Poemas en ingles

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Pamela Alexander -Inside story at the asylum-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Inside story at the asylum Pamela Alex ander (EEUU, 1948- ) Come for tea,chickadee in the evergreen; clear green tea.How long. Oolong.Music on the porch.Foxtrots on the lawn. The stems of the mintare as square as the steps. Come.Comfortable. A white cloth.Cream tea, sugar tea, round. Steepsteep tea and light brown light.Earl grey watercolors, glazedclay urn.The azaleas are lovely. Whybe one? People do that, put colors on. Why bejasmine tea drinking.Among the bittersweet bushespeople keep talking and drinking.I watch the easiest one.Someone at ease is at home, his house isanywhere a capital letter made fromthe air about him. An initial,what is the rest.The house of air vibrates in the sun: his voiceunfolds, a bird unperching.Things keep going away.We two make a system, water and land.A shore is an assurance, it moves a bit but it stays.I see you, his look says, openas the air that holds us both. Some wateris ice; people do that too, go cold and hard.Everything does. Transparen...
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John Ashbery -Some trees-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Some treesJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- ) These are amazing: eachJoining a neighbor, as though speechWere a still performance.Arranging by chance To meet as far this morningFrom the world as agreeingWith it, you and IAre suddenly what the trees try To tell us we are:That their merely being thereMeans something; that soonWe may touch, love, explain. And glad not to have inventedSome comeliness, we are surrounded:A silence already filled with noises,A canvas on which emerges A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.Place in a puzzling light, and moving,Our days put on such reticenceThese accents seem their own defense. Algunos árboles Éstos son sorprendentes: cada unoapareado a un vecino, como si el discursofuera una inmóvil representación.Poniéndonos de acuerdo, por azar, en encontrarnos hoy por la mañana, tan distantesdel mundo como en concordanciacon él, vos y yosomos de repente lo que tratan los árboles de decirnos que somos:que su simple presenciatiene un significado: que muy p...
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John Ashbery -What is poetry-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
What is poetry John Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- ) The medieval town, with friezeOf boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow That came when we wanted it to snow?Beautiful images? Trying to avoid Ideas, as in this poem? But weGo back to them as to a wife, leaving The mistress we desire? Now theywill have to believe it As we believe it. In schoolAll the thought got combed out: What was left was like a field.Shut your eyes and you can feel it for miles around. Now open them on a thin vertical path.It might give us -- what? -- some flowers soon? ¿Qué es poesía? ¿El pueblo medieval, con frisosde boyscouts de Nagoya? ¿La nieve que viene cuando deseamos que nieve?¿Bellas imágenes? ¿Tratar de evitar las ideas como en este poema? ¿mas,regresamos a ellas como a una esposa, dejando a la amante que deseamos? Ahoratendrán que creerlo como lo creímos nosotros. En la escuelatodo pensamiento fue peinado: lo que quedó es un páramo.Cierra tus ojos, podrás sentirlo millas a la redonda. Ábrelos ahora...
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Conrad Aiken -Two coffees in the Español-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Two coffees in the Espa ñol Conrad (Potter) Aiken (1889-1978) Two coffees in the Español, the lastBright drops of golden Barsac in a goblet,Fig paste and candied nuts? Hardy is dead,And James and Conrad dead, and Shakspere dead,And old Moore ripens for an obscene grave,And Yeats for an arid one; and I, and you --What winding sheet for us, what boards and bricks,What mummeries, candles, prayers and pious frauds?You shall be lapped in Syrian scarlet, woman,And wear your pearls, and your bright bracelets, too,Your agate ring, and round your neck shall hangYour dark blue lapis with its specks of gold.And I, beside you -- ah! But will that be?For there are dark streams in this dark world, lady,Gulf Streams and Arctic currrents of the soul;And I may be, before our consummationBeds us together, cheek by jowl, in earth,Swept to another shore, where my white bonesWil lie unhonored, or defiled by gulls. What dignity can death bestow on us,Who kiss beneath a streetlamp, or hold handsHal...
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Margaret Atwood -Orpheus (2)-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Orpheus (2) Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Whether he will go on singingor not, knowing what he knowsof the horror of this world:He was not wandering among meadowsall this time. He was down thereamong the mouthless ones, amongthose with no fingers, thosewhose names are forbidden,those washed up eaten intoamong the gray stonesof the shore where nobody goesthrough fear. Those with silence.He has been trying to singlove into existence againand he has failed.Yet he will continueto sing, in the stadiumcrowded with the already deadwho raise their eyeless facesto listen to him; while the red flowersgrow up and splatter openagainst the walls.They have cut off both his handsand soon they will tearhis head from his body in one burstof furious refusal.He foresees this. Yet he will go onsinging, and in praise.To sing is either praiseor defiance. Praise is defiance. Orfeo (2) Sabiendo lo que sabedel horror de este mundo,¿seguirá cantando?No se dedicó únicamentea pasear los prados: bajóco...
