شعر إنجليزي

From weariness I looked out on the stars ,And there beheld them, fixed in throbbing joy Nor racked by such mad dance of moods as mars .For us each moment’s grace with swift alloy

.I, too, sing America .I am the darker brother They send me to eat in the kitchen ,When company comes

,This is for the kids who die ,Black and white .For kids will die certainly ,The old and rich will live on awhile

!Good morning, daddy Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble ?Of a dream deferred

In the steamer is the trout ,seasoned with slivers of ginger .two sprigs of green onion, and sesame oil ,We shall eat it with rice for lunch

.What shall we add now? He is dead ,And I who praise and you who blame ,With wash of words across his name

—My Garden — like the Beach  —Denotes there be — a Sea 

,Pink, small, and punctual ,Aromatic, low ,Covert in April ,Candid in May

If ever the lid gets off my head And lets the brain away The fellow will go where he belonged Without a hint from me

–I’m “wife” – I’ve finished that  –That other state  –I’m Czar – I’m “Woman” now  –It’s safer so 

Today the children begin to hope for snow .and look in the sky for auguries of it .It is not for such omens that we wait Our world may not be settled by the slow

هي قصيدة للشاعرة إليزابيث جينينغز، تتحدث القصيدة عن التمريض والممرضات، يبدو أنّ الراوي يتعاطف معهم ويثني على العمل الذي يقومون به ولكن يبدو أنه يكافح لفهم كيفية قدرتهم على العمل.

;I kept my answers small and kept them near Big questions bruised my mind but still I let .Small answers be a bulwark to my fear

.At low tide like this how sheer the water is White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare .and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches

,When Winter’s ahead What can you read in November That you read in April ?When Winter’s dead

The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow :And true love parting blackens a bright morrow Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear .Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen

;Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest .Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof

–,The glory of the beauty of the morning  ;The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew The blackbird that has found it, and the dove

,I have come to the borders of sleep The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose

Now watch this autumn that arrives ;In smells. All looks like summer still Colours are quite unchanged, the air .On green and white serenely thrives

The miller’s wife had waited long ;The tea was cold, the fire was dead And there might yet be nothing wrong

After night’s thunder far away had rolled ,The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold ,And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled

Every time the horses turned Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned ,Upon the handles to say or ask a word

Only the feathers floating around the hat Showed that anything more spectacular had occurred Than the usual drowning. The police preferred to ignore ,The confusing aspects of the case

In the cold, cold parlor my mother laid out Arthur :beneath the chromographs رEdward, Prince of Wales

;Hope was but a timid friend ,She sat without the grated den ,Watching how my fate would tend .Even as selfish-hearted men

;I do not weep; I would not weep :Our mother needs no tears Dry thine eyes, too; ’tis vain to keep .This causeless grief for years

I am the only being whose doom No tongue would ask no eye would mourn I never caused a thought of gloom A smile of joy since I was born

,Make me a grave where’er you will ;In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill  ,Make it among earth’s humblest graves .But not in a land where men are slaves

on my block, a gate on my block, a tree smelling of citrus & jasmine that knocks me back into the arms of my dead