قصائد أجنبية

,It was not Death, for I stood up –And all the Dead, lie down  It was not Night, for all the Bells .Put out their Tongues, for Noon

.The evening passes fast away“ ;Tis almost time to rest’ ,What thoughts has left the vanished day ?What feelings in thy breast

,A Route of Evanescence –With a revolving Wheel  A Resonance of Emerald –A Rush of Cochineal 

?They asked me 'A you sitting down 'Right? This is Universal Lotteries ,they said. 'You've won the top prize .the Ultra-super Global Special

You can invest everything in someone. This one feeling chopping you up. Anyone can go into the night. I just want to be gone. I want to be unknown. There’s a storm coming. Euphoria trapped in a vial ... 

,This darksome burn, horseback brown ,His rollrock highroad roaring down In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam .Flutes and low to the lake falls home

O generation of the thoroughly smug ,and thoroughly uncomfortable ,I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun ,I have seen them with untidy families

,The last, the very last .So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing …against a white stone

Keep cats if you want to learn to cope with .the otherness of lovers -Otherness is not always neglect 

;As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame  As tumbled over rim in roundy wells  Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s  ;Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name 

,I want to die while you love me ,While yet you hold me fair While laughter lies upon my lips .And lights are in my hair

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جورج ماكبثن وهي قصيدة قصيرة تستخدم صورة خوذة لتصوير علاقة المتحدث بوالده.

,Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright ;The bridal of the earth and sky ,The dew shall weep thy fall to-night .For thou must die

,Down the long hall she glistens like a star  ,The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone .Yet none the less immortal, breathing on 

.No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie ,It was too flash, too blue .too much like the painting of a tiger

;TO know just how he suffered would be dear To know if any human eyes were near ,To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze .Until it settled firm on Paradise

its raining womens voices as if they were dead even in memory its raining you too marvelous encounters of my life oh droplets

At last you're tired of this elderly world Shepherdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleating You're fed up living with antiquity

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

Ojibwa —,The owl    Au The owl    Au

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful .And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two .I'm one of your talking wounded .I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded

,Remember the sky that you were born under .know each of the star's stories .Remember the moon, know who she is Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the

هي قصيدة للشاعرة جوي هارجو، تستخدم الشاعرة الصورة المركزية لطاولة المطبخ لربط جميع مجالات الحياة، الطفولة، والحب، والخسارة، والحرب، والبلوغ، والذاكرة كلها مرتبطة بالأحداث التي تحدث على الطاولة، يصبح الصورة المركزية لهارجو ، الجدول الذي يمثل كل المساعي البشرية.

,Die, wild country, like the eaglehawk ,dangerous till the last breath's gone clawing and striking. Die .cursing your captor through a raging eye

,To one who has been long in city pent Tis very sweet to look into the fair‘ And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer .Full in the smile of the blue firmament

:The Poetry of earth is never dead ,When all the birds are faint with the hot sun And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run ;From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead

,I am lulled by the imprint of ancient tales .Written in blood red, vermilion hue ,Man and tattered dreadlocks us ,As dragonflies we drink our thirst

Let me pour forth ,My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here ,For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear ,And by this mintage they are something worth

,Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s‘ ;Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks

,He could not die when trees were green  .For he loved the time too well  ,His little hands, when flowers were seen  ,Were held for the bluebell