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W. H. Auden -The more loving one-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
The more loving oneW. H. Auden (1907-1973) Looking up at the stars, I know quite wellThat, for all they care, I can go to hell,But on earth indifference is the leastWe have to dread from man or beast. How should we like it were stars to burnWith a passion for us we could not return?If equal affection cannot be,Let the more loving one be me. Admirer as I think I amOf stars that do not give a damn,I cannot, now I see them, sayI missed one terribly all day. Were all stars to disappear or die,I should learn to look at an empty skyAnd feel its total dark sublime,Though this might take me a little time. El que más ame Mirando las estrellas, sé muy biencuán poco les importa que me vaya al infierno,Pero la indiferencia del ser humano o de la bestiaEs lo que menos deberíamos temer en este mundo. ¿Nos gustaría acaso que las estrellas se incendiaranCon una pasión hacia nosotros que no pudiéramos corresponder?Si no es posible que entre nosotros haya igual afecto,Dejen que sea yo el q...
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W. H. Auden -Epitaph on a Tyrant-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Epitaph on a Tyra nt W. H. Auden (1907-1973) Perfection, of a kind, was what he was afterAnd the poetry he invented was easy to understand;He knew human folly like the back of his hand,And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,And when he cried the little children died in the streets. Epitafio a un tirano La perfección, de cierta clase, era lo que buscabay la poesía que inventaba era sencilla de entender;conocía la insensatez del hombre como la palma de su mano,y estaba muy interesado en flotas y en ejércitos;cuando reía, respetables senadores lanzaban carcajadasy si lloraba, los niñitos morían en las calles
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W. H. Auden -My second thoughts condemn...-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
My second thoughts condemn... W. H. Auden (1907-1973) My second thoughts condemn,And wonder how I dareTo look you in the eye.What right have I to swearEven at one a.m.To love you till I die?Earth meets too many crimesFor fibs to interest her;If I can give my word,Forgiveness can recurAny number of timesIn Time. Which is absurd.Tempus fugit. Quite.So finish up your drink.All flesh is grass. It is.But who on earth can thinkWith heavy heart or lightOf what will come of this? Mi interior me desaprueba... Mi interior me desapruebay me pasma: ¡que me atrevaa estar aquí y a mirarte!¿Cómo pude ayer jurarte(incluso a las 3 a.m.)Amarte hasta que me quemen?Peores cosas que mentirasVe la tierra cuando gira;Y lo hace tantas veces,Perdonándome con creces,Que empiezo a ver poco serioTanto hablar del cementerio.Tempus fugit. "Fuego, estopa..."¡Pero acábate tu copa!El corazón es mudable.¿Pero quién queda que hablaDe reglas en los amores?(Hemos hecho cosas peores.) Versión de José Joaqu...
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W. H. Auden -Carry her over the water...-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Carr y her over the water... W. H. Auden (1907-1973) Carry her over the water,And set her down under the tree,Where the culvers white all days and all night,And the winds from every quarter,Sing agreeably, agreeably, agreeably of love.Put a gold ring on her finger,And press her close to your heart,While the fish in the lake their snapshots take,And the frog, that sanguine singer,Sing agreeably, agreeably, agreeably of love.The streets shall all flock to your marriage,The houses turn round to look,The tables and chairs say suitable prayers,And the horses drawing your carriageSing agreeably, agreeably, agreeably of love. Trae a tu amada por sobre las aguas... Trae a tu amada por sobre las aguasPara que repose bajo los árboles,Entre palomas (desde luego blancas)Con brisas y vientos por todas partesQue canten con gusto, con gusto, con gusto de amor.Ponle el anillo, con un buen abrazoEmpiecen la dicha que les aguarda,Y mientras los peces toman instantáneasTendrán un sapo (es...
