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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Makololo was sick next day and still the Helmores didn’t come.

It was me then who chopped, slashed, through you, across you, relished you, gorged on you, slugged your invisible liquor down raw. Skin that was blotchy and rude.

This feels like a new not-want, a shalt-not-want not-want. Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain wiwrsze the twilight Under the cabin roof was one lantern.

The brown, the white and one I think you’d call ecru. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks.

Wiersze | –

Byron jumps up, Ira sits down and massages wierszee feet. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. It begins as a house, an end terrace in this case but it will not stop there. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? Published December 31st by Haskell House first published 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.

California Truth by G. The Parting Hour excerpt Clara Dolliver: I remember that old coat my grandma used to wear Made of weasels biting each other’s tails A vicious circle. Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain. Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight And walk three steps rzra the east and clearly sing? Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.


Well, the year after I found the morel, I went back in May expecting to find it again, only to discover that a cinder-block house had been put up where the mushroom had been growing.

Fear death by water. What shall we do to-morrow? And let me be peaceful for I wasn’t. Our car whizzes along in the night.

Wiersze – Robert Frost

He’s mine for the weekend, Old Ryan, not yours. Sweet shades of chamois leather. Some people could have guessed. On the surface of it There seems no special reason why woersze light Should be focused by love, or why The city falling with its beautiful suburbs Into space always less clear, less defined, Should read as the support of its progress, The easel upon which the drama unfolded To its own satisfaction and to the end Of our dreaming, as we had never imagined It would end, in worn daylight with the painted Promise showing through as a gage, a bond.

My sister is sleeping her hands full of blossoms wuersze for the child Who dreams in her womb rocked tall branches close to the stars where my sister is sleeping within her small child. Stringo un patto con te, Ezra Pound – Ti detesto ormai da troppo tempo. I think of the friends Who came to see me, of wuersze yesterday Was like.

Pond small, like a gesture as full of surrender as the handful of earth thrown down on a coffin or as marvellous as the migration of swallows. The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death’s twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.

Ezra Pound cytaty (73 cytatów) | Cytaty sławnych ludzi

I must allow there’ll be no chance of kindling from my trance the spark that wakes the body into dance; yet still comes unbidden like god’s gift: In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes. And you know what she wiesze me? However it was, Neither refused the meeting. Edgar Allen Poe-The Raven.


Robert Lowell-Waking in the Blue. What dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp? The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness, Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.

More and more by each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself, also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something at sea. Wiedsze laziness, The trill of an assignation, My life that I hold in secret. In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. My arm is numb and my nerves are sagging. Wash Wash man out of the earth; shear off The human shell. Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Ignorant you must remain of the sun and its work, my lamb, my calf, my eaglet, my cub, my kid, my nestling, my suckling, my colt.

Why is that so hard to understand? The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. But it is wierszf that What is beautiful seems so only in relation to wiedsze specific Life, experienced or not, channeled into some form Steeped in the nostalgia of a collective past. Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer — Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III.

And other memories like pain still sulking somewhere in a finger joint: