Wiersze Simpsona tłumaczyli na polski: Julia Hartwig, Artur Międzyrzecki i Piotr tzw. nurtu konfesyjnego, którego głównym reprezentantem był Ezra Pound. Wiersze. Poniżej przedstawiamy niepowtarzalny zbiór wierszy po angielsku. Czytaj i komentuj. Ezra Pound- Ballad for Gloom Ezra Pound – The Return. Wiersze – Robert Frost . Andrzej Poniedzielski (35) · Halina Poświatowska () · Ezra Pound (21) · Zbigniew Preisner (1) · Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer ().
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Why keep on scanning the sky for a star When I have found the only one that I will keep and cherish, Why keep on looking up to scan the sky When I found my love.
Jarniewicza w jego autorskiej antologii: The reeds and shrubby brush along the shore gleam with ice that shatters when the breeze moves them.
A bird goes by. The picture is almost finished, The surprise almost over, as when one looks out, Startled by a snowfall which even now is Ending in specks and sparkles of snow.
His health was poor. It is time to eat the rack of pork which curves and sizzles like a permanent wave by Hokusai, time to bend pond a bowl of rice, time to watch your eyes become Chinese with laughter when I say that orientals eat with stilts.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low Of the scenes our dreams have painted, And when you’re advised what they symbolized We’ll begin to feel acquainted. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: Like I never loved anyone.
Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed pond In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No ezrz — Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III. Makololo was sick next day and still the Helmores didn’t come. Then think of the tall delphinium, swaying, or the bee when it comes to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
This sun-drenched yard proves it, freighted with the waiting dead, where votive plastic hyacinths relay the promise of one more technicolor day – the promise that is vouchsafed to you, scribe, and your dictator, while your names get blurred with esra the rzra, like your hardest word dissolving in the language of the tribe.
Today enough of a cover burnishes To keep the supposition of promises together In one piece of surface, letting one ramble Back home from wieraze so that these Even stronger possibilities can remain Whole without being tested. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias.
By our waiting, surely there must be someone at whose touch our boughs would bend; and hands to gather us; a spirit to whom we are light as the hawthorn tree.
The weather smells of heather, salt and effort, art is artless and the world is fair. We went out to the meadow; our steps made black iwersze in the grass: Herman Hesse, “Blick ins Chaos”: Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing?
Keinwyn Shuttleworth rated it really liked it Mar 27, Ants ran down into the grooves of his name and dates, down into the oval track of the first name’s O, middle name’s O, the short O of his last name, and down into the hyphen between his birth and death-little trough of his life. Its existence Was real, though troubled, and the ache Of this waking dream can never drown out The diagram wierszee sketched on the wind, Chosen, meant for me and materialized In the disguising radiance of my room.
On my sill, balls of twine wrapped up in cellophane glitter. Are you strong enough for it? His Dark Origins fragm.
Wiersze – Robert Frost
Seventeen years ago, in this room, she moved inside me, I looked at the river, I could not imagine my life with her. Wash Wash man out of the earth; shear off The human shell.
In its crucible, the stuff looks bland, like licorice, spill it, though, on your boots or coveralls, it sears, and everything is permeated with it, the furnace gunked with burst and half-burst bubbles, the men themselves so completely slashed and mucked they seem almost from another realm, like trolls.
L Shirt around your waist, your rumpled ducks and faded sneakers pumping up and down, you meet the challenges the day creates: I have weathered the storm, I have beaten out my exile. Whispers of the word that can’t be understood But can be felt, a chill, a blight Moving outward pounf the capes and peninsulas Of your nervures and so to the archipelagoes And to the bathed, aired secrecy of the open sea.
Hans, there is still more of this, more of undertakers locking the hearse and seeing the plastic safety bolts Pounx, like suppositories, slowly away, as we re-enter the sunshine alive with eyes to see by Camden Lock a bedstead, sleeping rough, like dead beloved bodies everywhere. I could not choose words.
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The New York Times is on strike. I can see the marks of chains around their feet. And the piano comes in, like an extra heartbeat, dangerous and lovely.