شعر إنجليزي

كما يوحي العنوان فإن المتحدث في هذه القصيدة يعتبر الفناء وإمكانية أن يأتي الموت قبل أن يحقق المتحدث كل ما يأمله في الحياة، وعلى وجه الخصوص ينظر المتحدث إلى الموت على أنه انعزال

To pull the metal splinter from my palm .my father recited a story in a low voice .I watched his lovely face and not the blade Before the story ended, he’d removed

You tell me to live each day as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen where before coffee I complain of the day ahead—that obstacle race

Love the cracks on the walls Of your apartment, and the electric light The current of electricity passed Through the hand on the switch, love the hand

,The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills ;And the startled lake seems to run before it ,From the wood comes a clamor of leaves ,Tugging at the twigs

The present reigned supreme Like the shallow floods over the gutters ,Over the raw paths where we had been .The house with the shutters

I do not ask for youth, nor for delay in the rising of time’s irreversible river that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall ,in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body .in newspaper and carry him to the museum

My old man’s a white old man .And my old mother’s black If ever I cursed my white old man .I take my curses back

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die

,Ysinno cut the bamboo near Haniketta  And from those wattles made his hut And had nothing to cover it with, nothing Like a hundred and sixty .Bales of straw

,Do you give yourself to me utterly Body and no-body, flesh and no-flesh ,Not as a fugitive, blindly or bitterly ?But as a child might, with no other wish

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found .the soldier sprawling in the sun

I did not live until this time ,Crowned my felicity ,When I could say without a crime .I am not thine, but thee

The bus sweeps past the swinging trees And the road unwinds long and cold The chassis creaks with the load .And jolts to a halt by the road

In western lands beneath the Sun ,the flowers may rise in Spring ,the trees may bud, the waters run .the merry finches sing

The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice ;for him, or cream

,All that is gold does not glitter“ ;Not all those who wander are lost ,The old that is strong does not wither .Deep roots are not reached by the frost

The clothes-line is a Rosary ;Of household help and care Each little saint the Mother loves .Is represented there

,If the year is meditating a suitable gift I should like it to be the attitude ,of my great- great- grandmother ,legendary devotee of the arts

.Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world .Then we took it for granted .Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind .Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head

.My house is the red earth; it could be the center of the world .I’ve heard New York, Paris, or Tokyo called the center of the world, but I say it is magnificently humble .You could drive by and miss it

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جون أبديك، في هذه القصيدة أشاد الشاعر بمهارات روجر بوبو في العزف على التوبا أو البوق ووصف شعبيته في جميع أنحاء العالم.   ملخص قصيدة Recital   نُشرت قصيدة جون أبدايك هذه لأول مرة في العدد العاشر ليونيو 1961 من مجلة نيويوركر، ساهم أبدايك بانتظام في هذه المجلة منذ عام 1954، […]

(After Raymond Carver’s Hummingbird) ”Suppose I said the word “springtime ”and I wrote the words “king salmon on a piece of paper

.All I can do is curse, complain I told you the flames would come and the small towns blaze. Though !Precious little you did about it

,To look at any thing ,If you would know that thing You must look at it long

,How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth !Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year

,Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir ,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine ,With a cargo of ivory ,And apes and peacocks .Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine

You say you love; but with a voice Chaster than a nun’s, who singeth The soft Vespers to herself – While the chime-bell ringeth  !O love me truly

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame ;Exact in capitals your golden name Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill