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Old 12-21-2011, 09:35 PM
 
17,698 posts, read 15,107,345 times
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My favorite poet is still probably Sergey Yesenin after all, who was born in small Russian village in the beginning of the previous century.

(Don't know whether the translation of his poems makes them any justice.)


Letter to mother

Still around, old dear? How are you keeping?
I too am around. Hello to you!
May that magic twilight ever be streaming
Over your cottage as it used to do.
People write how sad you are, and anxious
For my sake, though you won't tell them so,
And that you in your old-fashioned jacket
Out onto the highroad often go.
That you often see in the blue shadows
Ever one dream, giving you no rest:
Someone in a drunken tavern scuffle
Sticks a bandit knife into my chest.
Don't go eating your heart out with worry,
It's just crazy nonsense and a lie.
I may drink hard, but I promise, mother,
I shall see you first before I die.
I love you as always and I'm yearning
In my thoughts for just one thing alone,
Soon to ease my heartache by returning
To our humble low-roofed country home.
I'll return when decked in white the branches
In our orchard are with spring aglow.
But no longer wake me up at sunrise,
As you used to do eight years ago.
Do not waken dreams no longer precious,
Hopes never fulfilled do not excite.
It was my misfortune to experience
Loss and weariness too early in my life.
Don't teach me to pray. Please, mother!
There's no going back, try as you might.
You alone give me support and comfort,
You alone glow with a magic light.
So forget your cares, please. Don't be anxious
And for my sake, dear, don't worry so.
Out onto the road in your old-fashioned
Jacket, please do not so often go.


No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow...

No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow,
Blossom blows away, a song is sung.
Overcome by autumn gold, tomorrow
I myself shall be no longer young.
You'll not throb, heart, as before, but tremble,
Feeling chills that you have not yet known.
In bare feet you shall no more be tempted
Through the birch-print countryside to roam.
Roving spirit, ever now less often
Do you rouse a flame upon my lips.
Freshness I have lost, keen looks forgotten,
Feelings running at full flood I miss.
I'm austerer now in my desiring.
Life, were you real, or of fancy born?
It's as if in spring I've been out riding
On a pink horse in the vibrant dawn.
In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide…
Ever blessed was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.


To Kachalov's dog

Come, Jim, give me your paw for luck,
I swear I've never seen one like it.
Let's go, the two of us, and bark
Up the moon when Nature's silent.
Come, Jim, give me your paw for luck.
Stop licking me, pet, and please do
At least heed this advice I'm giving.
Of life you haven't got a clue,
You do non realize life is worth living.
You master's kind a man of note,
And visitors his home are thronging,
They all admire your velvet coat
Which smilingly they love to fondle.
You're devilishly handsome for a dog,
So charming, trusting, unsuspicious,
Not asking if you may or not,
Like a drunken pal, you plaster kisses.
Dear Jim, I know a great variety
Of visitors of all sorts call,
But have you seen her here, the saddest
And the least talkative of all?
I'm sure she'll come here. In my absence
Please catch her eye. Go kiss her hand for me,
For all my real or fancied errors asking
Forgiveness of her in humility.


Sergey Esenin — RT Russian literature

Last edited by erasure; 12-21-2011 at 10:23 PM..
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Old 12-22-2011, 02:28 AM
 
2,926 posts, read 4,810,087 times
Reputation: 3711
I memorized this poem when I was a teenager. I always thought it was Hermann Hesse but I can't find it anywhere so I don't know for sure. I only remember it was originally in German and I was really moved by the grace of the translation.

In the empty bottle,
In the glass,
A candle glimmers in the gloom.
It is cold in the room.
I lie down again as I always do,
cold and sad lie down again.
Daylight comes and evening then
comes again,
but never you.
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Old 02-08-2012, 10:16 PM
 
4,759 posts, read 6,445,143 times
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Cherrylog Road by James Dickey
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Old 02-09-2012, 06:10 AM
 
Location: Some T-1 Line
520 posts, read 879,987 times
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Langston Hughes Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me—
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.


Nikki Giovanni Winter Poem
once a snowflake fell
on my brow and i loved
it so much and i kissed
it and it was happy and called its cousins
and brothers and a web
of snow engulfed me then
i reached to love them all
and i squeezed them and they became
a spring rain and i stood perfectly
still and was a flower
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Old 02-09-2012, 01:40 PM
 
28,904 posts, read 48,423,305 times
Reputation: 46200
I have two. The first is "Letter From The River Merchant's Wife," by Ezra Pound:

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.


The second is by e. e. cummings.

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

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
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