شعر إنجليزي

Dai K lives at the end of a valley. One is not quite sure whether it has been drowned or not. His Mam .Loves him too much and his Dada drinks As for his girlfriend Blodwen, she's pregnant. So

Once upon a time, in a busy shop In the land of tribes and ancient civilizations …A little girl sat watching in silent resignation

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر كوباياشي عيسى، وهي هايكو ياباني جميل كتبه أحد أساتذة الهايكو الأربعة العظماء، تتحدث هذه القطعة عما قد يحصل عليه المرء في المقابل عندما يمد يده بحنان.

Happy those early days! when I .Shined in my angel infancy Before I understood this place ,Appointed for my second race

,It passed like the breath of the night-wind away  ;It fled like a mist at the dawn of the day  ,It lasted its moment, then backward was hurled .Another increase to the age of the world 

—I saw the civil sun drying earth’s tears ,Her tears of joy that only faster flowed ,Fain would I stretch me by the highway side ,To thaw and trickle with the melting snow

,I think awhile of Love, and while I think ,Love is to me a world ,Sole meat and sweetest drink And close connecting link

Packed in my mind lie all the clothes ,Which outward nature wears And in its fashion’s hourly change .It all things else repairs

,I give back to the earth what the earth gave ,All to the furrow, none to the grave ;The candle’s out, the spirit’s vigil spent .Sight may not follow where the vision went

Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet ;Through their dark arteries reek with running gore ,At hearth, at board, before the household door .T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet‘

,Brave comrade, answer! When you joined the war     ,What left you? “Wife and children, wealth and friends     A storied home whose ancient roof-tree bends     ”.Above such thoughts as love tells o’er and o’er

,The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day ,There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away ,And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide .Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride  ,The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر عزرا باوند، وهي قصيدة غنية بالصورة تصور لقاء العشاق وسط أقواس قزح في البحر.

:A woman’s hands always hold something .A handbag, a vase, a child, a ring, an idea My hands are tired of holding .They simply want to fold themselves

هي قصيدة للشاعرة إرنت مول، في هذه القصيدة يأخذنا الشاعر في رحلة مزارع، حيث يكتشف بعض الحملان التي تهاجمها الثعالب في الحقول، ويوثق انتقامه.

,Once upon a time, son they used to laugh with their hearts :and laugh with their eyes ,but now they only laugh with their teeth

It was good tonight ,To polish brass with you Our hands slightly gritty With Brasso, as they would feel .If we'd been in the sea, salty

,My box is made of golden oak .my lover’s gift to me He fitted hinges and a lock .of brass and a bright key

They flash upon that inward eye‘ ’which is the bliss of solitude (from ‘The Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth)

Snow falls on the cooling towers .delicately settling on cranes Machinery's old bones whiten; death .settles with its rusts, its erosions

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds also, with the church's protestant blessings) (daughters,unscented shapeless spirited

,Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some ?Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended

To fling my arms wide ,In some place of the sun To whirl and to dance

Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever .Through compromise and fear

,Little think’st thou, poor flower ,Whom I’ve watch’d six or seven days And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour ,Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise

All Kings, and all their favourites All glory’ of honors, beauties, wits ,The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe Is elder by a yeare, now, than it was

,Sweetest love, I do not go ,For weariness of thee Nor in hope the world can show ;A fitter love for me

The whiskey stink of rot has settled in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises .when I touch the dying tomato plants

Driving from my parent’s home to Cochin last Friday ,morning, I saw my mother ,beside me