قصائد أجنبية

We were low on petrol so I said let's freewheel .when we get to the hill It was dawn and the city

I don't know politics but I know the names Of those in power, and can repeat them like .Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru ,I amIndian, very brown, born inMalabar

This is a noon for beggars with whining Voices, a noon for men who come from hills ,With parrots in a cage and fortune-cards ,All stained with time

I am a kind word uttered and repeated ;By the voice of Nature I am a star fallen from the .Blue tent upon the green carpet

And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the house-top shouting, “Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for Joy this day is born unto me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that ”.laugheth in the sun

!Farewell we call to hearth and hall ,Though wind may blow and rain may fall We must away ere break of day .Far over wood and mountain tall

At least it helps me to think about my son a Leo/born to us (Aries and Cancer) some sixteen years ago

I am the Lost Classmate being hunted down the superhighways .and byways of infinite cyber-space How long can I evade the class committee

I have news relayed, and me sinking, falling somewhere Depths of unfamiliar raw and numb Lost with colour faded, heart of lead But news of magnitude with need to tell

هل تساءلت يومًا كيف يطفو نسر في السماء عن طريق القيام بحركات دائرية؟ في هذه القصيدة تصور الشاعرة جوي هارجو كيف أنّ هذه الحركة الدائرية تشبه دورة الحياة.

.I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree Sandra Cisneros— :Some things on this earth are unspeakable —Genealogy of the broken

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

,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

,What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones ,The labor of an age in pilèd stones Or that his hallowed relics should be hid ?Under a star-y pointing pyramid

,If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet ;Fetter’d, in spite of painéd loveliness ,Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d

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

!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