano,Strakh nepravdo unizit idei,Shto yavlyautsya pravdoi samoi.Strakh fanfarit do odurenya,Strakh chuzhiye slova povtoryat,Strakh unizit drugikh nedoveryemI chrezmerno sebe doveryat.Umirayut v Rossii strakhi.I kogda ya pishu eti strokiI poroyu nevolno speshu,To pishu ikh v yedinstvennom strakhe,Shto ne v polnuyu silu pishu. FearsIn Russia fears are dyingLike the ghosts of yesteryears.Only on church steps here and there like old womenThey are begging for bread.I remember fears being in power and forceAt the court of triumphant lie.Fears like shadows slithered everywhere,Infiltrated every floor.Gradually they tamed the peopleAnd on everything affixed their seal.Where silence should be, they taught screaming,They taught silence, where shouting would be right.This, today, has become distant,It is strange even to recall it now.The secret fear at someone informing,The secret fear at a knock at the door.Then, a fear to speak to a foreigner;Foreigner - nothing, even with one's own wife.And unaccountable fear, after marches,To remain alone with silence, eye to eye.We did not fear to build in snowstorms,To march into battle under fire.But we deathly feared at timesTo talk to ourselvesWe did not get demoralized or corrupted,And it is not without reasonThat Russia, having conquered her own fears,Spreads even greater fear in her enemies.I see new fears arising,The fear of being insincere to the country,The fear of degrading the ideasThat are truth in themselves.The fear of bragging until stupor,The fear of repeating someone else's words,The fear of belittling others with distrustAnd to trust oneself excessively.In Russia fears are dying.As I write these lines,And at times unwittingly hurry,I write them with the single fearOf not writing at full speed.

Selected Poems - International

Posted: March 23rd, 2009, 11:20 am
by zeta
Fleas- Adam had 'em-anon(?)

