Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute,
May overlook your Track --
Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality --
Significance that each has lived
The other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate
Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live --
The "Life that is" will then have been
A thing I never knew --
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you --
The "Life that is to be," to me,
A Residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer's Face
I recognize your own --
Of Immortality who doubts
He may exchange with me
Curtailed by your obscuring Face
Of everything but He --
Of Heaven and Hell I also yield
The Right to reprehend
To whoso would commute this Face
For his less priceless Friend.
If "God is Love" as he admits
We think that me must be
Because he is a "jealous God"
He tells us certainly
If "All is possible with" him
As he besides concedes
He will refund us finally
Our confiscated Gods --
|
Written by
Constantine P Cavafy |
It goes on being Alexandria still. Just walk a bit
along the straight road that ends at the Hippodrome
and you'll see palaces and monuments that will amaze you.
Whatever war-damage it's suffered,
however much smaller it's become,
it's still a wonderful city.
And then, what with excursions and books
and various kinds of study, time does go by.
In the evenings we meet on the sea front,
the five of us (all, naturally, under fictitious names)
and some of the few other Greeks
still left in the city.
Sometimes we discuss church affairs
(the people here seem to lean toward Rome)
and sometimes literature.
The other day we read some lines by Nonnos:
what imagery, what rhythm, what diction and harmony!
All enthusiasm, how we admired the Panopolitan.
So the days go by, and our stay here
isn't unpleasant because, naturally,
it's not going to last forever.
We've had good news: if something doesn't come
of what's now afoot in Smyrna,
then in April our friends are sure to move from Epiros,
so one way or another, our plans are definitely working out,
and we'll easily overthrow Basil.
And when we do, at last our turn will come.
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Those fair -- fictitious People --
The Women -- plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime --
The Men of Ivory --
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas --
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake --
Can Anybody tell?
We trust -- in places perfecter --
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture --
Our dizzy Estimate --
Remembering ourselves, we trust --
Yet Blesseder -- than We --
Through Knowing -- where We only hope --
Receiving -- where we -- pray --
Of Expectation -- also --
Anticipating us
With transport, that would be a pain
Except for Holiness --
Esteeming us -- as Exile --
Themself -- admitted Home --
Through easy Miracle of Death --
The Way ourself, must come --
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
As Sleigh Bells seem in summer
Or Bees, at Christmas show --
So fairy -- so fictitious
The individuals do
Repealed from observation --
A Party that we knew --
More distant in an instant
Than Dawn in Timbuctoo.
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
I think to Live -- may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try --
Beyond my limit to conceive --
My lip -- to testify --
I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen -- till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear -- unto the Sea --
I think the Days -- could every one
In Ordination stand --
And Majesty -- be easier --
Than an inferior kind --
No numb alarm -- lest Difference come --
No Goblin -- on the Bloom --
No start in Apprehension's Ear,
No Bankruptcy -- no Doom --
But Certainties of Sun --
Midsummer -- in the Mind --
A steadfast South -- upon the Soul --
Her Polar time -- behind --
The Vision -- pondered long --
So plausible becomes
That I esteem the fiction -- real --
The Real -- fictitious seems --
How bountiful the Dream --
What Plenty -- it would be --
Had all my Life but been Mistake
Just rectified -- in Thee
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Could Hope inspect her Basis
Her Craft were done --
Has a fictitious Charter
Or it has none --
Balked in the vastest instance
But to renew --
Felled by but one assassin --
Prosperity --
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done --
Seems Summer's Recollection
And the Affairs of June
As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella's Bays --
Or Little John -- of Lincoln Green --
Or Blue Beard's Galleries --
Her Bees have a fictitious Hum --
Her Blossoms, like a Dream --
Elate us -- till we almost weep --
So plausible -- they seem --
Her Memories like Strains -- Review --
When Orchestra is dumb --
The Violin in Baize replaced --
And Ear -- and Heaven -- numb --
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
I many times thought Peace had come
When Peace was far away --
As Wrecked Men -- deem they sight the Land --
At Centre of the Sea --
And struggle slacker -- but to prove
As hopelessly as I --
How many the fictitious Shores --
Before the Harbor be --
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Conjecturing a Climate
Of unsuspended Suns --
Adds poignancy to Winter --
The Shivering Fancy turns
To a fictitious Country
To palliate a Cold --
Not obviated of Degree --
Nor erased -- of Latitude --
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Smokes
of cigarettes
and mugs
full of coffee,
next
to the fictitious line
where the eddy
of words
leans against
and nods,
wounded,
to my silence.
|