Written by
Margaret Atwood |
Starspangled cowboy
sauntering out of the almost-
silly West, on your face
a porcelain grin,
tugging a papier-mache cactus
on wheels behind you with a string,
you are innocent as a bathtub
full of bullets.
Your righteous eyes, your laconic
trigger-fingers
people the streets with villains:
as you move, the air in front of you
blossoms with targets
and you leave behind you a heroic
trail of desolation:
beer bottles
slaughtered by the side
of the road, bird-
skulls bleaching in the sunset.
I ought to be watching
from behind a cliff or a cardboard storefront
when the shooting starts, hands clasped
in admiration,
but I am elsewhere.
Then what about me
what about the I
confronting you on that border
you are always trying to cross?
I am the horizon
you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso
I am also what surrounds you:
my brain
scattered with your
tincans, bones, empty shells,
the litter of your invasions.
I am the space you desecrate
as you pass through.
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Written by
Delmira Agustini |
Spanish Yo hacía una divina labor, sobre la rocaCreciente del Orgullo. De la vida lejana,Algún pétalo vívido me voló en la mañana,Algún beso en la noche. Tenaz como una loca,Sequía mi divina labor sobre la roca. Cuando tu voz que funde como sacra campanaEn la nota celeste la vibración humana,Tendió su lazo do oro al borde de tu boca; —Maravilloso nido del vértigo, tu boca!Dos pétalos de rosa abrochando un abismo…—Labor, labor de gloria, dolorosa y liviana;¡Tela donde mi espíritu su fue tramando él mismo!Tú quedas en la testa soberbia de la roca,Y yo caigo, sin fin, en el sangriento abismo! EnglishI was at my divine labor, upon the rockSwelling with Pride. From a distance,At dawn, some bright petal came to me,Some kiss in the night. Upon the rock,Tenacious a madwoman, I clung to my work.When your voice, like a sacred bell,A celestial note with a human tremor,Stretched its golden lasso from the edge of your mouth;—Marvelous nest of vertigo, your mouth!Two rose petals fastened to an abyss…—Labor, labor of glory, painful and frivolous;Fabric where my spirit went weaving herself!You come to the arrogant head of the rock,And I fall, without end, into the bloody abyss!
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Written by
Andrew Marvell |
Quisnam adeo, mortale genus, praecordia versat:
Heu Palmae, Laurique furor, vel simplicis Herbae!
Arbor ut indomitos ornet vix una labores;
Tempora nec foliis praecingat tota maglignis.
Dum simud implexi, tranquillae ad ferta Quiaetis,
Omnigeni coeunt Flores, integraque Sylva.
Alma Quies, teneo te! & te Germana Quietis
Simplicitas! Vos ergo diu per Templa, per urbes,
Quaesivi, Regum perque alta Palatia frustra.
Sed vos Hotrorum per opaca siluentia longe
Celarant Plantae virides, & concolor Umbra.
O! mibi si vestros liceat violasse recessus.
Erranti, lasso, & vitae melioris anhelo,
Municipem servate novum, votoque potitum,
Frondosae Cives optate in florea Regna.
Me quoque, vos Musae, &, te conscie testor Apollo,
Non Armenta juvant hominum, Circique boatus,
Mugitusve Fori; sed me Penetralia veris,
Horroresque trahunt muti, & Consortia sola.
Virgineae quem non suspendit Gratia formae?
Quam candore Nives vincentum, Ostrumque rubore,
Vestra tamen viridis superet (me judice) Virtus.
Nec foliis certare Comae, nec Brachia ramis,
Nec possint tremulos voces aequare susurros.
Ah quoties saevos vidi (quis credat?) Amantes
Sculpentes Dominae potiori in cortice nomen?
Nec puduit truncis inscribere vulnera sacris.
Ast Ego, si vestras unquam temeravero stirpes,
Nulla Neaera, Chloe, Faustina, Corynna, legetur:
In proprio sed quaeque libro signabitur Arbos.
O charae Platanus, Cyparissus, Populus, Ulnus!
Hic Amor, exutis crepidatus inambulat alis,
Enerves arcus & stridula tela reponens,
Invertitque faces, nec se cupit usque timeri;
Aut experrectus jacet, indormitque pharetrae;
Non auditurus quanquam Cytherea vocarit;
Nequitias referuut nec somnia vana priores.
Laetantur Superi, defervescente Tyranno,
Et licet experti toties Nymphasque Deasque,
Arbore nunc melius potiuntur quisque cupita.
Jupiter annosam, neglecta conjuge, Quercum
Deperit; baud alia doluit sic pellice. Juno.
Lemniacum temerant vestigia nulla Cubile,
Nic Veneris Mavors meminit si Fraxinus adsit.
Formosae pressit Daphnes vestigia Phaebus
Ut fieret Laurus; sed nil quaesiverat ultra.
