PolyArchive

Меня, как реку… Анна Ахматова Блажен, кто посетил сей мир В его минуты роковые. –Тютчев Н.А. О-ой Меня, как реку, Суровая эпоха повернула. Мне подменили жизнь. В другое русло, Мимо другого потекла она, И я своих не знаю берегов. О, как я много зрелищ пропустила, И занавес вздымался без меня И так же падал. Сколько […]

And Yet the Books Czesław Miłosz And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, That appeared once, still wet As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, And touched, coddled, began to live In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, Tribes on the march, planets in motion. “We […]

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think […]

Przedmowa Ty, którego nie mogłem ocalić, Wysłuchaj mnie. Zrozum tę mowę prostą, bo wstydzę się innej. Przysięgam, nie ma we mnie czarodziejstwa słów. Mówię do ciebie milcząc, jak obłok czy drzewo. To, co wzmacniało mnie, dla ciebie było śmiertelne. Żegnanie epoki brałeś za początek nowej, Natchnienie nienawiści za piękno liryczne, Siłę ślepą za dokonany kształt. […]

Po prostu Julia Hartwig Na wszystko przyjdzie pora Ale nie przyjdzie czas wskrzeszenia pierwszych nadziei i pierwszych miłości ani utrwalenia w słowach tego co przebiega ci przez głowę jak wiatr i bywa przeczuciem jakiejś ważnej prawdy lecz umyka tak szybko jakoby swawoliło Przychodzi jednak nieodwołalnie pora kiedy po kolei tracić zaczynasz wszystko co kochałeś i […]

The Letter Dana Gioia And in the end, all that is really left Is a feeling—strong and unavoidable— That somehow we deserved something better. That somewhere along the line things Got fouled up. And that letter from whoever’s In charge, which certainly would have set Everything straight between us and the world, Never reached us. […]

Lines Lost among Trees Billy Collins These are not the lines that came to me while walking in the woods with no pen and nothing to write on anyway. They are gone forever, a handful of coins dropped through the grate of memory, along with the ingenious mnemonic I devised to hold them in place- […]

Man Carrying Thing Wallace Stevens The poem must resist the intelligence Almost successfully. Illustration: A brune figure in winter evening resists Identity. The thing he carries resists The most necessitous sense. Accept them, then, As secondary (parts not quite perceived Of the obvious whole, uncertain particles Of the certain solid, the primary free from doubt, […]

Twigs Taha Muhammad Ali Translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin Neither music, fame, nor wealth, not even poetry itself, could provide consolation for life’s brevity, or the fact that King Lear is a mere eighty pages long and comes to an end, and for the thought that one might suffer greatly on […]

Happiness Jane Kenyon There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the […]

The Harvest Bow Seamus Heaney As you plaited the harvest bow You implicated the mellowed silence in you In wheat that does not rust But brightens as it tightens twist by twist Into a knowable corona, A throwaway love-knot of straw. Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks And lapped the spurs on a […]

The Underground Seamus Heaney There we were in the vaulted tunnel running, You in your going-away coat speeding ahead And me, me then like a fleet god gaining Behind you before you turned to a reed Or some new white flower japped with crimson As the coat flapped wild and button after button Sprang off […]

Digging Seamus Heaney Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through […]

Coda Dorothy Parker There’s little in taking or giving, There’s little in water or wine; This living, this living, this living Was never a project of mine. Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is The gain of the one at the top, For art is a form of catharsis, And love is a permanent […]