Ju lutem postoni, nga nje poezi per koment, dhe mundesisht jo shume te gjata. Preferohet te ngjisni edhe thjesht vargjet qe ju perlqejne me se shumti nga nje poezi. Ja po filloj une, me njeren nga te preferuarat e mia:

Leda and the Swan

by William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                      Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

151 Komente

Saddest Poem

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

- Pablo Neruda -

  "Like city's rain, my heart ..."

The rain falls gently on the town.
(Arthur Rimbaud)

By Paul Verlaine

 

Like city's rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?
Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!
Tears rain-but who knows why?-
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover's lie? ...
It mourns, and who knows why?
And nothing pains me so--
With neither love nor hate--
A simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.
 

Quhen poemat, apo vetem poezi? Sidoqofte...

 

 

HOWL

Ginsberg

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind ....

[etc.]

Sonnet Nr.1

Shakakespeare

 

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

Please

 

By Safo

 Come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,
You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.
There hovers forever around you delight:
A beauty desired.

Even your garment plunders my eyes.
I am enchanted: I who once
Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,
Whom I now beseech

Never to let this lose me grace
But rather bring you back to me:
Amongst all mortal women the one
I most wish to see.

--Translated by Paul Roche

The Art of Poetry

Jorge Luis Borges

 

To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

--translated by Anthony Kerrigan

O Lul. Po pate mundesi, hiqe ate poemen e gjate se na u frrujt mausi duke e rreshqit deri ne fund.

I love this

I SIT BY THE WINDOW

I said fate plays a game without a score,
and who needs fish if you've got caviar?
The triumph of the Gothic style would come to pass
and turn you on--no need for coke, or grass.
I sit by the window. Outside, an aspen.
When I loved, I loved deeply. It wasn't often.

I said the forest's only part of a tree.
Who needs the whole girl if you've got her knee?
Sick of the dust raised by the modern era,
the Russian eye would rest on an Estonian spire.
I sit by the window. The dishes are done.
I was happy here. But I won't be again.

I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.

I said that the leaf may destory the bud;
what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud;
that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain
nature spills the seeds of trees in vain.
I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees.
My heavy shadow's my squat company.

My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked,
but at least no chorus can ever sing it back.
That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders
no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders.
I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express,
the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash.

A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.

 

Joseph Brodsky

 Emo eshte fantastike eh! Jam perpjekur sa here ta perkthej, por nuk ia dal dot.

s'ke faj. e si ta perkthesh per shemull ate jehonen e fjales mouth tek "youth"

And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.

Ja nje nga poetet e mi me te dashur smiley

 

Emily Dickinson

465.

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -

The Stillness round my form

Was like the Stillnes in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -

 

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset - when the King

Be witnessed - in his power -

 

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable - and then it was

There interposed a Fly -

 

With Blue - uncertain stumbling Buzz -

Between the light - and me -

And then the Windows failed - and then

I could not see to see -

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

Shelley

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Kjo me pelqen shume

 

"What Do Women Want?"

I want a red dress.

I want it flimsy and cheap,

I want it too tight,

I want to wear it until someone tears it off me.

I want it sleeveless and backless,

this dress, so no one has to guess  

what's underneath.

I want to walk down

the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store

with all those keys glittering in the window,

past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old

donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers

slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,

hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.

I want to walk like I'm the only woman on earth and I can have my pick.

I want that red dress bad.

I want it to confirm

your worst fears about me,

to show you how little I care about you

or anything except what I want.

When I find it, I'll pull that garment  

from its hanger like I'm choosing a body

to carry me into this world, through

the birth-cries and the love-cries too,

and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,

it'll be the goddamned

dress they bury me in.

 

 

Kim Addonizio

kimmmmy....

I want tight red spandex jeans.>>

I want them dirty, ripped and cheap,>>

I want ‘em too tight,>>

For her to have to fight to tear ‘em off me.>>

I want them shorts not overalls ,>>

But tight, so no one has to guess  >>

what's with the balls.>>

I want to walk down>>

the street past VS's and the hairstylist's store>>

with g-strings quartets sounding off the window,>>

past Mr. and Mrs. Wong ironing life-long

wrinkles in their laundry, past the Guerra twins>>

slinging tennis skirts from the little red cabriolet,>>

hoisting the slick long blond blown hair over their shoulders.>>

I want to walk like I'm the only man on earth and I can have my pick.>>

I want them red spandex jeans bad.>>

I want them to incite>>

your worst fears about me,>>

to show you how little I care about you>>

or anything, carefree.>>

When I find them, I’ll sneak that garment  >>

Under my loose fit blue jeans, like I’m hiding a body>>

to carry me into this world, through>>

the store detectors, lie-detectos too,>>

and I'll wear them through the 80’s like bones, like skin,>>

they'll be the goddamned>>

spandex jeans they bury me in.>>

 

Spandex-stretching index

Duplex harboring vortex

Red is the space betwixt

Our pauses and that

Of a witch.

Twitch-twitch

I can read both the red dress and the red spandex jeans full of eightie's drama. Imagine, two androgynous versions of Kim battling it out in a music video, or poem video, wind blowing their hair, gorgeous.

Robert Burns - I Dream'd I Lay >>

> >

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me-
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me-
I bear a heart shall support me still.

Charles Simic

MOTHER TONGUE

That’s the one the butcher
Wraps in a newspaper
And throws on the rusty scale
Before you take it home

Where a black cat will leap
Off the cold stove
Licking its whiskers
At the sound of her name.

(from Jackstraws, 1999)

Anna Akhmatova.

I taught myself to live simply

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear

e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me

 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

 

By Sappho

The moon has sunk
and the Pleiades, and mid
night, and hours pass by,
and I'm lying down alone.