Selected Poems - International

Posted: March 24th, 2009, 7:46 am
by trackstar
One last poem, as I head back to America. This is my kind of TSE.LITTLE GIDDING(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')T.S. EliotIMidwinter spring is its own seasonSempiternal though sodden towards sundown,Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,In windless cold that is the heart's heat,Reflecting in a watery mirrorA glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fireIn the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezingThe soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smellOr smell of living thing. This is the spring timeBut not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerowIs blanched for an hour with transitory blossomOf snow, a bloom more suddenThan that of summer, neither budding nor fading,Not in the scheme of generation.Where is the summer, the unimaginableZero summer? If you came this way,Taking the route you would be likely to takeFrom the place you would be likely to come from,If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedgesWhite again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.It would be the same at the end of the journey,If you came at night like a broken king,If you came by day not knowing what you came for,It would be the same, when you leave the rough roadAnd turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facadeAnd the tombstone. And what you thought you came forIs only a shell, a husk of meaningFrom which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilledIf at all. Either you had no purposeOr the purpose is beyond the end you figuredAnd is altered in fulfilment. There are other placesWhich also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—But this is the nearest, in place and time,Now and in England. If you came this way,Taking any route, starting from anywhere,At any time or at any season,It would always be the same: you would have to put offSense and notion. You are not here to verify,Instruct yourself, or inform curiosityOr carry report. You are here to kneelWhere prayer has been valid. And prayer is moreThan an order of words, the conscious occupationOf the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.And what the dead had no speech for, when living,They can tell you, being dead: the communicationOf the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.Here, the intersection of the timeless momentIs England and nowhere. Never and always.IIAsh on and old man's sleeveIs all the ash the burnt roses leave.Dust in the air suspendedMarks the place where a story ended.Dust inbreathed was a house—The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.There are flood and drouthOver the eyes and in the mouth,Dead water and dead sandContending for the upper hand.The parched eviscerate soilGapes at the vanity of toil,Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.Water and fire succeedThe town, the pasture and the weed.Water and fire derideThe sacrifice that we denied.Water and fire shall rotThe marred foundations we forgot,Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unendingAfter the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tinOver the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurriedAs if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned faceThat pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead masterWhom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghostBoth intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?'Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other— And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficedTo compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember.'And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be.So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eatenAnd the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other,So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold friction of expiring senseWithout enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder.Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of motives late revealed, and the awarenessOf things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.'The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.IIIThere are three conditions which often look alikeYet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachmentFrom self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifferenceWhich resembles the others as death resembles life,Being between two lives—unflowering, betweenThe live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:For liberation—not less of love but expandingOf love beyond desire, and so liberationFrom the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a countryBegins as attachment to our own field of actionAnd comes to find that action of little importanceThough never indifferent. History may be servitude,History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.Sin is Behovely, butAll shall be well, andAll manner of thing shall be well.If I think, again, of this place,And of people, not wholly commendable,Of no immediate kin or kindness,But of some peculiar genius,All touched by a common genius,United in the strife which divided them;If I think of a king at nightfall,Of three men, and more, on the scaffoldAnd a few who died forgottenIn other places, here and abroad,And of one who died blind and quietWhy should we celebrateThese dead men more than the dying?It is not to ring the bell backwardNor is it an incantationTo summon the spectre of a Rose.We cannot revive old factionsWe cannot restore old policiesOr follow an antique drum.These men, and those who opposed themAnd those whom they opposedAccept the constitution of silenceAnd are folded in a single party.Whatever we inherit from the fortunateWe have taken from the defeatedWhat they had to leave us—a symbol:A symbol perfected in death.And all shall be well andAll manner of thing shall be wellBy the purification of the motiveIn the ground of our beseeching.IVThe dove descending breaks the airWith flame of incandescent terrorOf which the tongues declareThe one discharge from sin and error.The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre— To be redeemed from fire by fire.Who then devised the torment? Love.Love is the unfamiliar NameBehind the hands that woveThe intolerable shirt of flameWhich human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.VWhat we call the beginning is often the endAnd to make and end is to make a beginning.The end is where we start from. And every phraseAnd sentence that is right (where every word is at home,Taking its place to support the others,The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,An easy commerce of the old and the new,The common word exact without vulgarity,The formal word precise but not pedantic,The complete consort dancing together)Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,Every poem an epitaph. And any actionIs a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throatOr to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.We die with the dying:See, they depart, and we go with them.We are born with the dead:See, they return, and bring us with them.The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-treeAre of equal duration. A people without historyIs not redeemed from time, for history is a patternOf timeless moments. So, while the light failsOn a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapelHistory is now and England.With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this CallingWe shall not cease from explorationAnd the end of all our exploringWill be to arrive where we startedAnd know the place for the first time.Through the unknown, unremembered gateWhen the last of earth left to discoverIs that which was the beginning;At the source of the longest riverThe voice of the hidden waterfallAnd the children in the apple-treeNot known, because not looked forBut heard, half-heard, in the stillnessBetween two waves of the sea.Quick now, here, now, always—A condition of complete simplicity(Costing not less than everything)And all shall be well andAll manner of thing shall be wellWhen the tongues of flame are in-foldedInto the crowned knot of fireAnd the fire and the rose are one.

Selected Poems - International

Posted: March 31st, 2009, 11:11 am
by trackstar
Song of Myself- Walt Whitman1 I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. 2 Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age, Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest. I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? 4 Trippers and askers surround me, People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation, The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new, My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love, The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations, Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events; These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. ***only the first four stanzas here - here is a link to the rest; there are 52 in all):Song of Myself - Walt Whitman on Princeton

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 2nd, 2009, 6:12 pm
by trackstar
A Clear Day and No MemoriesNo soldiers in the scenery, No thoughts of people now dead, As they were fifty years ago, Young and living in a live air, Young and walking in the sunshine, Bending in blue dresses to touch something, Today the mind is not part of the weather. Today the air is clear of everything. It has no knowledge except of nothingness And it flows over us without meanings, As if none of us had ever been here before And are not now: in this shallow spectacle, This invisible activity, this sense.- Wallace Stevens

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 2nd, 2009, 6:19 pm
by trackstar
The End of MarchIt was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist. The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade. Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over. Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost... A kite string?--But no kite. I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. At night, a grog a l'américaine. I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window. There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes. A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible. And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up. On the way back our faces froze on the other side. The sun came out for just a minute. For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again. They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with. - Elizabeth Bishop

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 3rd, 2009, 4:26 pm
by trackstar
I Wandered Lonely as a CloudI 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.- Wiliam Wordsworth