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Margaret Atwood -Interlunar-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Inter lunar Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Darkness waits apart from any occasion for it;like sorrow it is always available.This is only one kind, the kind in which there are starsabove the leaves, brilliant as steel nailsand countless and without regard. We are walking togetheron dead wet leaves in the intermoonamong the looming nocturnal rockswhich would be pinkish greyin daylight, gnawed and softenedby moss and ferns, which would be green,in the musty fresh yeast smellof trees rotting, each returningitself to itself and I take your hand, which is the shape a handwould be if you existed truly. I wish to show youthe darkness you are so afraid of. Trust me. This darknessis a place you can enter and beas safe in as you are anywhere;you can put one foot in front of the otherand believe the sides of your eyes.Memorize it. You will know itagain in your own time.When the appearances of things have left you,you will still have this darkness.Something of your own you can carry with you. ...
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Margaret Atwood -The loneliness of the military historian-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
The loneliness of the military historian Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Confess: it?s my professionthat alarms you.This is why few people ask me to dinner,though Lord knows I don?t go out of my way to be scary.I wear dresses of sensible cutand unalarming shades of beige,I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser?s:no prophetess mane of mine,complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters.If I roll my eyes and mutter,if I clutch at my heart and scream in horrorlike a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene,I do it in private and nobody seesbut the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you:women should not contemplate war,should not weigh tactics impartially,or evade the word enemy,or view both sides and denounce nothing.Women should march for peace,or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery,spit themselves on bayonetsto protect their babies,whose skulls will be split anyway,or, having been raped repeatedly,hang themselves with their own hair.These are the functi...
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Margaret Atwood -Eurydice-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Eurydice Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) He is here, come down to look for you.It is the song that calls you back,a song of joy and sufferingequally: a promise:that things will be different up therethan they were last time.You would rather have gone on feeling nothing,emptiness and silence; the stagnant peaceof the deepest sea, which is easierthan the noise and flesh of the surface.You are used to these blanched dim corridors,you are used to the kingwho passes you without speaking.The other one is differentand you almost remember him.He says he is singing to youbecause he loves you,not as you are now,so chilled and minimal: moving and stillboth, like a white curtain blowingin the draft from a half-opened windowbeside a chair on which nobody sits.He wants you to be what he calls real.He wants you to stop light.He wants to feel himself thickeninglike a treetrunk or a haunchand see blood on his eyelidswhen he closes them, and the sun beating.This love of his is not somethinghe can do...
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Margaret Atwood -Orpheus (1)-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Orpheus (1) Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) You walked in front of me,pulling me back outto the green light that had oncegrown fangs and killed me.I was obedient, butnumb, like an armgone to sleep; the returnto time was not my choice.By then I was used to silence.Though something stretched between uslike a whisper, like a rope:my former name,drawn tight.You had your old leashwith you, love you might call it,and your flesh voice.Before your eyes you held steadythe image of what you wantedme to become: living again.It was this hope of yours that kept me following.I was your hallucination, listeningand floral, and you were singing me:already new skin was forming on mewithin the luminous misty shroudof my other body; alreadythere was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.I could see only the outlineof your head and shoulders,black against the cave mouth,and so could not see your faceat all, when you turnedand called to me because you hadalready lost me. The lastI saw of you was a dark ov...
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Margaret Atwood -Metempsychosis-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Metempsychosis Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Somebody?s grandmother glides through the bracken,in widow?s black and gracefuland sharp as ever: see how her eyes glitter! Who were you when you were a snake? This one was a dancer who is nowa green streamer waved by its own breezeand here?s your blunt striped uncle, come backto bask under the wicker chairson the porch and watch over you. Unfurling itself from its cast skin,the snake proclaims resurrectionto all believers though some tire soon of being bornover and over; for them there?s the breaththat shivers in the yellow grass,a papery finger, half of a noose, a summonsto the dead river. Who?s that in the cold cellarwith the apples and the rats? Whose isthat voice of a husk rasping in the wind?Your lost child whispering Mother,the one more child you never had,your child who wants back in. Metempsicosis Tu abuela se desliza por los helechos,vestida de luto, grácily aguda como siempre: ¡mira cómo le brillan los ojos! ¿Quién ...
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Margaret Atwood -Grief?s Home-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Grief ?s Home Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Perhaps grief is a homewith a haughty ceiling and a bolted doorwhere you feel so comfortable, sometimes,that you do not hear the steel´s edgeslashing the tapestries,suspended on the scented air: it is heliotrope blended with brimstone,seeking to settle in the corners;only the window standsbetween the limit and you.Ardous walk, in silence you listen to the ancient voices,firewood for this griefalways starved of you,as demanding as a newborn childwhom you already love.The door opens ajar and you close it:There is nothing to be afraid of. La casa del dolor Es posible que el dolor sea una casade techo altivo y puerta con cerrojo,donde estás tan a gusto, a veces,que no escuchas el filo del acerorasgando los tapices,suspenso por el aire perfumado:es heliotropo mezclado con azufre,busca posarse en los rincones;la ventana se alzaentre el límite y tú.Arduo paseo, en el silencio las escuchas,voces de otros tiempos,leña para el dolorsiempre h...