Lilichka!
by Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
(instead of a letter)
             
Tobacco smoke has consumed the air.
The room
is a chapter in Kruchenykh's inferno.
Remember -
beyond that window
in a frenzy
I first stroked your hands.
You sit here today
with an iron-clad heart.
One more day
you'll toss me out,
perhaps, cursing.
In the dim front hall my arm,
broken by trembling won't fit right away in my sleeve.
I'll run out,
throw my body into the street.
I'll rave,
wild,
lashed by despair.
Don't let it happen
my dear,
my darling,
let us part now.
After all
my love
is a heavy weight
hanging on you
no matter where you go.
Let me bellow a final cry
of bitter, wounded grievance.
If you drive a bull to exhaustion
he will run away,
lay himself down in the cold waters.
Besides your love
I have
no ocean
and your love won't grant even a tearful plea for rest.
When a tired elephant wants peace
he lies down regally in the firebound sand.
Besides your love
I have
no sun,
but I don't even know where you are and with whom.
If you tortured a poet like this,
he
would berate his beloved for money and fame,
but for me
no sound is joyous
but the sound of your beloved name.
I won't throw myself downstairs
or drink poison
nor can I put a gun to my head.
No blade
holds me transfixed
but your glance.
Tomorrow you'll forget
that I have crowned you,
that I burned my flowering soul with love,
and the whirling carnival of trivial days
will ruffle the pages of my books...
Would the dry leaves of my words
force you to a stop
gasping for air?

At least let me
pave with a parting endearment
your retreating path.

 

Williams Carlos Williams

 

 

This Is Just To Say         >>

> >

>>

I have eaten>>

the plums>>

that were in>>

the icebox>>

> >

and which>>

you were probably>>

saving>>

for breakfast>>

> >

Forgive me>>

they were delicious>>

so sweet>>

and so cold       >>

> >

> >

Landscape With The Fall of Icarus          >>

> >

>>

According to Brueghel>>

when Icarus fell>>

it was spring>>

> >

a farmer was ploughing>>

his field>>

the whole pageantry>>

> >

of the year was>>

awake tingling>>

near>>

> >

the edge of the sea>>

concerned >>

with itself>>

> >

sweating in the sun>>

that melted>>

the wings' wax>>

> >

unsignificantly>>

off the coast>>

there was>>

> >

a splash quite unnoticed>>

this was>>

Icarus drowning            >>

> >

 

The Red Wheelbarrow               >>

>>

> >

so much depends>>

upon>>

> >

a red wheel>>

barrow>>

> >

glazed with rain>>

water>>

> >

beside the white>>

chickens.          >>

> >

 

A love song

> >

What have I to say to you>>

When we shall meet?>>

Yet—>>

I lie here thinking of you.>>

> >

The stain of love>>

Is upon the world.>>

Yellow, yellow, yellow,>>

It eats into the leaves,>>

Smears with saffron>>

The horned branches that lean>>

Heavily>>

Against a smooth purple sky.>>

> >

There is no light—>>

Only a honey-thick stain>>

That drips from leaf to leaf>>

And limb to limb>>

Spoiling the colours>>

Of the whole world.>>

> >

I am alone.>>

The weight of love>>

Has buoyed me up>>

Till my head>>

Knocks against the sky.>>

> >

See me!>>

My hair is dripping with nectar—>>

Starlings carry it>>

On their black wings.>>

See, at last>>

My arms and my hands>>

Are lying idle.>>

> >

How can I tell>>

If I shall ever love you again>>

As I do now?   >>

 

Nuk e vura dot dje kete shokun se s'po me dilte me vargje te thyera, dilte si proze.

Clenched Soul

Pablo Neruda

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

David Lehman

When a Woman loves a Man

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

ash wednesday - tse

he-he-he edhe une po e pritsha ket, po nuk e disha cilen pjesë smiley

Ngaqë këto krahë nuk janë më krahë për fluturim
Por veç kanate për të rrahur ajrin.

kanate mbase fletë (si ato te ventilatir ne tavan psh, mjaftueshem per te shtyre avash - avash ajrin, por jo aq per tu ngrit ne fluturim). i veshtire perkthimi.

vans - ne fakt eshte arkaike per flatra.

por mua (qe jam perkthyese vetem per qejf) me shkon shume llafi "kanate" aty

mire. kanate qoftë smiley

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Thomas Hardy

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come. 

You love me not,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
-I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love me not. 

PS: Lul, sa do vija Frost, but you beat me to it smiley.

That's one of my fav Frost smiley.

Here is another:

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I've tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.

 

He's in the Subway too and this is from my memory:

 

The way a crow

let down on me

a dust of snow

from a hemlock tree

has given me

a change of mood

to save the rest

of a day I rued.

Ah. I memorized it too (perfectly). I have deliberately skipped my stop at times only because I needed more time to memorize them. If this is where my NYU tuition went I am a happy camper.

Nothing Gold can stay

Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold. 
Her early leaf's a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay

This was exactly yesterday and the day before in New York, when flowers fell, and leaves started.

 

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high - piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And feel that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

Keats

W H Auden

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

________

Nga "Four weddings and a funeral"

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

tall poplars -- human beings of this earth!// black pounds of happiness -- you mirror them to death! // I saw you, sister, stand in that effulgence.Landscape by Paul CelanPS: nu kerregullojme.

 

From the Great Lady herself:

Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Never Give All the Heart

WBY

NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;

For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.

And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

Pablo Neruda

If you forget me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

monda ske turp.

shef facebookun tim dhe sme ke thene gje.

ben sikur nuk ke facebook.

se une e kisha qit ket sot n'mjes pa dit gjo.

dhe jo per gjo, por e kisha qit te recitume nga Madonna smiley

i swear smiley

 i swear Smile

Per ke do zesh be ti, te ze be dhe une? 

smiley

PS: Wonderful poem, worth sharing smiley.

vajte kaq. e bere nje jete ne amerike, e prape shqiptare me koke me xhunga ngele.

O do me bo 'be' o ska.

Ja beeeeeeeeeeeeeee pra

ika ika se e kam tejkalu pllanin smiley

LOVE (III)
by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
        If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
        Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
        I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
        "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
        Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
        "My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
        So I did sit and eat.

hej popull ne delir..

boni pushim nja nji ore, se u bene shume... sa ti lexojme nji nga nji se u bone si figurat e  mozaikut ke muzeu kombtar

sa te grasatoj pak rrotën e mausit smiley

sa te grasatoj pak rrotën e mausit hahahha

--pop'lli me bulimi poetike

 

To the Harbormaster

By Frank O'Hara

I wanted to be sure to reach you
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Of The Ecstasy of Love

 

By Fiorino Collina

 

I want to touch you, can I?

