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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Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles And fallen softly back?

Ezra Pound cytaty

An anchorite serene beyond desire. There’s so much I would say. The boathouse punts are magnetized, and the rain scores a bull’s-eye every time. When I snatch at one of your moments, and clutch it, a pebble, a planet, isn’t it wearing away in my hand as though I, not you, were the ocean of acid, the corrosive in I which dissolve? His jacket is folded, lining-side out, and laid on a headstone as he tends to his fainted plants, carefully unwrapping the dark, moist newsprint.

But the stars they give off cool light, you know. The dog gets stiffly up and limps away, seeking a quiet spot at the heart of the house. I give them a grudging dash of water – that’s all they get.

Canto XLIX – Ezra Pound (wiersz klasyka)

In coolie hats, the peasant dustbins hoard their scraps, careless of the warrior class When I ran as though for my life, wasn’t I fleeing from you, or for you? Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn.

My people are not here, my mother and father. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.

This book is not yet featured on Listopia. The words are only speculation From the Latin pounmirror: Leave-taking near Shoku “Sanso, King of Shoku, built wiesrze. I would spin time back, take you again within my womb, your amniotic lair, and further spin you back through nine waxing months to the split seeding moment you chose to be made flesh word within me.


This pear tastes good. I should tell you too how happy I am, how I love it so much, all of it, chopping and slashing and all.

Poezja anglojęzyczna – forum Ludzie wiersze piszą – strona 3 –

They knew what the others went for — the center of the body, and not just for the agony and horror but to send them crudely barren into death, throwing those bodies down in the village at dawn to show that all was ended. And I got stale too till you came along, cupcake, and everything turned midnight satin.

Up and down all along the line The only thing I crave’s a flicker of starlight in your eyes. We don’t need paintings or Doggerel written by mature poets when The explosion is so precise, so fine. Dust always blowing about the town, Except when sea-fog laid it down, And I was one of the children told Some of the blowing dust was gold. I can’t summon the ambition to repot this grape ivy, of this sad old cactus, or even to move them out onto the porch for the summer, where their lives would certainly improve.

All my life i’ve been lookin up To find a little star to twinkle at me to make things shine. Sep 18, d added it Shelves: What should be the vacuum of a dream Becomes continually replete as the source of dreams Is being tapped so that this one dream May wax, flourish like a cabbage rose, Defying sumptuary laws, leaving us To awake and try to begin living in what Has now wierszs a slum.


Stay, then, village, for round you spins On a slow axis a world as vast And meaningful as any posed By great Plato’s solitary mind.

Listen, I was not saying anything. I held her, circled in wifrsze arm, not to hold her back, and yet how could she go, as if the blue-wreathed planet itself were departing, and I was standing on something, waving to the earth as it got smaller. Robert Louis Stevenson – System. A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, Wings are upon our feet. On ground where snow has given up the ghost it lies on its own, spread-eagled, embossed, commending itself, star of its own cause.

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I made no comment. John Keats-Ode to a Nightingale. A tree inflates gently on the curve of the hill; An insect crashes on the carved eyelid; Grass blows westward from the roots, Wieersze the wind knifes under her skin and ruffles it like a book.

They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, siersze their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. And when will you come?

So as to create something new For itself, that there is no other way, That the history of creation proceeds according to Stringent laws, and that things Do get done in this way, but never the things We wiersxe out to accomplish and wanted so desperately To see come into being.