قصائد أجنبية

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر هيلير بيلوك، وهي قصيدة قصيرة مسلية تصف إطلاق الرصاص البلاتيني على فرس النهر.

Summer dust settled over the garden in bloom and full of bees, their hives full of such marketable honey, you bought a jar. Then, amid the light blue

,Pile on the Black Man’s Burden ;Tis nearest at your door‘ Why heed long bleeding Cuba ?Or dark Hawaii’s shore

It’s like living in a light bulb, with the leaves Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin, transparent glass Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day, a canopy .Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden on the grass

.Trust me. The world is run on a shoestring They have no time to return the calls in hell And pay dearly for those wasted minutes. Somewhere In the future it will filter down through all the proceedings

The medieval town, with frieze Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow ?That came when we wanted it to snow Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

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

يكاد يكون من المؤكد أنّ القصيدة مبنية على فقدان جون بيتجمان لوالده مما يجعل الأمر أكثر إثارة للمشاعر، يحتوي مقطع القصيدة بالكامل تقريبًا على نمط ينعكس من خلاله الراوي بشكل إيجابي على الوقت الذي يقضيه مع والده ثم ينتهي بملاحظة قاسية وهو يصف حقيقة الموت.   ملخص قصيدة On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man […]

,It’s awf’lly bad luck on Diana ;Her ponies have swallowed their bits She fished down their throats with a spanner .And frightened them all into fits

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جوين هاروود، قصيدة مؤثرة عن مدى صعوبة الأمومة، تصف معاناة الأم على حياتها الضائعة.   ملخص قصيدة In The Park   تم نشر هذه القصيدة في عام 1961، إنها قطعة مظلمة تقدم صورة أقل من مثالية للأمومة، عندما نشرت هذه القصيدة، استخدمت اسمًا مستعارًا من الذكور، وهو الأمر الذي أبعدها عن […]

;You cannot do this to them, these are my people .I am not speaking of poetry, I am not speaking of art .you cannot do this to them, these are my people .you cannot hack away the horizon in front of their eyes

To be in love .Is to touch with a lighter hand .In yourself you stretch, you are well You look at things .Through his eyes .A cardinal is red .A sky is blue

,There once was a tiger, terrible and tough .who said “I don’t think tigers are stylish enough .They put on only orange and stripes of fierce black .Fine and fancy fashion is what they mostly lack

.But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say .Though the pretty-coated birds had piped so lightly all the day

.They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair .Dinner is a casual affair ,Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood .Tin flatware

Blackness ,is a title ,is a preoccupation is a commitment Blacks —are to comprehend and in which you are .to perceive your Glory

.THE POOL PLAYERS                    .SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL

,I love you for your brownness ,And the rounded darkness of your breast I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice .And shadows where your wayward eyelids rest

?Oh mother, mother, where is happiness ,They took my lover's tallness off to war Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess .What I can use an empty heart-cup for

.Abortions will not let you forget ,You remember the children you got that you did not get ,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair .The singers and workers that never handled the air

,We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong ”.Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man

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

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جيليان كلارك، وهي قصيدة قصيرة عن الرسائل المخفية لعلاقة أصبحت باردة وليس لها مستقبل.

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

,For the green turtle with her pulsing burden .in search of the breeding ground .For her eggs laid in their nest of sickness

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

,I slept in a room in the roof the white planes of its ceiling ,freckled with light from the sea or at night leaf shadows .from the street-lamp in the lane

.We walk the lanes to pick them" Ffwff-ffwffs'. He gives them the name' '!he gives to all flowers. 'Fftwff! Ffwffs I teach him to tell the time

It took a hurricane, to bring her closer To the landscape ,Half the night she lay awake ,The howling ship of the wind

Can you spin ,straw into gold straw into gold, a boast becomes a lie, a lie ,becomes a request ,becomes a promise becomes an agony