God invented an infinite space:

I want to stretch my hands in it,

Screaming,

And reach you!

I want to cover you with me,

Charge a fire in your cunt:

The warmth of my cock.

I want to feel your skin,

Fall in your heart,

And with wings of desire,

Lit up by your eyes and your lips

I want to fly around your soul.

Hush! Hush!

Your voice is too material,

I don’t want to hear your voice.

It makes me think of your absence.

All I want is to scream,

Reap my throat out,

Hold it in trembling hands

And blow it in this space,

Blow it to the setting sun,

Blow it all over you,

You, breathing in.

I want no wisdom anymore,

No thought out words,

My sweet succubus,

my laugh, my pain.

I want you!

And for you,

I would trade a verse for a kiss,

a bite,

a lick,

a fuck.

Hush!

A belly raspberry.

 

-Translated Lulian Kodra

Sonnet XVII 

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
 

~ Pablo Neruda ~

sa romantik ti xhib. vetem pablon postoke. (nder te tjera)  smiley

Little angel>>

> >

Glorious innocent sunshine>>

On the baby lotus smile>>

Ivory hands try to catch>>

At his darling mother’s face>>

Little red velvet lips>>

Cooing songs from the future>>

Silky colourful daisy eyes>>

Giggling messages from the past>>

Turning bright every corner>>

Bringing gaiety to every soul>>

Universe in celebration>>

Little God magic casts.>>

 

Amal

Qe nje jo-Pablo dhe jo-rumantistike Xheri. smiley 

 

may i feel said he

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
 
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
 
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
 
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

 

^ e.e. cummings ^

"The Letters"

Leonard COHEN

You never liked to get
The letters that I sent.
But now you've got the gist
Of what my letters meant.

You're reading them again,
The ones you didn't burn.
You press them to your lips,
My pages of concern.

I said there'd been a flood.
I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
I gave you my address.

Your story was so long,
The plot was so intense,
It took you years to cross
The lines of self-defense.

The wounded forms appear:
The loss, the full extent;
And simple kindness here,
The solitude of strength.

You walk into my room.
You stand there at my desk,
Begin your letter to
The one who's coming next.

Good call Xheri. Cohen eshte padyshim maestro edhe i vargjeve edhe i muzikes, sidomos ne domain-in e poezive dhe kengeve rumantike me nje doze dhimbje.

Do kete bere namin me femra kur ka qene i ri, mgjths para ca kohesh ndenjti nja 5 vjet ne nje manastir budist. lol

 

Alexandra Leaving*

Suddenly the night has grown colder.
Some deity preparing to depart.
Alexandra hoisted on his shoulder,
they slip between the sentries of your heart.

Upheld by the simplicities of pleasure,
they gain the light, they formlessly entwine;
and radiant beyond your widest measure
they fall among the voices and the wine.

lt's not a trick, your senses all deceiving,
a fitful dream the morning will exhaust-
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving,
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin.
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined,
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for this to happen,
Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing.
Your first commitments tangible again.

You who had the honor of her evening,
And by that honor had your own restored-
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Alexandra leaving with her lord.

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked-
Do not choose a coward's explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect,

You who were bewildered by a meaning,
whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed-
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.
 

*Cohen i ka shkruar keto vargje bazuar ne nje poezi te Konstantinos Kavafis.

 

Recitimet e vargjeve te veta i ka fantastike gjithashtu. Qe recitimi i "A thousand kissed deep". Eshte nga nje koncert live keshtu qe ka pak zhurme nga spektatoret.

Heart, we will forget him,
You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done pray tell me,
Then I, my thoughts, will dim.
Haste! ‘lest while you’re lagging
I may remember him!

 

De profundis

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The face, which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

II

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with ' Good day'
Make each day good, is hushed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

III

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

IV

And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,
While the tears drop, my days go on.

V

The world goes whispering to its own,
‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’
And tender friends go sighing round,
‘What love can ever cure this wound ?'
My days go on, my days go on.

VI

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss,
And life that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.

VII

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.

VIII

I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!
Is there no help, no comfort, —none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.

IX

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June:
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

X

No bird am I, to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures, —
And yet my days go on, go on.

XI

I ask less kindness to be done, —
Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deadly touch to these tired feet.
Till days go out which now go on.

XII

Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on.’

XIII

What harm would that do? Green anon
The sward would quicken, overshone
By skies as blue; and crickets might
Have leave to chirp there day and night
While my new rest went on, went on.

XIV

From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? may I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?

XV

—A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

XVI

God's Voice, not Nature's! Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring He, whose days go on.

XVII

He reigns above, He reigns alone;
Systems burn out and have his throne;
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amid all,
Ancient of Days, whose days go on.

XVIII

He reigns below, He reigns alone,
And, having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with Him, while days go on?

XIX

By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear Him charge his saints that none
Among his creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against Him with despair,
However darkly days go on.

XX

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee
Whose days eternally go on!

XXI

For us, —whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done,
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.

XXII

Whatever's lost, it first was won;
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here,
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise Thee while my days go on.

XXIII

I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on:
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank Thee while my days go on.

XXIV

And having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops his pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling—so I. THY DAYS GO ON.
 

Ecstasy 

I am in front of this feminine land
Like a child in front of the fire
Smiling vaguely with tears in my eyes
In front of this land where all moves in me
Where mirrors mist where mirrors clear
Reflecting two nude bodies season on season

I’ve so many reasons to lose myself
On this road-less earth under horizon-less skies
Good reasons I ignored yesterday
And I’ll never ever forget
Good keys of gazes keys their own daughters
in front of this land where nature is mine

In front of the fire the first fire
Good mistress reason
Identified star
On earth under sky in and out of my heart
Second bud first green leaf
That the sea covers with sails
And the sun finally coming to us

I am in front of this feminine land
Like a branch in the fire.