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Margaret Atwood -Time that flees, flees?-
2006-11-28 03:33:02
Time that flees, flees?Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) If time was not like a goblet overflowingor the escape of the instants counting downthe escape of all senseless and fugitive instantsflighting from your wristwatchin a fine movement of quietudeof your travelling body...If time was neitherlike a poppy in your lap with its head cut offnor a feline absenceor falling very rapidly from the last window of the last floorof a high towerdescribing circles increasingly widerIf she was made of time or she was timewithout being any of those things:nor a monstruous centipedenor a falling towards deathnor a descent nor a running awaynor a count-down flightnor an absence,how, then...? Poema interrogante sobre el tiempo que se va, se va... Si el tiempo no era como el desbordarse de una copao la fuga de los instantes cuenta atrásla fuga de todos los instantes insensatos como prófugoshuyendo de tu reloj pulseraen un movimiento sutil en la quietudde tu cuerpo viajero?Si tampoco era el tiempoco...
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Margaret Atwood -About the convenience of learning foreign l
2006-11-28 03:33:02
About the convenience of learning foreign languages Margaret Atwood (1939 - ) Today I just felt like being merrybeing myself without further suspicionnor other rationalethan my body truth and letting my tongue saywhatever it had to say, if anything at all. Or at least try, without indulging inheroic thinking, that melodramatic tongue of minefrom a strange Castilia, or a Castilian tonguefrom the twenty-first century. Today I just felt like forgetting terms,their sound and foam,playing with other voices of these timespulsating underneathto forget it all, even my stockings,and, if possible, my head as well... Sobre la conveniencia de aprender idiomas Hoy me daba la gana ser felizser yo sin más sospecha o raciocinioque la verdad del cuerpo y lo quetuviese que decir la lengua,que lo dijera todo. Que lo intentara, al menos, sin hacerseilusiones de heroísmo, aquella lenguamía, melodramática,de una castilla extraña, o castellanadel siglo veintiuno. Hoy me daba la gana olvidar...
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Conrad Aiken -Goya-
2006-05-18 16:42:00
GoyaConrad (Potter) Aiken (1889-1978)Goya drew a pig on a wall.The five-year-old hairdresser?s sonSaw, graved on a silver tray,The lion; and sunsets were begun.Goya smelt the bull-íight blood.The pupil of the CarmeliteGave his hands to a goldsmith, learnedTo gild an aureole aright.Goya saw the Puzzel's eyes:Sang in the street (with a guitar)And climbed the balcony; but Keats(Under the halyards) wrote 'Bright star'.Goya saw the Great Slut pickThe chirping human puppets up,And laugh, with pendulous mountain lip,And drown them in a corlee cup;Or squeeze their little juices outIn arid hands, insensitive,To make them gibber... Goyawent Among the catacombs to live.He saw gross Ronyons of the air,Harelipped and goitered, raped in flightBy hairless pimps, umbrella-winged:Tumult above Madrid at night.He heard the seconds in his clockCrack like seeds, divulge, and pourAbysmal filth of NothingnessBetween the pendulum and the floor:Torrents of dead veins, rotted cells,Tonsils decayed, and fm...
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Conrad Aiken -God's acre-
2006-05-18 15:56:00
God's acreConrad (Potter) Aiken (1889-1978)In Memory Of. In Fondest Recollection Of.In Loving Memory Of. In FondRemembrance. Died in October. Died at Sea.Who died at sea? The ñame of the seaportEscapes her, gone, blown with the eastwind, overThe tombs and yews, into the apple orchard,Over the road, where gleams a wagon-top,And gone. The eastwind gallops up from seaBringing salt and gulls. The marsh smell, too,Strong in September; mud and reeds, the reedsRattling like bones.She shifts the grass-clipperFrom right to left hand, clips and clips the grass.The broken column, carefully broken, on whichThe blackbird hen is laughing - in fondest memory.Burden! Who was this Burden, to be remembered?Or Potter? The Potter rejected by the Pot.'Here lies Josephus Burden, who departedThis life the fourth of August, nineteen hundred."And He Said Come." ' Joseph Burden, forty,Gross, ribald, with strong hands on which grew hair,And red ears kinked with, hair, and northblue eyesHeld in one hand a h...
