Written by
Charles Bukowski |
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
|
Written by
Mihai Eminescu |
On the pond bright sparks are falling,
Wavelets in the sunlight glisten ;
Gazing on the woods with rapture ,
Do I let my spirit capture
Drowsiness, and lie and listen.
.
.
Quails are calling.
All the silent water sleeping
Of the streams and of the rivers ;
Only where the sun is shining
Thousand circles there designing
As with fright its surface shivers,
Swiftly leaping.
Pipe the birds midst woods concealing,
Which of us their language guessing ?
Birds of endless kinds and races
Chirp amidst its leafy places
And what wisdom they expressing
And what feeling.
Asks the cuckoo: "Who has seen
Our beloved summer idol ,
Beautiful beyond all praising
Through her languid lashes gazing,
Pur most lovely, tender, bridal,
Forest queen ?"
Bends the lime with gentle care
Her sweet body to embower ;
In the breeze his branches singing
Lift her in their arms upswinging,
While a hundred blossoms shower
On her hair.
Asks the brooklet as it flows :
" Where has gone my lovely lady ?
She, who evening hour beguiling,
In my silver surface smiling,
Broke its mirror deep and shady
With her toes ?"
I replied:" O forest, she
Comes no more, no more returning !
Only you, great oaks, still dreaming
Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming,
That the summer through were yearning
Just for me.
"
Happy then, alone we twain,
Through the forest brush-wood striding !
Sweet enchanted tale of wonder
That the darkness broke asunder.
.
.
Dear, wherever you'd be hiding,
Come again !
English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu
Transcribed by Monica Dima
School No.
10, Focsani, Romania
|
Written by
Barry Tebb |
To Thushari Williams
Dear Thushie, the six months you spent with us
Will never be forgotten, the long days you laboured
In the care home, your care-worn comings home
To sit with Brenda Williams, po?te maudit sang pur,
Labouring together to bring to light poems buried alive
And turn them into a book, the living text
Proof enough of your divine gift as muse
And enchantress of both word and screen.
Now in far Indonesia you strive to strike a bargain
With an uncaring world, webmaster with magic fingertips
You engrave the words of us, careworn poets of our age,
In blue and scarlet on a canvas alabaster page.
Simulacrum more real than reality itself,
Should reality exist in cyberspace.
My Pr?vert, my Nerval, I never thought to see
So handsomely orthographed, like Li Po scrolled
In Chinese water by a blue pagoda.
Indeed if anyone could write in troubled water
It would be you, my dearest daughter.
Whether this world will grant you a living
Only time’s indifference and your subtle craft will tell,
Artists like poets live on other’s bounty, as you know so well.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 221] SONNET CCXVI.
I' pur ascolto, e non odo novella.
HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.
Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,
Of that sweet enemy I love so well:
What now to think or say I cannot tell,
'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:
The beautiful are still the marks of fate;
And sure her worth and beauty most excel:
What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwell
Where virtue finds a more congenial state?
If so, she will illuminate that sphere
Even as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!
I then am nothing, have no business here!
O cruel absence! why not let me see
The worst? my little tale is told, I fear,
My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.
Morehead.
No tidings yet—I listen, but in vain;
Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,
What or to think or say I nothing know,
So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,
Danger to some has in their beauty lain;
Fairer and chaster she than others show;
God haply seeks to snatch from earth below
Virtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,
Or rather sun.
If what I dread be nigh,
My life, its trials long, its brief repose
Are ended all.
O cruel absence! why
Didst thou remove me from the menaced woes?
My short sad story is already done,
And midway in its course my vain race run.
Macgregor.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXVII.
Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano.
HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY.
Not of one dear hand only I complain,
Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,
But its fair fellow and her soft arms too
Are prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.
Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,
Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,
That so her high and heavenly part endue,
No style can equal it, no mind attain.
That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,
The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and rose
Contrast each other, whence rich music flows,
These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,
The fine head, the bright tresses which defied
The sun to match them in his noonday pride.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET V.
Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi.
HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.
What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eye
Back on the time that never shall return?
The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn,
Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?
Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,
Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,
Are fled; and—well thou knowest, poor forlorn!—
To seek them here were bootless industry.
Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;
To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:
Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,
Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.
Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view,
Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.
Wrangham.
|