- Paul Eluard -

___________________

Ana, jo aq te gjata pliz se na u be telef miu. smiley

Xheri, frojdoanalizoje kete po deshe: Pse i kane dhene nota negative kesaj teme sot, dhe a ka te beje me ty apo jo, e nese po a ka te beje me artikllin tend te djeshem frojd-neurotik. lol

Falenderojme te gjithe kontributoret per anglisht-poezite. Pershendesim gjithashtu peshken e re, peshqit e vjeter, si dhe ndonje tjeter.

mire, xhibi, ja nje me te shkurter: smiley

Edgar Allan Poe

A  Dream

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?>
>

Shpirt i trazuar / Troubled Soul

Somebody show me
A place I can go where love's around

A trip to the ocean
I just need to get far from town

There's no way around this
Troubled soul

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DfzZ7T2Loao

_____________________

Wanted: Poezi dhe/ose kenge me/per te njejtin titull, dedikuar nje shpirti te trazuar (shqip ose anglisht).

E kam seriozisht e, mos e merrni me te tallur. Une vec kete kenge dija qe kishte vargje te tilla. smiley

Nqs behet ndonje koleksion interestorant mbase e qit Finija si teme me vete? :think:   

P.S. Fundja, trecereku ketu jane mjaft te trazuar, one way or another, keshtu qe s'del huq. smiley

P.P.S. Pse s'del ikona mendueshmenjake? Ketu ka tradhti!

Animula! vagula, Blandula,

Hospes, comesque corporis,

Quae nunc abibis in Loca

Pallidula, rigida, nudula,

Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?

TRANSLATION.

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite,

Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,

Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?

No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

---

Lord Byron: Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying

Ajo latinishtja, ta tkurr mishin neper kocka.

Poem 17 ("I perceived the outline of your breasts ...&quotsmiley from "The Energy of Slaves"

I perceived the outline of your breasts
through your Hallowe'en costume
I knew you were falling in love with me
because no other man could perceive
the advance of your bosom into his imagination
It was a rupture of your unusual modesty
for me and me alone
through which you impressed upon my shapeless hunger
the incomparable and final outline of your breasts
like two deep fossil shells
which remained all night long and probably forever

 

Leonard Cohen

To One Dead 

A blackbird singing
On a moss-upholstered stone,
Bluebells swinging,
Shadows wildly blown,
A ship on the sea.
The song was for you
And the ship was for me.

A blackbird singing
I hear in my troubled mind,
Bluebells swinging
I see in a distant wind.
But sorrow and silence
Are the wood’s threnody,
The silence for you
And the sorrow for me.

~ Francis Ledwidge ~

The lesson

-Maya Angelou-

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live

Me too! mgjth. e kam zbulu vone. smiley

Still I Rise

  You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

The third person - Sharron Hass

 The angel's laugh doesn't light his eyes
His body spreads its robes on the shores of night
A lit face menaces out of its depths.
Don't look, don't look, don't you know
God's kiss is like a knife?
See here: a third person sits between us.
We pour wine and he drinks
We make love and he remembers
We are puzzled and he solves the riddle
What have we seen in the mists of the mirror
that brought us together like two
Flames to burn the face that shakes with laughter?

Some Maya (Pershendetje Anush)

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

______________________

When you come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.

_____________________

I know why the caged bird sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom. 

Rrofsh, e dashur. smiley

Tash, me fal qe po dal pak nga tema smiley po mua poezia e meposhtme me shijonte me teper ne italisht.

Pablo Neruda

Sei tutta spume...


Sei tutta spume agili e leggere
e i baci ti percorrono e t’irrigano i giorni.
Il mio gesto, la mia ansietà, pendono dal tuo sguardo.
Vaso di risonanze e di stelle prigioniere.
Son stanco, tutte le foglie cadono, muoiono.
Cadono, muoiono gli uccelli. Cadono, muoiono le vite.
Stanco, son stanco. Vieni, desiderami, fammi vibrare.
Oh, mia povera illusione, mia accesa ghirlanda!
L’ansia cade, muore. Cade, muore il desiderio.
Cadono, muoiono le fiamme nella notte infinita.

Fiammata di luci, colomba di crete bionde,
liberami da questa notte che incalza e distrugge.

Sommergimi nel tuo nido di vertigine e di carezza.
Desiderami, trattienimi.
L’ebbrezza all’ombra fiorita dei tuoi occhi,
le cadute, i trionfi, gli sbalzi della febbre.
Amami, amami, amami.
In piedi ti grido! Amami.
Infrango la mia voce gridandoti e faccio ore di fuoco
nella notte pregna di stelle e di levrieri.
Infrango la mia voce e grido. Donna, amami, desiderami.
La mia voce arde nei venti, la mia voce che cade e muore.

Stanco. Son stanco. Fuggi. Allontanati. Estinguiti.
Non imprigionare la mia sterile testa tra le tue mani.
Mi segnino la fronte le fruste del gelo.
La mia inquietudine si sferzi con i venti dell’Atlantico.
Fuggi. Allontanati. Estinguiti. La mia anima deve star sola.
Deve crocifiggersi, sbriciolarsi, rotolare,
versarsi, contaminarsi sola,
aperta alla marea dei pianti,
ardendo nel ciclone delle furie,
eretta tra i monti e tra gli uccelli,
distruggersi, sterminarsi sola,
abbandonata e unica come un faro di spavento.

Ka nevoje per rifreskime kjo teme smiley

Do Not Believe

Do not believe, my dearest, when I say
That I no longer love you.
When the tide ebbs do not believe the sea -
It will return anew.

Already I long for you, and passion fills me,
I yield my freedom thus to you once more.
Already the waves return with shouts and glee
To fill again that same beloved shore.

~ Alexey Konstantinovich Tolstoy ~

 

P.S. Kjo qe sa per t'ju zgjuar, po mesa shosh paskeni pire ndonje ilac te forte. smiley

xhib flm per ate me siper dhe per rifreskimin.

