قصائد أجنبية

–Much Madness is divinest Sense –To a discerning Eye –Much Sense – the starkest Madness

Down valley a smoke haze Three days heat, after five days rain Pitch glows on the fir-cones Across rocks and meadows .Swarms of new flies

The bud ,stands for all things ,even those things that don't flower ;for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر غاجنان مادهاف مكتيبود، تقدم القصيدة الفرق الصارخ بين الطبقة المتميزة والطبقة المحرومة من خلال تقديم الحالة اللاإنسانية للقسم المنهك في مجتمعنا.

,I am Ebenezer Bleezer ,I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE there are flavors in my freezer ,you have never seen before

,Be glad your nose is on your face ,not pasted on some other place ,for if it were where it is not .you might dislike your nose a lot

,The blushing dawn the easy illumes ,The birds their merry matins sing ,The buds breathe forth their sweet perfumes .And butterflies are on the wing

The fish are dreadful. They are brought up the mountain in the dawn most days, beautiful ,and alien and cold from night under the sea .the grand rooms fading from their flat eyes

Steaming chip-shop and the red-hot chips And me shaking salt, pepper and vinegar .All over them like I’m some kind of weather

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

In the midnight heavens burning ,Thro’ ethereal deeps afar Thus I mus’d, when o’er the vision ;Crept a red delirious change ,Hope dissolving to derision ;Beauty to distortion strange ,Hymnic chords in weird collision

He was twelve years old And I do not know his name ,The mercenaries took him and his father ,Whose name I do not know

Do you remember that wild stretch of land with the lone tree guarding the point ?from the sharp-tongued sea

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جيليان كلارك، وهي قصيدة عن تعلم ابنها العزف على البيانو، حيث تساعد الصور حول المنزل على وصف إبداع الموسيقى.

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جيليان كلارك، تصور القصيدة قصة كلارك وهي تتأمل معرض امرأة من التاريخ القديم تم الكشف عن رفاتها.

,I can remember you, child As I stood in a hot, white Room at the window watching The people and cars taking

Márgarét, áre you gríeving ?Over Goldengrove unleaving Leáves like the things of man, you ?With your fresh thoughts care for, can you

,No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief .More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring ?Comforter, where, where is your comforting ?Mary, mother of us, where is your relief

!They are all gone into the world of light ;And I alone sit ling’ring here ,Their very memory is fair and bright .And my sad thoughts doth clear

Time Is ,Too Slow for those who Wait ,Too Swift for those who Fear

One summer afternoon when nothing much was happening, they were standing around a tractor beside the barn while a horse in the field poked his head between two strands

My life has been the poem I would have writ .But I could not both live and utter it

‘,A soldier of the Union mustered out’ Is the inscription on an unknown grave

In summer dusk the valley lies  ;With far-flung shadow veil  A cloud-sea laps the precipice  :Before the evening gale 

,O patient creature with a peasant face ,Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains !And standing humbly in the dingy lanes ,There seems a mystery in thy work and place

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

Sticks and sleeping bags and ants Dirty hands and grass-stained pants Gathering wood and piling up leaves

,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

,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

,Now we must get up quickly .dress ourselves, and run away Because it surrounds us, because ,they are coming with wolves on leashes because I stood just now at the window