I. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we…
Read MoreCategory: بین الاقوامی ادب International Literature
The Red Wheelbarrows by William Carlos Williams
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens
Read MoreLover’s Complaint by William Shakespeare
From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sistering vale, My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of beauty spent and done: Time had not scythed all that…
Read MoreFrom Venus And Adonis by William Shakespeare
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad…
Read MoreFor Malcolm X by Margaet Walker
All you violated ones with gentle hearts; You violent dreamers whose cries shout heartbreak; Whose voices echo clamors of our cool capers, And whose black faces have hollowed pits for eyes. All you gambling sons and hooked children and bowery bums Hating white devils and black bourgeoisie, Thumbing your noses at your burning red suns, Gather round this coffin and mourn your dying swan. Snow-white moslem head-dress around a dead black face! Beautiful were your sand-papering words against our skins! Our blood and water pour from your flowing wounds. You…
Read MoreSmall Poems for Big by Chinaka Hodge
when you die, i’m told they only use given names christopher wallace no notorious neither b.i.g. nor smalls just voletta’s son brooklyn resident hustler for loose change, loosies and a lil loose kim let me tell you this the west coast didn’t get you illest flow or nah had our loyalties no need to discuss that now that your weight is dust that your tongue is air and your mother is coping as only she can i will also say that i have seen bed-stuy since b.k. misses you her…
Read MoreThe Mortician in San Francisco by Randall Mann
This may sound queer, but in 1985 I held the delicate hands of Dan White: I prepared him for burial; by then, Harvey Milk was made monument—no, myth—by the years since he was shot. I remember when Harvey was shot: twenty, and I knew I was queer. Those were the years, Levi’s and leather jackets holding hands on Castro Street, cheering for Harvey Milk— elected on the same day as Dan White. I often wonder about Supervisor White, who fatally shot Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Milk, who was…
Read MoreOrigin by Brian Komei Dempster
Through darkness they came, covered in ash, scarred by depths and distance, they bore salt and fire, breath steaming at edges of decks, hands clutching railings, their bodies dizzied by the lurching vessel, trunks pulled by hand, Where are you from? I unwrapped my legacy from cloth, the marble Buddha from my grandfather, ancient as the sea-stained covers of his sutras, the briny odor of carp centuries old. What are you? Not only where they were from but who they were and would become. His strange past…
Read MoreMoon by Kathleen Jamie
Last night, when the moon slipped into my attic room as an oblong of light, I sensed she’d come to commiserate. It was August. She traveled with a small valise of darkness, and the first few stars returning to the northern sky, and my room, it seemed, had missed her. She pretended an interest in the bookcase while other objects stirred, as in a rock pool, with unexpected life: strings of beads in their green bowl gleamed, the paper-crowded desk; the books, too, appeared inclined to open and confess. Being…
Read MoreThe Visit of the Professor of Aesthetics by Margaret Danner
To see you standing in the sagging bookstore door So filled me with chagrin that suddenly you seemed as Pink and white to me as newborn, hairless mouse. For I had hoped to delight you at home. Be a furl Of faint perfume and Vienna’s cord like lace, To shine my piano till a shimmer of mother-of-pearl Embraced it. To pleasantly surprise you with the grace That transcends my imitation and much worn “Louis XV” couch. To display my cathedrals and ballets. To plunge you into Africa through my nude…
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