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 4th, 2009, 12:01 am
by trackstar
A Mracle for BreakfastAt six o'clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony --like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river. The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony. He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun. Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle. I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, --I saw it with one eye close to the crumb-- and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee. We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony. - Elizabeth Bishop

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 4th, 2009, 3:28 pm
by trackstar
ReverieOh ! laissez-moi ! c'est l'heure où l'horizon qui fume Cache un front inégal sous un cercle de brume, L'heure où l'astre géant rougit et disparaît. Le grand bois jaunissant dore seul la colline. On dirait qu'en ces jours où l'automne décline, Le soleil et la pluie ont rouillé la forêt. Oh ! qui fera surgir soudain, qui fera naître, Là-bas, - tandis que seul je rêve à la fenêtre, Et que l'ombre s'amasse au fond du corridor, - Quelque ville mauresque, éclatante, inouïe, Qui, comme la fusée en gerbe épanouie, Déchire ce brouillard avec ses flèches d'or ! Qu'elle vienne inspirer, ranimer, ô génies, Mes chansons, comme un ciel d'automne rembrunies, Et jeter dans mes yeux son magique reflet, Et longtemps, s'éteignant en rumeurs étouffées, Avec les mille tours de ses palais de fées, Brumeuse, denteler l'horizon violet ! - Victor Hugo, Les orientales

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 4th, 2009, 3:39 pm
by trackstar
Guillaume Apollinaire - Calligramme

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 4th, 2009, 4:01 pm
by trackstar
La RoueLa roue est la plus belle découverte de l'homme et la seuleil y a le soleil qui tourneil y a la terre qui tourneil y a ton visage qui tourne sur l'essieu de ton cou quandtu pleuresmais vous minutes n 'enroulerez-vous pas sur la bobine àvivre le sang lapél'art de souffrir aiguisé comme des moignons d'arbre par lescouteaux de l'hiverla biche saoule de ne pas boirequi me pose sur la margelle inattendue tonvisage de goélette démâtéeton visagecomme un village endormi au fond d'un lacet qui renaît au jour de l'herbe et de l'annéegermeAimé Césaire (1913 )

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 10th, 2009, 10:46 am
by Cuchulainn
Death of a NaturalistQuoteAll year the flax-dam festered in the heartOf the townland; green and heavy headedFlax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottlesWove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,But best of all was the warm thick slobberOf frogspawn that grew like clotted waterIn the shade of the banks. Here, every springI would fill jampotfuls of the jelliedSpecks to range on window-sills at home,On shelves at school, and wait and watch untilThe fattening dots burst into nimble-Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us howThe daddy frog was called a bullfrogAnd how he croaked and how the mammy frogLaid hundreds of little eggs and this wasFrogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs tooFor they were yellow in the sun and brownIn rain. Then one hot day when fields were rankWith cowdung in the grass the angry frogsInvaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedgesTo a coarse croaking that I had not heardBefore. The air was thick with a bass chorus.Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cockedOn sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some satPoised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kingsWere gathered there for vengeance and I knewThat if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.(C) Seamus Heaney 1987

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 13th, 2009, 3:03 pm
by Cuchulainn
QuoteHAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,Enwrought with golden and silver light,The blue and the dim and the dark clothsOf night and light and the half-light,I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet,Tread softly because you tread on my dreamsW.B. Yeats//BTW happy birthday Mr. Heaney (70 today)

Selected Poems - International

Posted: April 13th, 2009, 3:12 pm
by trackstar
The Dream(excerpt)IOur life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,A boundary between the things misnamedDeath and existence: Sleep hath its own world,And a wide realm of wild reality,And dreams in their development have breath,And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,They take a weight from off waking toils,They do divide our being; they becomeA portion of ourselves as of our time,And look like heralds of eternity;They pass like spirits of the past -they speakLike sibyls of the future; they have power - The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;They make us what we were not -what they will,And shake us with the vision that's gone by,The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so?Is not the past all shadow? -What are they?Creations of the mind? -The mind can makeSubstances, and people planets of its ownWith beings brighter than have been, and giveA breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.I would recall a vision which I dreamedPerchance in sleep -for in itself a thought,A slumbering thought, is capable of years,And curdles a long life into one hour.- Lord Byron