RAIN

As the rain falls
so does
           your love

bathe every
                  open
object of the world--

In houses
the priceless dry
                         rooms

of illicit love
where we live
hear the wash of the
                                rain--

There
          paintings
and fine
             metalware
woven stuffs--
all the whorishness
of our
           delight
sees
from its window

the spring wash
of your love
                      the falling
rain--

The trees
are become
beasts fresh-risen
from the sea--
water

trickles
from the crevices of
their hides--

So my life is spent
                              to keep out love
with which
she rains upon

                         the world

of spring

                    drips

so spreads

                     the words

far apart to let in

                           her love

And running in between

the drops

                   the rain

is a kind physician

                              the rain
of her thoughts over

the ocean
                     every

where

           walking with
invisible swift feet
over

         the helpless
                            waves--

Unworldly love
that has no hope
                            of the world

                            and that
cannot change the world
to its delight--

           The rain
falls upon the earth
and grass and flowers

come
          perfectly

into form from its
                           liquid

clearness

                But love is
unworldly

                and nothing
comes of it but love

following
and falling endlessly
from
          her thoughts

William Carlos Williams

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More About People - Ogden Nash>>

> >

When people aren't asking questions
They're making suggestions
And when they're not doing one of those
They're either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes
And then as if that weren't enough to annoy you
They employ you.
Anybody at leisure
Incurs everybody's displeasure.
It seems to be very irking
To people at work to see other people not working,
So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine,
Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison,
And they lecture you till they're out of breath or something
And then if you don't succumb they starve you to death or something.
All of which results in a nasty quirk:
That if you don't want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won't have to work.>>

hahahha, some more nash:

To My Valentine
 
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oathes,
That's how you're loved by me.

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The Terrible People>>

> >

by t="on">lace wsmileyt="on">Ogdenlace> Nash>>

> >

People who have what they want are very fond of telling people who haven't what they want that they really don't want it,>>

And I wish I could afford to gather all such people into a gloomy castle on the lace wsmileyt="on">Danubelace> and hire half a dozen capable Draculas to haunt it.>>

I dont' mind their having a lot of money, and I don't care how they employ it,>>

But I do think that they damn well ought to admit they enjoy it.>>

But no, they insist on being stealthy>>

About the pleasures of being wealthy,>>

And the possession of a handsome annuity>>

Makes them think that to say how hard it is to make both ends meet is their bounden duity.>>

You cannot conceive of an occasion>>

Which will find them without some suitable evasion.>>

Yes indeed, with argumetsn they are very fecund;>>

Their first point is that money isn't everything, and that they have no money anyhow is their second.>>

Some people's money is merited,>>

And other people's is inherited,>>

But wherever it comes from,>>

They talk about it as if it were something you got pink gums from.>>

Perhaps indeed the possession of wealth is constantly distressing,>>

But I should be quite willing to assume every curse of wealth if I could at the same time assume every blessing.>>

The only incurable troubles of the rich are the troubles that money can't cure,>>

Which is a kind of trouble that is even more troublesome if you are poor.>>

Certainly there are lots of things in life that money won't buy, but it's very funny -->>

Have you ever tried to buy them without money?>>

You’re Beautiful

because you’re classically trained.
I’m ugly because I associate piano wire with strangulation.

You’re beautiful because you stop to read the cards in
   newsagents’ windows about lost cats and missing dogs.
I’m ugly because of what I did to that jellyfish with a lolly
   stick and a big stone.

You’re beautiful because for you, politeness is instinctive, not
   a marketing campaign.
I’m ugly because desperation is impossible to hide.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you believe in coincidence and the
   power of thought.
I’m ugly because I proved God to be a mathematical
   impossibility.

You’re beautiful because you prefer home-made soup to the
   packet stuff.
I’m ugly because once, at a dinner party, I defended the
   aristocracy and wasn’t even drunk.

You’re beautiful because you can’t work the remote control.
I’m ugly because of satellite television and twenty-four-hour
   rolling news.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you cry at weddings as well as
   funerals.
I’m ugly because I think of children as another species from
   a different world.

You’re beautiful because you look great in any colour
   including red.
I’m ugly because I think shopping is strictly for the
   acquisition of material goods.

You’re beautiful because when you were born, undiscovered
   planets lined up to peep over the rim of your cradle and lay
   gifts of gravity and light at your miniature feet.
I’m ugly for saying “love at first sight” is another form of
   mistaken identity, and that the most human of all responses
   is to gloat.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you’ve never seen the inside of a
   car-wash.
I’m ugly because I always ask for a receipt.

You’re beautiful for sending a box of shoes to the third
   world.
I’m ugly because I remember the telephone numbers of
   ex-girlfriends and the year Schubert was born.

You’re beautiful because you sponsored a parrot in a zoo.
I’m ugly because when I sigh it’s like the slow collapse of a
   circus tent.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you can point at a man in a uniform
   and laugh.
I’m ugly because I was a police informer in a previous life.

You’re beautiful because you drink a litre of water and eat
   three pieces of fruit a day.
I’m ugly for taking the line that a meal without meat is a
   beautiful woman with one eye.

You’re beautiful because you don’t see love as a competition
   and you know how to lose.
I’m ugly because I kissed the FA Cup then held it up to the
   crowd.

You’re beautiful because of a single buttercup in the top
   buttonhole of your cardigan.
I’m ugly because I said the World’s Strongest Woman was a
   muscleman in a dress.

You’re beautiful because you couldn’t live in a lighthouse.
I’m ugly for making hand-shadows in front of the giant bulb,
   so when they look up, the captains of vessels in distress see
   the ears of a rabbit, or the eye of a fox, or the legs of a
   galloping black horse.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

      Ugly like he is,
      Beautiful like hers,
      Beautiful like Venus,
      Ugly like his,
      Beautiful like she is,
      Ugly like Mars.