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Richard Aldington -Evening-
2006-05-16 07:39:00
EveningRichard Aldington (England, 1892-1962)The chimneys, rank on rank,Cut the clear sky;The moonWith a rag of gauze about her loinsPoses among them, an awkward Venus?And here am I looking wantonly at herOver the kitchen sink.AnochecerLas chimeneas, hilera a hilera,cortan el claro cielo;la luna,con un jirón de gasa en su cinturaposa entre ellos, una torpe Venus?Y aquí estoy mirándola desenfrenadamentesobre la pileta de la cocina.
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Richard Aldington -Sunsets-
2006-05-16 07:36:00
SunsetsRichard Aldington (England, 1892-1962)The white body of the eveningIs torn into scarlet,Slashed and gouged and searedInto crimson,And hung ironicallyWith garlands of mist.And the windBlowing over London from FlandersHas a bitter taste.Puestas de solEl cuerpo blanco del atardecerse desgarra y se vuelve escarlata,tajeado y drenado y desecadohasta volverse carmesí,y cuelga irónicamentecon guirnaldas de niebla.Y el vientosoplando sobre Londres desde Flandrestiene un gusto agrio.
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Richard Aldington -Living sepulchres-
2006-05-16 07:30:00
Living sepulchres Richard Aldington (England, 1892-1962)One frosty night when the guns were stillI leaned against the trenchMaking for myself hokkuOf the moon and flowers and of the snow.But the ghostly scurrying of huge ratsSwollen with feeding upon men?s fleshFilled me with shrinking dread.Sepulcros vivientesUna noche fría cuando los cañones estaban quietosme recosté contra la trincherahaciendo hokku para míde la luna y flores y de la nieve.Pero el escurrimiento fantasmal de enormes ratashinchadas por alimentarse de carne de hombresme llenó de un temor que contrae.
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Richard Aldington -Images-
2006-05-16 07:24:00
ImagesRichard Aldington (England, 1892-1962)ILike a gondola of green scented fruitsDrifting along the dank canals at Venice,You, O exquisite one,Have entered my desolate city.IIThe blue smoke leapsLike swirling clouds of birds vanishing.So my love leaps forth towards you,Vanishes and is renewed.IIIA rose-yellow moon in a pale skyWhen the sunset is faint vermilionIn the mist among the tree-boughs,Art thou to me.(...)Imágenes1Como una góndola de verdes frutos perfumadosDeslizándose por los canales venecianos,Tú, la exquisita,Has entrado en mi ciudad desolada.2El humo azul brotaComo arremolinadas nubes de pájaros que desaparecen.Así también mi amor brota hacia ti,Desaparece y es renovado.3Una luna de amarillo sonrosado en un pálido firmamentoCuando el crepúsculo es tenue bermellónSobre la bruma entre las ramas de los árbolesEres para mí.(...)
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Pamela Alexander -Portrait with beast and omnibus-
2006-05-13 18:56:00
Portrait with beast and omnibusPamela Alexander (EEUU, 1948- )The paraphernalia requiredto take the turn-of-the-century photographmust have been considerablebut common enoughthat no one is paying much attentionto the contraption on the beach-- most of the secondary figures showas backs of hats, or backs.The donkey, of course, isdisinterested, head half out of the frame.It is the style of his speciesto be undisturbedby messiahs or machines, whatevertheir reception by another genus.In the two dimensionsof the brown and white photoprinted crooked on a post card,the woman seems to be wearingthe building behind her as a hat: two largearched windows and cupolas --one louvered -- of a streetcar stationframe her headas a pagoda does a sitting saint.Under the brim is a fringeof tassels, which are distant womenin long skirts on a curved sidewalkgoing to meet the next car.With bare legs danglingaround the donkey's barrel,two children stare at the mountainouscamera on command; their histories ...
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Pamela Alexander -Air-
2006-05-13 17:56:00
Air Pamela Alexander (EEUU, 1948- )It holds us, gently,together.It presses out, against the eardrum.It presses in. It curlsin the palms of our handsbut holds nothingto itself. It steps overthe sock flung onto the chair, the blouseon the floor. When we touch,it moves aside -- a modest mediumthat solid things displace.The children running down the streetpunch through it, leavinga cut-out shape of each positionhovering behind themfor an instant.It is made of roundspinning things, butit will adjust to a rectangular space such asa room.It's the only companythe old man who stays in his long underwear all dayhas.He comes onto the porch at noonto get more.People identify it by objects it surrounds.They call it "atmosphere."What people see isthemselves: they approve or they don't,they leave for good or they come back.Air is innocent of such judgments, havingno personality to protect.It hasa simple habit:it fills anything.It occupies entire hotelsin the off season.It is drawn to emptiness a...

