شعر إنجليزي

نشأت سوجاتا بهات (Sujata Bhatt) في بيون لكنها هاجرت مع عائلتها إلى الولايات المتحدة في عام 1968 عندما كانت في الثانية عشرة من عمرها، وولدت في عام 1956

بقدر الوقت الذي أمضاه الراوي ومجتمع الراوي في الملاحظة، والحسد لريتشارد كوري، لا أحد يفهم تمامًا نفسية كوري أو إنسانيته، وتترك القصيدة الحقيقة حول كل ما يدفع كوري للانتحار.

في هذه القصيدة المتحدث هو واحد من العديد من الركاب الذين يأملون في مشاهدة الدلافين البرية أثناء سفرهم على متن سفينة إلى مدينة ساحلية في اليونان، ومع ذلك سرعان ما يتضح أن تجربة رؤية الدلافين.

في هذه القصيدة يقارن المتحدث بشكل ما جسد عشيقته بسلسلة من الأشياء الجميلة، ممّا يعني أنها أقل جمالًا من الشمس والثلج والورود، وفي النهاية يستنتج المتحدث إلى أنه حتى إذا كانت عشيقته لا يمكن مقارنتها.

هي كرست أودري لورد التي وصفت نفسها بأنها سوداء وأم ومحاربة وشاعرة، وحياتها وموهبتها الإبداعية لمواجهة ومعالجة مظالم العنصرية والتمييز على أساس الجنس والطبقية

هي قصيدة للشاعرة الأمريكية إميلي ديكنسون (Emily Dickinson) كتبها حوالي في عام 1862، ومثل العديد من قصائد ديكنسون فهي مضغوطة وغامضة، وبالمعنى الواسع القصيدة تدور حول العزلة والتواصل

There is no need they say but the needles still move their rhythms in the working of your hands as easily

when I look into the fragile faces ,of those I love

My spirit is too weak—mortality ,Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die

,In drear nighted December ,Too happy, happy tree Thy branches ne’er remember —Their green felicity

,When by my solitary hearth I sit ;And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ,When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit ;And the bare heath of life presents no bloom

,Gee Gee, your daddy told me how you fare ,Since April stole your song of sweet sixteen ,Your still life, limp and lifeless, lying there ,Another day of June no speech will bring

Sing a last song ,for the lady who has gone .fertile source of guilt and pain ,The worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn

!O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute !Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away ,Leave melodizing on this wintry day :Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute

,Under a wall of bronze Where beeches dip and trail ;Their branches in the water —With red-tipped head and wings

,Sleep little baby, clean as a nut .Your fingers uncurl and your eyes are shut .Your life was ours, which is with you .Go on your journey. We go too

,In the dark the river spins ,Laughs and ripples never ceasing ,Swells to gurgle under arches .Swishes past the hows of barges

Dear love, for nothing less than thee ;Would I have broke this happy dream It was a theme ,For reason, much too strong for fantasy

,For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love  ,Or chide my palsy, or my gout  ,My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout  ,With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve 

,He is stark mad, whoever says ,That he hath been in love an hour ,Yet not that love so soon decays ;But that it can ten in less space devour 

,Thou art not so black as my heart ;Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art  ,What would’st thou say ? shall both our properties by thee be spoke ?Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke—

Stand still, and I will read to thee .A lecture, love, in love’s philosophy ,These three hours that we have spent Walking here, two shadows went

I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying-- To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small ,And listen to an old man not at all .They want the young men's whispering and sighing

Constancy is an evolution of one’s living quarters into a thought: a continuation of a parallelogram or a rectangle —by means—as Clausewitz would have put it .of the voice and, ultimately, the gray matter

,My dear Telemachus The Trojan War .is over now; I don't recall who won it The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand .and chaining a soul

All the way to the hospital .the lights were green as peppermints Trees of black iron broke into leaf ahead of me, as if

,The gorilla lay on his back ,One hand cupped under his head .Like a man

.Forgive me that I pitch your praise too low ,Such reticence my reverence demands .For silence falls with laying on of hands

,This is the gay cliff of the nineteenth century ,Drenched in the hopeful ozone of a new day ,Erect and brown, like retired sea-captains .The houses gaze vigorously at the ocean