Комментарии
2016-12-17 в 21:58 

Godiva von Humboldt
Когда мы придем к власти, таких людей, как я, мы будем расстреливать.
Сонет №90 великого нашего))

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"Если" Киплинга

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2016-12-17 в 22:00 

Ay, Carmela
Если ты хочешь выбрать свет завтра, а сегодня попрощаться с тьмой, то на самом деле ты просто выбираешь тьму.
I was a boy when I heard three red words
a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets
for: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity--I asked
why men die for words.

I was older; men with mustaches, sideburns,
lilacs, told me the high golden words are:
Mother, Home, and Heaven--other older men with
face decorations said: God, Duty, Immortality
--they sang these threes slow from deep lungs.

Years ticked off their say-so on the great clocks
of doom and damnation, soup, and nuts: meteors flashed
their say-so: and out of great Russia came three
dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die
for: Bread, Peace, Land.

And I met a marine of the U.S.A., a leatherneck with a girl on his knee
for a memory in ports circling the earth and he said: Tell me how to say
three things and I always get by--gimme a plate of ham and eggs--how
much--and--do you love me, kid?

Carl Sandberg

2016-12-17 в 22:03 

<Лунатик>
эта музыка будет вечной
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-
Dylan Thomas

2016-12-17 в 22:19 

trarames
нож всегда один
SUNFLOWER SUTRA

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the
huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box
house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion,
we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded
by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The only water on the river
mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream,
no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a
dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of
ancient sawdust— —I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories
of Blake—my visions—Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking
Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and
unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing
stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with
the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary
spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head
like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs,
a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul,
I loved you then! The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek,
that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial
worse-than-dirt—industrial— modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy
golden crown— and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends
and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the
empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the
smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts
of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these entangled
in your mummied roots—and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower
existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed
round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad
and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower?
when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American
locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And
you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton
thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon
to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen, —We're not our skin
of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden
sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies
growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under
the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.

[c]Allen Ginsberg

2016-12-17 в 23:09 

Вельда
Небесная
Сонет №90 великого нашего))
+1

Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven, Annabel Lee


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2016-12-17 в 23:40 

desenrascanco
- Харьков вообще не спрашивали, Малфой! ©
плюсую к Do not go gentle into that good night


*

There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.

Shel Silverstein


*

ссылкой, чтобы в коммент влезло - youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff...


*

ссылкой, чтобы курсив не выделять вручную - words-end-here.livejournal.com/35121.html

*

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask 'What if I fall?'
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?

Erin Hanson


*

The Quiet World
BY JEFFREY MCDANIEL

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*


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

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e.e. cummings


*

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Spencer Madsen


*

и обожаю авторов с тумбы


first. he touches you and you light on fire. your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. the burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. it’s so hard to breathe. you’re suffocating daily.
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горю от этой леди cardiamachina.co.vu/tagged/My-Poetry
например


May I hand you my heart
And will you receive it with reverence
Like I’ve given to you the wholeness of the earth?

Will you be breathless as I am
Hand atop hand,
As I gently pour, into the lines of your palms:

1000 nights of restless sleep
500 shades of different colored skies
100 heart beats per solid minute
And 1 of the many breaths
You have unwittingly taken from my lungs.

This is a profession of numbers
A quantification of affection,
And in attempt for normalcy, I ask:

– Will you marry me? Poetic Proposals # 1, n.t.

и

We bless the craters of the moon with names,
Yet we are not allowed to honor
The marks on our body.

And so, I sanctify my own indentations:
Abenezra, the flare of red across my forehead
Kastner, the remnants of wounds on my knees
Humboldt, the lines of my body stretching and growing,
Bohr–the faded scars on my wrist.

There is no room here
For your footsteps,
Or your flags.

I claim my own landscape.

– Houston, we have a problem: she loves her own body. I repeat: she loves her own body! n.t.

2016-12-18 в 00:05 

Ritsuka Elune
Реальность корректируется. (c) "Штормовое предупреждение", Serpensortia
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
-Кристина Россетти. Обожаю её.

2016-12-18 в 02:13 

it is raining somewhere else
я сосчитаю до шести и ты исчезнешь.
The Cloths of Heaven



Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W. B. Yeats

2016-12-18 в 10:47 

Vampiressa
goroshina
Lullaby
W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.

2016-12-18 в 12:55 

<Лунатик>
эта музыка будет вечной
Вообще, обожаю стихи Дилана Томаса.

"And death shall have no dominion"

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