classic poetry
Óyeme como quien ove llover
POSTED IN classic poetry May 7, 2014
Óyeme como quien ove lloverÓyeme como quien oye llover,
ni atenta ni distraída,
pasos leves, llovizna,
agua que es aire,
aire que es tiempo,
el día no acaba de irse,
la noche no llega todavía,
figuraciones de la niebla
al doblar la esquina,
figuraciones del tiempo
en el recodo de esta pausa,
óyeme como quien oye llover.Sin oírme, oyendo lo que digo
con los ojos abiertos hacia adentro,
dormida con los cinco sentidos despiertos,
llueve, pasos leves, rumor de sílabas,
aire y agua, palabras que no pesan:
lo que fuimos y somos,
los días y los años, este instante,
tiempo sin peso, pesadumbre enorme,
óyeme como quien oye llover,
relumbra el asfalto húmedo,
el vaho se levanta y camina,
la noche se abre y me mira,
eres tú y tu talle de vaho,
tú y tu cara de noche,
tú y tu pelo, lento relámpago,
cruzas la calle y entras en mi frente,
pasos de agua sobre mis párpados,
óyeme como quien oye llover,
el asfalto relumbra, tú cruzas la calle,
es la niebla errante en la noche,
como quien oye llover.Es la noche dormida en tu cama,
es el oleaje de tu respiración,
tus dedos de agua mojan mi frente,
tus dedos de llama queman mis ojos,
tus dedos de aire abren los párpados del tiempo,
manar de apariciones y resurrecciones,
óyeme como quien oye llover,
pasan los años, regresan los instantes,
¿oyes tus pasos en el cuarto vecino?
no aquí ni allá: los oyes
en otro tiempo que es ahora mismo,
oye los pasos del tiempo
inventor de lugares sin peso ni sitio,
oye la lluvia correr por la terraza,
la noche ya es más noche en la arboleda,
en los follajes ha anidado el rayo,
vago jardín a la deriva
entra, tu sombra cubre esta página.
Octavio Paz
The Phantom Horsewoman
POSTED IN classic poetry May 1, 2014
The Phantom HorsewomanQueer are the ways of a man I know:
He comes and stands
In a careworn craze,
And looks at the sands
And in the seaward haze
With moveless hands
And face and gaze,
Then turns to go…
And what does he see when he gazes so?They say he sees as an instant thing
More clear than today,
A sweet soft scene
That once was in play
By that briny green;
Yes, notes alway
Warm, real, and keen,
What his back years bring-
A phantom of his own figuring.Of this vision of his they might say more:
Not only there
Does he see this sight,
But everywhere
In his brain-day, night,
As if on the air
It were drawn rose bright-
Yea, far from that shore
Does he carry this vision of heretofore:A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried,
He withers daily,
Time touches her not,
But she still rides gaily
In his rapt thought
On that shagged and shaly
Atlantic spot,
And as when first eyed
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.
Thomas Hardy
I started Early – Took my Dog
POSTED IN classic poetry April 30, 2014
I started Early – took my Dog-I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – upon the Sands –But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Bodice – too –And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion’s Sleeve –
And then – I started – too –And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle – Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –
Emily Dickinson
Go and catch a falling star
POSTED IN classic poetry April 30, 2014
Go and catch a falling starGo and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
John Donne
Comin’ thro’ the Rye
POSTED IN classic poetry April 21, 2014
Comin’ thro’ the RyeO, Jenny’s a’ weet, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry;
She draigl’t a’ her petticoattie
Comin thro’ the rye.Comin thro the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye,
She draigl’t a’her petticoatie,
Comin thro the rye!Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?Comin thro the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye,
She draigl’t a’her petticoatie,
Comin thro the rye!Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken?Comin thro the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye,
She draigl’t a’her petticoatie,
Comin thro the rye!
Robert Burns
Franciscae meae laudes
POSTED IN classic poetry April 12, 2014
Franciscae meae laudesNovis te cantabo chordis,
O novelletum quod ludis
In solitudine cordis.Esto sertis implicata,
Ô femina delicata
Per quam solvuntur peccata!Sicut beneficum Lethe,
Hauriam oscula de te,
Quae imbuta es magnete.Quum vitiorum tempegtas
Turbabat omnes semitas,
Apparuisti, Deitas,Velut stella salutaris
In naufragiis amaris…..
Suspendam cor tuis aris!Piscina plena virtutis,
Fons æternæ juventutis
Labris vocem redde mutis!Quod erat spurcum, cremasti;
Quod rudius, exaequasti;
Quod debile, confirmasti.In fame mea taberna
In nocte mea lucerna,
Recte me semper guberna.Adde nunc vires viribus,
Dulce balneum suavibus
Unguentatum odoribus!Meos circa lumbos mica,
O castitatis lorica,
Aqua tincta seraphica;Patera gemmis corusca,
Panis salsus, mollis esca,
Divinum vinum, Francisca!
Charles Baudelaire
Emanuel Swedenborg
POSTED IN classic poetry April 12, 2014
Emanuel SwedenborgTaller than the others, this man
Walked among them, at a distance,
Now and then calling the angels
By their secret names. He would see
That which earthly eyes do not see:
The fierce geometry, the crystal
Labyrinth of God and the sordid
Milling of infernal delights.
He knew that Glory and Hell too
Are in your soul, with all their myths;
He knew, like the Greek, that the days
Of time are Eternity’s mirrors.
In unadorned Latin he went on listing
The unconditional Last Things.
Jorge Luis Borges
I got so I could take his name
POSTED IN classic poetry April 1, 2014
I got so I could take his nameI got so I could take his name –
Without – Tremendous gain –
That Stop-sensation – on my Soul –
And Thunder – in the Room –I got so I could walk across
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned – how –
And all our Sinew tore –I got so I could stir the Box –
In which his letters grew
Without that forcing, in my breath –
As Staples – driven through –Could dimly recollect a Grace –
I think, they call it “God” –
Renowned to ease Extremity –
When Formula, had failed –And shape my Hands –
Petition’s way,
Tho’ ignorant of a word
That Ordination – utters –My Business – with the Cloud,
If any Power behind it, be,
Not subject to Despair –
It care, in some remoter way,
For so minute affair
As Misery –
Itself, too vast, for interrupting – more –
Emily Dickinson
who were so dark at heart
POSTED IN classic poetry March 30, 2014
who were so dark at heartwho were so dark of heart they might not speak,
a little innocence will make them sing;
teach them to see who could not learn to look
–from the reality of all nothingwill actually lift a luminous whole;
turn sheer despairing to most perfect gay,
nowhere to here, never too beautiful:
a little innocence creates a day.And something thought or done or wished without
a little innocence, although it were
as red as terror and as green as fate,
greyly shall fall and dully disappear–but the proud power of himself death immense
is not so as a little innocence
e e cummings
I Am the Only Being Whose Doom
POSTED IN classic poetry March 9, 2014
I Am the Only Being Whose DoomI am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn;
I never caused a thought of gloom,
A smile of joy, since I was born.In secret pleasure, secret tears,
This changeful life has slipped away,
As friendless after eighteen years,
As lone as on my natal day.There have been times I cannot hide,
There have been times when this was drear,
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here.But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care;
And they have died so long ago,
I hardly now believe they were.First melted off the hope of youth,
Then fancy’s rainbow fast withdrew;
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew.’Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow, servile, insincere;
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there.
Emily Brontë