Capripes & peteret quod Pan Syringa fugacem,
Hoc erat ut Calamum posset reperire Sonorum.
Note: Desunt multa. Nec tu, Opisex horti, grato sine carmine abibis:
Qui brevibus plantis, & laeto flore, notasti
Crescentes horas, atque intervalla diei.
Sol ibi candidior fragrantia Signa pererrat;
Proque truci Tauro, stricto pro forcipe Cancri,
Securis violaeque rosaeque allabitur umbris.
Sedula quin & Apis, mellito intenta labori,
Horologo sua pensa thymo Signare videtur.
Temporis O suaves lapsus! O Otia sana!
O Herbis dignae numerari & Floribus Horae!
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXX. Lasso! ben so che dolorose prede. THOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS PASSION. Alas! well know I what sad havoc makesDeath of our kind, how Fate no mortal spares!How soon the world whom once it loved forsakes,How short the faith it to the friendless bears!Much languishment, I see, small mercy wakes;For the last day though now my heart prepares,Love not a whit my cruel prison breaks,And still my cheek grief's wonted tribute wears.I mark the days, the moments, and the hoursBear the full years along, nor find deceit,Bow'd 'neath a greater force than magic spell.For fourteen years have fought with varying powersDesire and Reason: and the best shall beat;If mortal spirits here can good foretell. Macgregor. Alas! I know death makes us all his prey,Nor aught of mercy shows to destined man;How swift the world completes its circling span,And faithless Time soon speeds him on his way.[Pg 97]My heart repeats the blast of earth's last day,Yet for its grief no recompense can scan,Love holds me still beneath its cruel ban,And still my eyes their usual tribute pay.My watchful senses mark how on their wingThe circling years transport their fleeter kin,And still I bow enslaved as by a spell:For fourteen years did reason proudly flingDefiance at my tameless will, to winA triumph blest, if Man can good foretell. Wollaston.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 64] SONNET L. Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima. HE PRAYS LOVE TO KINDLE ALSO IN HER THE FLAME BY WHICH HE IS UNCEASINGLY TORMENTED. Alas! this heart by me was little knownIn those first days when Love its depths explored,Where by degrees he made himself the lordOf my whole life, and claim'd it as his own:I did not think that, through his power alone,A heart time-steel'd, and so with valour stored,Such proof of failing firmness could afford,And fell by wrong self-confidence o'erthrown.Henceforward all defence too late will come,Save this, to prove, enough or little, hereIf to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear.Not now my prayer—nor can such e'er have room—That with more mercy he consume my heart,But in the fire that she may bear her part.
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Written by
A S J Tessimond |
1
(Windless Summer)
Between the glass panes of the sea are pressed
Patterns of fronds, and the bronze tracks of fishes.
2
(Winter)
Foam-ropes lasso the seal-black shiny rocks,
Noosing, slipping and noosing again for ever.
3
(Windy Summer)
Over-sea going, under returning, meet
And make a wheel, a shell, to hold the sun.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXX. Lasso, ch' i' ardo, ed altri non mel crede! POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES. Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught. Nott. Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plain[Pg 182]Infinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XLV. Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto. HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER. Fled—fled, alas! for ever—is the day,Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!And fled that angel vision far away;But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, soughtHer, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's carShe reaps the meed of matchless holiness:So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow farWith her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss! Wrangham. Ah! gone for ever are the happy yearsThat soothed my soul amid Love's fiercest fire,And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyreHas gone, alas!—But left my lyre, my tears:Gone is that face, whose holy look endears;But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,Left the sweet radiance of its eyes, entire;—My heart? Ah; no! not mine! for to the spheresOf light she bore it captive, soaring high,In angel robe triumphant, and now standsCrown'd with the laurel wreath of chastity:Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bandsThat tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,—To join blest spirits in celestial lands! Morehead.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LVII. L' ultimo, lasso! de' miei giorni allegri. HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING. The last, alas! of my bright days and glad—Few have been mine in this brief life below—[Pg 285]Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow,Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad.As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad,Who of some frequent fever waits the blow,E'en so I felt—for how could I foreknowSuch near end of the half-joys I have had?Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'dWith the pure light whence health and life descends,(Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,)With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd:"Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends,Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd." Macgregor. Ah me! the last of all my happy days(Not many happy days my years can show)Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow,Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays!E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays,And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow;'Twas thus I felt!—but could I therefore knowHow soon would end the bliss that never stays?Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light,Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain,Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night,Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,—"Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain,Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!" Morehead.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXCIX. Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglio. HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH. Alas! Love bears me where I would not go,And well I see how duty is transgress'd,And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,More than my wont importunate I grow.[Pg 207]Never from rocks wise sailor guarded soHis ship of richest merchandise possess'd,As evermore I shield my bark distress'dFrom shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrowTorrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs—For, in my sea, nights horrible and darkAnd pitiless winter reign—have driven my bark,Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies,Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain. Macgregor.
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