Simon Armitage

 

smiley

The Purist 

I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

Ama PiterPan ke faj qe e hoqe vemendjen nga Shiu, nje poezi qe une e dua shume shume! smiley

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

~ Shel Silverstein ~

 

Meqe kerkove shi. smiley

Nganjehere silliness (si mund te perkthehet ne shqip?) eshte rifreskim me vete, po ok, s'do sjellem shume te tilla.

E.E.CUMMINGS - I CARRY YOUR HEART WITH ME

I carry your heart with me
(I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it
(anywhere I go you go, my dear;
and whatever is done by only me
is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate
(for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (
for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

Erich Fried

 

Not nothing without you but not the same.

 

Not nothing without you but perhaps less.

 

Not nothing but less and less

 

Perhaps not nothing without you but not much more..

N kenaqet me keta bejtexhinjte e anglishtes, ndonje poeme qe ska te bej me erosin gjetet, apo do gjeni...

Emily Dickinson

 

How happy is the little stone
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

City That Does Not Sleep    
by Federico García Lorca
translated by Robert Bly 

 
In the sky there is nobody asleep.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
            street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
            stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream.  Careful!  Careful!  Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
            dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists.  Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
            eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful!  Be careful!  Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
            of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
            are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky.  Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world.  No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
            night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Good People

by W. S. Merwin

From the kindness of my parents  
I suppose it was that I held  
that belief about suffering  

imagining that if only  
it could come to the attention  
of any person with normal  
feelings certainly anyone  
literate who might have gone  

to college they would comprehend  
pain when it went on before them  
and would do something about it  
whenever they saw it happen  
in the time of pain the present  
they would try to stop the bleeding  
for example with their own hands  

but it escapes their attention  
or there may be reasons for it  
the victims under the blankets  
the meat counters the maimed children  
the animals the animals  
staring from the end of the world

Beauty 

R. Tagore

Beauty is truth's smile
when she beholds her own face in
a perfect mirror.

Beauty is truth's smile
when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror.

Beauty is in the ideal of perfect harmony
which is in the universal being;
truth the perfect comprehension of the universal mind.

 

The Way to the River

by W. S. Merwin

The way to the river leads past the names of  
Ash the sleeves the wreaths of hinges  
Through the song of the bandage vendor

I lay your name by my voice  
As I go

The way to the river leads past the late
Doors and the games of the children born looking backwards  
They play that they are broken glass
The numbers wait in the halls and the clouds
Call
From windows
They play that they are old they are putting the horizon  
Into baskets they are escaping they are
Hiding

I step over the sleepers the fires the calendars  
My voice turns to you

I go past the juggler’s condemned building the hollow  
Windows gallery
Of invisible presidents the same motion in them all  
In a parked cab by the sealed wall the hats are playing  
Sort of poker with somebody’s

Old snapshots game I don’t understand they lose  
The rivers one
After the other I begin to know where I am  
I am home

Be here the flies from the house of the mapmaker  
Walk on our letters I can tell
And the days hang medals between us
I have lit our room with a glove of yours be  
Here I turn
To your name and the hour remembers
Its one word
Now

Be here what can we
Do for the dead the footsteps full of money  
I offer you what I have my
Poverty

To the city of wires I have brought home a handful
Of water I walk slowly
In front of me they are building the empty
Ages I see them reflected not for long
Be here I am no longer ashamed of time it is too brief its hands  
Have no names
I have passed it I know

         Oh Necessity you with the face you with  
         All the faces

This is written on the back of everything

But we
Will read it together

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r

e. e. cummings

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint(o-
aThe):l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;

e. e. cummings

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

millie befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles; and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It   rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Per Av, a thank you note smiley

Theodore Roethke - The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Roethke - I knew a woman

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

deep, strong, melodic. thanks girl.

po, rruga mesohet rruges.

sa i ri paska shkuar. great poet.

naten e mire.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow

Sunlight

by Ko Un (1933 - )

It's absolutely inevitable!
So just take a deep breath
and accept this adversity.
But look!
A distinguished visitor deigns to visit
my tiny north-facing cell.
Not the chief making his rounds, no,
but a ray of sunlight as evening falls,
a gleam no bigger than a screwed-up stamp.
A sweetheart fit to go crazy about.
It settles there on the palm of a hand,
warms the toes of a shyly bared foot.
Then as I kneel and, undevoutly,
offer it a dry, parched face to kiss,
in a moment that scrap of sunlight slips away.
After the guest has departed through the bars,
the room feels several times colder and darker.
This military prison special cell
is a photographer's darkroom.
Without any sunlight I laughed like a fool.
One day it was a coffin holding a corpse.
One day it was altogether the sea.
A wonderful thing!
A few people survive here.
Being alive is a sea
without a single sail in sight.

"You can do as much as you think you can,
   But you'll never accomplish more;
 If you're afraid of yourself, young man,
   There's little for you in store.
 For failure comes from the inside first,
   It's there if we only knew it,
 And you can win, though you face the worst,
   If you feel that you're going to do it."
                      —EDGAR A. GUEST. *

Life was not a clock,

why did we always measure

and cramp our days?

 

Why the chain and why

the lock,

and why the chainsman tread,

 

marking acres and stony squares

out of the green

we're given?

 

To see in a forest

so much lumber to mill,

so many ricks to burn;

 

water into kilowatts

soil into dust

and flash into butcher cuts-

 

as we ourselves are

numbered, so many factors

filed in a slot.

 

Say after me:

 

The key that winds the clock

turns a lock

into the prison of days...

 

John Haines.

smiley it's so damned true.

The Swan

This difficult living, heavy and as if all tied up,
moving through that which has been left undone,
is like the not-quite-finished walk of the swan.

And dying, this slipping away from
the ground upon which we stand every day,
is his anxious letting himself fall—:

into the waters, which receive him gladly
and which, as if happily already gone by,
draw back under him, wave after wave;
while the swan, infinitely calm and self-assured,
opener and more magnificent
and more serene, allows himself to be drawn on.

 

Death Experience

We know nothing of this going away, that
shares nothing with us. We have no reason,
whether astonishment and love or hate,
to display Death, whom a fantastic mask

of tragic lament astonishingly disfigures.
Now the world is still full of roles which we play
as long as we make sure, that, like it or not,
Death plays, too, although he does not please us.

