قصائد أجنبية

I scarce believe my love to be so pure ,As I had thought it was Because it doth endure ;Vicissitude, and season, as the grass

,Twice or thrice had I loved thee ;Before I knew thy face or name ,So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame ;Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be

,As I went down to Dymchurch Wall I heard the South sing o’er the land I saw the yellow sunlight fall .On knolls where Norman churches stand

,There was such speed in her little body ,And such lightness in her footfall It is no wonder her brown study .Astonishes us all

,Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop ,And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جون بيتجمان، وهي قصيدة فعالة بشكل لا يصدق، في القصيدة يقر المتحدث ويتحدث ضد الطريقة التي يزيل بها التصنيع وصول البشرية إلى التاريخ والطبيعة، ويقصد بالتصنيع النظام الاجتماعي أو الاقتصادي المبني على الصناعات التحويلية.   ملخص قصيدة Inexpensive Progress   ,Encase your legs in nylons Bestride your hills with pylons ;O […]

,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

,They weren’t red nor was I angry but with something five shades lighter .than passion, I plucked the roses bald

Once I lived the life of a millionaire Spending my money and I didn’t care Taking my friends out for a mighty fine time Drinking high priced liquor, champagne and wine

/spring came the same way winter left summer will come& summer will leave; slowly& when no one's expecting it/

,I only have a moment so let me tell you the shortest story ,about arriving at a long loved place, the house of friends in Maine their lawn of wildflowers, their grandfather clock and candid

.A poem is a gesture toward home .It makes dark demands I call my own :Memory makes demands darker than my own .My last love drove a burgundy car

Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning Names in heat, in elements classical .Philosophers said could change us. Star Gazer

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones ,In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done .And start their silent swinging, one by one

,I tried the soft stuff on holiday in Wales ,a mania of teadrinking and hairwashing ,excitable soap which never rinsed away .but I loved coming home to this

High on a bright and sunny bed A scarlet poppy grew ,And up it held its staring head .And thrust it full in view

,There's just no accounting for happiness or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet .having squandered a fortune far away

Still, I keep myself, I take to bed. One lung is red. Cut red .flowers hung in pink water

,When it was bitter in New York City I would go out with my mother ,past the icy buildings stay against her, just behind her

,In the Shreve High football stadium ,I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville ,And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood ,And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جيمس شويلر مكتوبة عن جمال العالم الطبيعي، مع التركيز على كيف أنها عابرة دائمًا، دائمًا ما تبدو رؤية الصور الجميلة مؤقتة للشاعر، مثل تلاشي النهار والليل دائمًا في بعضهما البعض

,I hear an army charging upon the land :And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees ,Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand .Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers

,But who art thou, with curious beauty graced‘ O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal ’?Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste ,I am that maid whose secret few may steal‘

He poured the coffee Into the cup He put the milk Into the cup of coffee

.He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher .He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher .His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar .My father was a Communist Party full-time worker

tonite, thriller was about an old woman, so vain she surrounded herself with many mirrors

The child is not dead the child raises his fists against his mother who screams Africa screams the smell of freedom and heather in the locations of the heart under siege

.The skin cracks like a pod .There never is enough water

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle That while you watched turned to pieces of snow Riding a gradient invisible .From silver aslant to random, white, and slow

,The ribs and terrors in the whale  ,Arched over me a dismal gloom  ,While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by  .And left me deepening down to doom