Archie Randolph Ammons -The incomplete life-
2006-05-11 23:07:00
The incomplete lifeArchie Randolph Ammons (1926- )At the extremetip ofthe future isdeath, of course,and shortof that something notmuch like life,a careless caringand pain perhapsone'sceasing ceases: anexperience whoseexperience shuts experience down:at themoment one hasthe whole world's way tosay oneis beyond words,just words,just beyond words. La vida es incompletaEn el puntoextremo delfuturo está la muerte, por supuesto,y a poca distanciade eso algo no muy parecido a la vida,una inquietud despreocupaday dolor tal vez el cesar de unocesa: unaexperiencia cuyaexperiencia cierrela experiencia:en elmomento que uno tienetoda la manera del mundo dedecir que unoestá más allá de las palabras,sólo palabras,sólo más allá de las palabras.
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Archie Randolph Ammons -Glare- 27. How wonderful to be able to write...
2006-05-11 22:49:00
GlareArchie Randolph Ammons (1926- )27. How wonderful to be able to write...how wonderful to be able to write: it's something you can't do, like playing the piano, without thinking: it's not important thinking, but the strip has to wind, the right keys have to be hit, you have to look to see if you're spelling the words right: maybe it's not the thinking but the concentration, which means the attention is directed outside and focused away from the self, away from obsessive self-monitorings (...) Glare27. Qué maravilloso poder escribir...qué maravilloso poder escribir:es algo que no puedes hacer comotocar el piano, sin pensar:no es un pensamiento importante, pero lacinta tiene que enrollarse, deben golpearselas teclas correctas, tienes que comprobarsi estás escribiendo bien las palabras:tal vez no es el pensarsino...
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Archie Randolph Ammons -Glare- 4. Hear me, O Lord...
2006-05-11 22:48:00
GlareArchie Randolph Ammons (1926- )4. Hear me, O Lord ...hear me, O Lord, from the height ofthe high place, where speaking is notnecessary to hearing and hearing isin all languages: hear me, please,have mercy, for I have hurt people,though I think not much and wheremuch never intentionally and I haveaccumulated a memory (and some heavyfantasy) guilt?ridden and as anonreligious person, I have no wayto assuage, relieve, or forgivemyself: I work and work to try toredeem old wrong with present good:but I'm not even sure my good is goodor who it's really for: I figure Ican be forgiven, nearly, at leastby forgiving; that is, by understandingthat others, too, are caught up influrries of passion, of anger andresentment and, my, my, jealousy andthat coincidences and unintentionalaccidents of unwinding ways can'tbe foreknown: what is started here,say, cannot be told just where togo and can't be halted midway andcan't, worst, be broughtback and started over: we are not,O You, at the great...
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Archie Randolph Ammons -Still-
2006-05-11 22:39:00
StillArchie Randolph Ammons (1926- )I said I will find what is lowlyand put the roots of my identitydown there:each day I'll wake upand find the lowly nearby,a handy focus and reminder,a ready measure of my significance,the voice by which I would be heard,the wills, the kinds of selfishnessI couldfreely adopt as my own:but though I have looked everywhere,I can find nothingto give myself to:everything ismagnificent with existence, is insurfeit of glory:nothing is diminished,nothing has been diminished for me:I said what is more lowly than the grass:ah, underneath,a ground-crust of dry-burnt moss:I looked at it closelyand said this can be my habitat: butnestling in Ifoundbelow the brown exteriorgreen mechanisms beyond the intellectawaiting resurrection in rain: so I got upand ran saying there is nothing lowly in the universe:I found a beggar:he had stumps for legs: nobody was payinghim any attention: everybody went on by:I nestled in and found his life:there, love shook his body like...
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Maya Angelou -Phenomenal woman-
2006-05-09 17:00:00
Phenomenal womanMaya Angelo u (EEUU, 1928- )Pretty women wonderWhere my secret lies.I'm not cute or builtTo suit a fashion model's sizeBut 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 womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.I walk into a roomJust as cool as you please,And to a man,The fellows stand orFall 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 womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.Men themselves have wonderedWhat they see in me.They try so muchBut they can't touchMy inner mystery.When I try to show themThey 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 womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.Now you understandJust why my head'...
More About: Woman , Phenom