But when you left, a strip of reality broke
upon the stage through the very opening
through which you vanished: Green, true green,
true sunshine, true forest.

We continue our play. Picking up gestures
now and then, and anxiously reciting
that which was difficult to learn; but your far away,
removed out of our performance existence,

sometimes overcomes us, as an awareness
descending upon us of this very reality,
so that for a while we play Life
rapturously, not thinking of any applause.

 

A Woman in Love

That is my window. I
just awoke so gently.
I thought, I'm floating.
How far does my life reach,
and where does the night begin?

I could think that everything
around me is me;
like the transparent depth of a crystal,
darkened and mute.

I think I could bring the stars
inside of me, so large
does my heart seem; so very much
does it want to let go of him

whom I have perhaps begun
to love, perhaps to hold.
So strange, so uncharted
does my fate appear.

Who am I who lies here
under this endless sky,
as the sweet scent of a meadow,
moving back and forth,

at once calling out and anxious,
that someone might hear my call,
destined to vanish
in another.

~R.M.Rilke~

 

ajkuna, thank you, thank you, thank you.

A Woman in Love

That is my window. I
just awoke so gently.
I thought, I'm floating.
How far does my life reach,
and where does the night begin?

I could think that everything
around me is me;
like the transparent depth of a crystal,
darkened and mute.

I think I could bring the stars
inside of me, so large
does my heart seem; so very much
does it want to let go of him

whom I have perhaps begun
to love, perhaps to hold
.
So strange, so uncharted
does my fate appear.

Who am I who lies here
under this endless sky,
as the sweet scent of a meadow,
moving back and forth
,

at once calling out and anxious,
that someone might hear my call,
destined to vanish
in another
.

 

One of the best love poems. Strange it was written by a man. Thanks Ajkuna.

Happiness

Stephen Dunn

A state you must dare not enter
with hopes of staying,
quicksand in the marshes, and all

the roads leading to a castle
that doesn't exist.
But there it is, as promised,

with its perfect bridge above
the crocodiles,
and its doors forever open.

 

O Death, that is the Cooling Night By Heinrich Heine

 

O Death, that is the cooling night,
And Life, that is the sultry day.
It's darkening, I'm sleepy,
The day, it has made me tired.

Over my bed arises a tree,
Where sings the youthful nightingale;
She sings of love so boldly,
I dream, yet it reaches me.

The Electoral Asses
by Heine on Politics

 

They'd had enough of freedom now,
The republic of animals clamored
For one single regent with absolute rule,
Of this they were enamored.

Every species assembled itself,
Proceeded with fevered devotion,
Parties were organized, ballots drawn up,
Intrigues were set into motion.

The steering committee for asses was
By the Old-Long-Ears directed,
They had upon each of their heads a cockade,
The Schwarz-Rot-Gold, affected.

A little horse's-party there was,
Yet they did not dare be voting,
They feared the cry of the Old-Long-Ears,
The thought filled them all with foreboding.

As one, however, the candidacy
Of the horses put forth, a bit later,
An Old-Long-Ears in a fury broke in
And cried: Sir, you are a traitor!

You are a traitor! There's not one drop
Of donkey-blood in you, really,
You are no donkey, I almost believe
You were foaled by a Latin filly.

You come from a strain of zebra, perhaps,
Your skin is striped zebräic,
And also the nasal tone of your voice
Sounds somewhat Egyptic-Hebräic.

And were you no foreigner, you would be just
A secular donkey, a cold one,
You don't know the depths of the donkey mystique,
How the tones of its psalter enfold one.

But I have immersed my soul in that
Sweet mystery that surpasses,
I am an ass, and upon my tail
Is every hair an ass's.

I 'm no little Roman, I am no Slav,
I'm a German ass forever,
Just like my fathers, they were so upright,
So unassuming, so clever.

... (vazhdon)

 

Breadfruit

Philip Larkin

 

Boys dream of native girls who bring breadfruit,
Whatever they are,
As bribes to teach them how to execute
Sixteen sexual positions on the sand;
This makes them join (the boys) the tennis club,
Jive at the Mecca, use deodorants, and
On Saturdays squire ex-schoolgirls to the pub
By private car.

Such uncorrected visions end in church
Or registrar:
A mortgaged semi- with a silver birch;
Nippers; the widowed mum; having to scheme
With money; illness; age. So absolute
Maturity falls, when old men sit and dream
Of naked native girls who bring breadfruit,
Whatever they are.

 

meqe po lexoja Trakl-in ne shqip, ja dhe nje ne inglisht sipas vaftit smiley

 

Evening Walk

I go into the evening,
The wind jogs along and sings:
You are bewitched by every light,
O feel, what struggles with you!

A dead woman’s voice that I loved
Speaks: poor is the fools’ heart!
Forget, forget what clouds the soul!
The becoming shall be your pain!

First Lesson

Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

 

                ~        ~        ~

 

Sorting It Out 

At the table she used to sew at,
he uses his brass desk scissors
to cut up his shirt.
                            Not that the shirt
was that far gone: one ragged cuff,
one elbow through;
                              but here he is,
cutting away the collar
she long since turned.
                                 What gets to him finally,
using his scissors like a bright claw,
is prying buttons off:
                               after they've leapt,
spinning the floor, he bends
to retrieve both sizes:
                                he intends to
save them in some small box; he knows
he has reason to save; if only he knew
where a small box
                            used to be kept.

 

                                       ~        ~        ~

 

 - Philip Booth -

ELECTROCUTING AN ELEPHANT

By George Bradley

Her handlers, dressed in vests and flannel pants,
   Step forward in the weak winter light   
Leading a behemoth among elephants,   
Topsy, to another exhibition site;
   Caparisoned with leather bridle,   
Six impassive tons of carnival delight   
Shambles on among spectators who sidle
   Nervously off, for the brute has killed   
At least three men, most recently an idle   
Hanger-on at shows, who, given to distilled
   Diversions, fed her a live cigar.
Since become a beast of burden, Topsy thrilled
The crowds in her palmy days, and soon will star   
   Once more, in an electrocution,   
Which incident, though it someday seem bizarre,
Is now a new idea in execution.

