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Poesie : in lingua inglese poesie > in lingua inglese

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Morning

To find the Western path
Right thro' the Gates of Wrath
I urge my way.
Sweet Mercy leads me on,
With soft repentant moan
I see the break of day.

The war of swords e spears
Melted by dewy tears
Exhales on high.
The Sun is freed from fears
And with soft grateful tears
Ascends the sky.

William Blake

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Thou hast made me endless

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel
thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Rabindranath Tagore

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The castaway

The starved eye devours the seascape for the morsel
of a sail.

The horizon threads it infinitely.

Action breeds frenzy. I lie,
sailing the ribbed shadow of a palm,
afraid lest my own footprints multiply.

Blowing sand, thin as smoke,
bored, shifts its dunes.
The surf tires of its castles like a child.

The salt green vine with yellow trumpet-flower,
a net, inches across nothing.
Nothing: the rage with which the sandfly's head is filled.

Pleasures of an old man:
morning: contemplative evacuation, considering
the dried leaf, nature's plan.

In the sun, the dog's feces
crusts, whitens like coral.
We end in earth, from earth began.
In our own entrails, genesis.

If I listen I can hear the polyp build,
the silence thwanged by two waves of the sea.
Cracking a sea-louse, I make thunder split.

Godlike, annihilating godhead, art
and self, I abandon
dead metaphors: the almond's leaf-like heart,

the ripe brain rotting like a yellow nut
hatching
its babel of sea-lice, sandfly, and maggot,

that green wine bottle's gospel choked with sand,
labelled, a wrecked ship,
clenched sea-wood nailed and white as a man's hand.

Derek Walcott

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There swims no goose so grey, but, soon or late, She finds some honest gander for a mate

Alexander Pope

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Morning breakfast

He put the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the cafe au lait
With the little spoon
He stirred
He drank the coffee
And he replaced the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He made rings
With the smoke
He put the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking to me
He stood up
He put
His hat upon his head
He put
His raincoat on
Because it was raining
And he left
Without one word
And me I placed
My head in my hand
And I cried

Jacques Prévert

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