قصائد عالمية

.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

,Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly ,Asleep on the black trunk .Blowing like a leaf in green shadow ,Down the ravine behind the empty house

,Miss J.Hunter Dunn, Miss J.Hunter Dunn ,Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun ,What strenuous singles we played after tea !We in the tournament - you against me

.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

Excuse me Standing on one leg I’m half-caste

,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

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue The setting sun, too indolent to hold ,A lengthened tournament for flashing gold ,Passively darkens for night’s barbecue

,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

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

,My heart be brave, and do not falter so .Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail ,Thy way is very dark and drear I know ;But do not let thy strength and courage fail

You only love me when it’s raining  ?Why can’t you love me when it’s bright Keep hoping for the rainclouds So you can come and make it all right

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple .With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves .And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter

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

By holding my mirror out of the window I see .Clear to the end of the passage .There's a person down there .A prisoner polishing a doorhandle

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

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

The sun has burst the sky Because I love you .And the river its banks

Stay, I said .to the cut flowers They bowed .their heads lower

What I love about love is its diagnosis What I hate about love is its prognosis What I hate about love is its me me me What I love about love is its Eat-me/Drink-me

في السطور الأولى من هذه القصيدة يبدأ المتحدث بوصف بلغة بسيطة للغاية الطفل الذي فقد كرة يلعب بها، سرعان ما يتضح أنّ هذه الكرة لم تكن شيئًا بسيطًا يمكن استبداله،

When stretch’d on one’s bed ,With a fierce-throbbing head ,Which preculdes alike thought or repose How little one cares