Topsy has been fed an unaccustomed treat,   
   A few carrots laced with cyanide,
And copper plates have been fastened to her feet,   
Wired to cables running off on either side;
   She stamps two times in irritation,
Then waits, for elephants, having a thick hide,   
Know how to be patient. The situation
   Seems dreamlike, till someone throws a switch,   
And the huge body shakes for the duration   
Of five or six unending seconds, in which
   Smoke rises and Topsy’s trunk contracts
And twelve thousand mammoth pounds finally pitch   
To earth, as the current breaks and all relax.
   It is a scene shot with shades of grey—
The smoke, the animal, the reported facts—
On a seasonably grey and gloomy day.

Would you care to see any of that again?
   See it as many times as you please,   
For an electrician, Thomas Edison,
Has had a bright idea we call the movies,
   And called on for monitory spark,
Has preserved it all in framed transparencies   
That are clear as day, for all the day is dark.
   You might be amused on second glance
To note the background—it’s an amusement park!—
A site on Coney Island where elephants
   Are being used in the construction,
And where Topsy, through a keeper’s negligence,   
Got loose, causing some property destruction,
   And so is shown to posterity,
A study in images and conduction,   
Sunday, January 4th, 1903.

We stepped together in the river
We traded fever on turmoil
Last time I saw you was in the middle
I wonder if you hit the soil

Where are you now my companjera?
Your baby claw stuck in my chest
Where are you now my sonidera?
Who took you from the nest?
Where are you now my companjera?
I'm beating bricks from town to town
Where are you know my sonidera?
I'm at my final down
down...

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks.

I keep my paintbrush with me,
Wherever I may go,
In case I need to cover up,
So the real me doesn't show.

I'm so afraid to show me to you,
Afraid of what you'll do,
That you might laugh or say mean things,
I'm afraid I might lose you.
I'd like to remove all of my paint coats,
To show you the real, true me,
But I want you to try and understand,
I need you to accept what you see.

Now my coats are all stripped off,
I feel naked, bare and cold,
And if you still love me with all that you see,
You're my friend pure as gold.

I need to keep my paintbrush with me,
And hold it in my hand.
I want to keep it handy,
In case somebody doesn't understand.
So please protect me, my dear friend
And thanks for loving me true.
But I need to keep my paintbrush with me,
Until I love me too.

Author unknown

Can I touch you in those special places?
That gets you so high, so aroused, so excited,
Carousingly caressing tender sensual needs,
As you vibrate in me that special note of love.

Can I touch you so soft you cry in happiness?
That you whimper in cooing loving satisfaction
Chilling your soul on scrumptious hot flashes
That takes you higher, higher wanting much more.

Can I touch your heart upon lovemaking words?
That devours your delicacies of sweet treats,
While you hunger for me in that erotic look
That takes all of me, creating a special dessert.

Can I touch your feminine soul as a treasure?
A glorious gem to be polished in friction, making
It sparkle so, from glowing sweating sunshine
Going over every contour of crown-jeweled pleasure.

Can I touch you? Can I hold you? Can I want you?
Can I marry you over, over again in a honeymoon?
Can I touch you forever in that vow of intoxication?
Can we touch each other forever in a committed relationship?
Where even as grandparents, we can create earthquakes
That make children blush, hearing “Mom, Dad! Act your age!”
While smiling inside about, what love is really about,
Touching tender caressing emotions of each other.

David L.Young ©

I can't see how you saw that I'd see marriage as a prelude to body-oscillating "touching" smiley

Well he would like too , I doubt  , but unfortunately he don't own it  smiley , I think we all can somehow . Can't we ?? smiley

Thoughts spoken aloud smiley
 

despite our private life smiley

t'paska shku mendja per pak peshkcyberlirike para gjumit mer qerrata? smiley 

Mendimet qe flasin me ze te larte smiley

pavarasisht se nuk jane tonat  ne kete teme, askush nga ne nuk menjanohet , sepse ka vend per te gjithe smiley

Kur e verteta del ne shesh smiley

Urlando just j/k  smiley

per syrin e keq s'bere keq , po per syrin e mire s'ja ke arrire smiley

Belul, te jete rastesi qe ti e di qe Pandi paska qene into kinks me lidhje zinxhirash and such? smiley

Ketyre marifete eshte pak veshtire ti besh dhe poezi...

can tuna, or can salmon. better then can soup if you must can.

ashtu duket... gjersa edhe te ky versioni me instrumenta,  fjalen e pare e ka violina  melankolike..

Speaking of germime temash te vjetra, nga behet jerusalemi, pikerisht ne keto kohe kur atdheut i lipsen me shume poezi?

THE FLEA.
by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to that self-murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

Wodwo

by Ted Hughes

 

What am I? Nosing here, turning leaves over
Following a faint stain on the air to the river’s edge
I enter water. Who am I to split
The glassy grain of water looking upward I see the bed
Of the river above me upside down very clear
What am I doing here in mid-air? Why do I find
this frog so interesting as I inspect its most secret
interior and make it my own? Do these weeds
know me and name me to each other have they
seen me before do I fit in their world? I seem
separate from the ground and not rooted but dropped
out of nothing casually I’ve no threads
fastening me to anything I can go anywhere
I seem to have been given the freedom
of this place what am I then? And picking
bits of bark off this rotten stump gives me
no pleasure and it’s no use so why do I do it
me and doing that have coincided very queerly
But what shall I be called am I the first
have I an owner what shape am I what
shape am I am I huge if I go
to the end on this way past these trees and past these trees
till I get tired that’s touching one wall of me
for the moment if I sit still how everything
stops to watch me I suppose I am the exact centre
but there’s all this what is it roots
roots roots roots and here’s the water
again very queer but I’ll go on looking.

Për të komentuar tek Peshku pa ujë, ju duhet të identifikoheni ose të regjistroheni (regjistrimi është falas).