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quantmeh
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April 13th, 2009, 8:51 pm

Über allen GipfelnGoetheÜber allen Gipfelnist Ruh,in allen Wipfelnspürest dukaum einen Hauch;die Vögelein schweigen im Walde,warte nur, balderuhest du auch!
 
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April 13th, 2009, 9:58 pm

Gefunden .... FoundIch ging im Walde ... I was walking in the woods So für mich hin, ... Just on a whim of mine, Und nichts zu suchen, .. And seeking nothing, Das war mein Sinn. ... That was my intention. Im Schatten sah ich ... In the shade I saw Ein Blümchen stehn, ... A little flower standing Wie Sterne leuchtend ... Like stars glittering Wie Äuglein schön. .... Like beautiful little eyes. Ich wollt es brechen, ... I wanted to pick it Da sagt' es fein: ... When it said delicately: Soll ich zum Welken, .... Should I just to wilt Gebrochen sein? ... Be picked? Ich grubs mit allen ... I dug it out with all Den Würzeln aus, ... Its little roots. Zum Garten trug ichs ... To the garden I carried it Am hübschen Haus. ... By the lovely house. Und pflanzt es wieder ... And replanted it Am stillen Ort; ... In this quiet spot; Nun zweigt es immer ... Now it keeps branching out Und blüht so fort. ... And blossoms ever forth. - Goethe
 
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April 28th, 2009, 11:46 am

Afghan Poetry and Afghan Poets' BiographiesText is in English.Select poems also, in the original. I am ever sitting, with heart dried up, in the moisture of my tears:Love showed unto me, in my own retreat, both ocean and land.- Rahman Baba
Last edited by trackstar on April 27th, 2009, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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April 28th, 2009, 11:47 am

Urdu Poetry ArchiveListed by Poet and by Poem.
 
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May 14th, 2009, 2:14 am

On the white poppy, a butterfly’s torn wing is a keepsake - Basho
 
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May 14th, 2009, 10:49 am

Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken. Although its light is wide and great, The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass. - Dogen
 
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May 26th, 2009, 10:34 pm

We listen daily to the sonic coins provided every one of us and played through the Finger-singer worn on the left hand. We trade coins of diverse denominations: and all of them play all that they contain and though a dyma 1 scarcely weighs one grain it plays out like a cricket on each hand blanching here in this distraction-land. - Harry Martinson, from his science fiction poem Aniara, Sweden, 1956
Last edited by trackstar on May 26th, 2009, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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rmax
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May 27th, 2009, 8:26 am

What is it about the Emerald Isle that means that there is such a wealth of literature born there. I am not a massive Heany fan, however this one I have always liked:QuoteDigging Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.Under my window a clean rasping soundWhen the spade sinks into gravelly ground:My father, digging. I look downTill his straining rump among the flowerbedsBends low, comes up twenty years awayStooping in rhythm through potato drillsWhere he was digging.The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaftAgainst the inside knee was levered firmly.He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deepTo scatter new potatoes that we pickedLoving their cool hardness in our hands.By God, the old man could handle a spade,Just like his old man.My grandfather could cut more turf in a dayThan any other man on Toner's bog.Once I carried him milk in a bottleCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened upTo drink it, then fell to right awayNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sodsOver his shoulder, digging down and downFor the good turf. Digging.The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edgeThrough living roots awaken in my head.But I've no spade to follow men like them.Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests.I'll dig with it. (C) Seamus Heaney
 
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rmax
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May 27th, 2009, 9:40 am

Shock horror - realised we have NO Betjeman on the site. This one is one of my favs by him - well no - one of the many great poems he wrote. Might not work for people who have never visited Slough though! Suggest a competition of other towns in other countries that deserve to be an honouray Slough. QuoteSloughby John Betjeman Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death!Come, bombs and blow to smithereensThose air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town-A house for ninety-seven downAnd once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chinWho'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oakAnd smash his hands so used to strokeAnd stop his boring dirty jokeAnd make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who addThe profits of the stinking cad;It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of carsIn various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the starsBut belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with careTheir wives frizz out peroxide hairAnd dry it in synthetic airAnd paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on SloughTo get it ready for the plough.The cabbages are coming now;The earth exhales.
 
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daveangel
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May 27th, 2009, 9:46 am

Even more horrific nothing by John Donne Quote For whom the bell tolls No man is an island,Entire of itself.Each is a piece of the continent,A part of the main.If a clod be washed away by the sea,Europe is the less.As well as if a promontory were.As well as if a manner of thine ownOr of thine friend's were.Each man's death diminishes me,For I am involved in mankind.Therefore, send not to knowFor whom the bell tolls,It tolls for thee.
Last edited by daveangel on May 26th, 2009, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
knowledge comes, wisdom lingers
 
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May 27th, 2009, 3:05 pm

I Taught Myself to Live SimplyI taught myself to live simply and wisely,to look at the sky and pray to God,and to wander long before eveningto tire my superfluous worries.When the burdocks rustle in the ravineand the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droopsI compose happy versesabout life's decay, decay and beauty.I come back. The fluffy catlicks my palm, purrs so sweetlyand the fire flares brighton the saw-mill turret by the lake.Only the cry of a stork landing on the roofoccasionally breaks the silence.If you knock on my doorI may not even hear.- Anna Akhmatova
 
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May 27th, 2009, 3:07 pm

If You Forget MeI want you to knowone thing.You know how this is:if I lookat the crystal moon, at the red branchof the slow autumn at my window,if I touchnear the firethe impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log,everything carries me to you,as if everything that exists,aromas, light, metals,were little boatsthat sailtoward those isles of yours that wait for me.Well, now,if little by little you stop loving meI shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenlyyou forget medo not look for me,for I shall already have forgotten you.If you think it long and mad,the wind of bannersthat passes through my life,and you decideto leave me at the shoreof the heart where I have roots,rememberthat on that day,at that hour,I shall lift my armsand my roots will set offto seek another land.Butif each day,each hour,you feel that you are destined for mewith implacable sweetness,if each day a flowerclimbs up to your lips to seek me,ah my love, ah my own,in me all that fire is repeated,in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,my love feeds on your love, beloved,and as long as you live it will be in your armswithout leaving mine.- Pablo Neruda
 
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May 27th, 2009, 3:12 pm

Last one for now:This Is Just to SayI have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold- William Carlos Williams
 
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June 10th, 2009, 2:12 am

Dulce et Decorum EstBent 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.8 October 1917 - March, 1918- Wilfred Owen
 
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Hamilton
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Joined: July 23rd, 2001, 6:25 pm

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June 10th, 2009, 3:05 am

Homunculus et la Belle Etoile In the sea, Biscayne, there prinks The young emerald, evening star, Good light for drunkards, poets, widows, And ladies soon to be married. By this light the salty fishes Arch in the sea like tree-branches, Going in many directions Up and down. This light conducts The thoughts of drunkards, the feelings Of widows and trembling ladies, The movements of fishes. How pleasant an existence it is That this emerald charms philosophers, Until they become thoughtlessly willing To bathe their hearts in later moonlight, Knowing that they can bring back thought In the night that is still to be silent, Reflecting this thing and that, Before they sleep! It is better that, as scholars, They should think hard in the dark cuffs Of voluminous cloaks, And shave their heads and bodies. It might well be that their mistress Is no gaunt fugitive phantom. She might, after all, be a wanton, Abundantly beautiful, eager, Fecund, From whose being by starlight, on sea-coast, The innermost good of their seeking Might come in the simplest of speech. It is a good light, then, for those That know the ultimate Plato, Tranquillizing with this jewel The torments of confusion.Wallace Stevens, 1919
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