Down by the Salley gardens

William Butler Yeats (Irlanda, 1865-1939)

Down by the Salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the Salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

The lover tells of the rose in his heart

William Butler Yeats (Irlanda, 1865-1939)

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lum- bering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Now the day is over…

Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)

Now the day is over,
Night its drawing nigh-igh,
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.

To one in another mood

Djuna Barnes (1892-1982)

O dear beloved, shall I not go back
From gazing you always with wet eyes,
And mournful kisses from these lips where lies
More honey than your aloes? Must I crack
Still darker herbs, and sighing keep the track
With feigned lamenting and with fearful cries,
Slow twining you about with blasphemies
Because I would be dancing? Nay, I lack
The needed dull intoning of despair.
Nor in me echoes your too sombre mood,
Nor is it in my heart. Nor anywhere
Within my flesh the very flesh you wooed.
Then wherefore shall I loose my braided hair
Hiding my eyes, pretending that I brood?

To one in another mood

Djuna Barnes (1892-1982)

O dear beloved, shall I not go back
From gazing you always with wet eyes,
And mournful kisses from these lips where lies
More honey than your aloes? Must I crack
Still darker herbs, and sighing keep the track
With feigned lamenting and with fearful cries,
Slow twining you about with blasphemies
Because I would be dancing? Nay, I lack
The needed dull intoning of despair.
Nor in me echoes your too sombre mood,
Nor is it in my heart. Nor anywhere
Within my flesh the very flesh you wooed.
Then wherefore shall I loose my braided hair
Hiding my eyes, pretending that I brood?

Portrait of a Girl

Conrad (Potter) Aiken (1889-1978)

This is the shape of the leaf, and this of the flower,
And this the pale bole of the tree
Which watches its boughs in a pool of unwavering water
In a land we never shall see.

The thrush on the bough is silent, the dew falls softly,
In the evening is hardly a sound.
And the three beautiful pilgrims who come here together
Touch lightly the dust of the ground,

Touch it with feet that trouble the dust but as wings do,
Come shyly together, are still,
Like dancers who wait, in a pause of the music, for music
The exquisite silence to fill.

This is the thought of the first, and this of the second,
And this the grave thought of the third:
"Linger we thus for a moment, palely expectant,
And silence will end, and the bird

"Sing the pure phrase, sweet phrase, clear phrase in the twilight
To fill the blue bell of the world;

And we, who on music so leaf like have drifted together,
Leaflike apart shall be whirled

Into what but the beauty of silence, silence forever?" . . .
. . . This is the shape of the tree,
And the flower, and the leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims
This is what you are to me.

Touched by an Angel

Maya Angelou (EEUU, 1928- )

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasie
sold memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Phenomenal woman

Maya Angelou (EEUU, 1928- )

Pretty women wonder
Where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built
To suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Beautiful Woman

Archie Randolph Ammons (1926- )

The spring
in

her step
has

turned to
fall

NADA

Julia de Burgos

Como la vida es nada en tu filosofía,
brindemos por el cierto no ser de nuestros cuerpos.

Brindemos por la nada de tus sensuales labios
que son ceros sensuales en tus azules besos;
como todo azul, quimérica mentira
de los blandos océanos y de los blancos cielos.

Brindemos por la nada del material reclamo
que se hunde y se levanta en tu carnal deseo;
como todo lo carne, relámpago, chispazo,
en la verdad mentira sin fin del Universo.

Brindemos por la nada, bien nada de tu alma,
que corre su mentira en un potro sin freno;
como todo lo nada, buen nada, ni siquiera
se asoma de repente en un breve destello.

Brindemos por nosotros, por ellos, por ninguno;
por esta siempre nada de nuestros nunca cuerpos;
por todos, por los menos; por tantos y tan nada;
por esas sombras huecas de vivos que son muertos.

Si del no ser venimos y hacia el no ser marchamos,
nada entre nada y nada, cero entre cero y cero,
y si entre nada y nada no puede existir nada,
brindemos por el bello no ser de nuestros cuerpos.

Glare

Archie Randolph Ammons (1926- )

4. Hear me, O Lord...

hear me, O Lord, from the height of
the high place, where speaking is not

necessary to hearing and hearing is
in all languages: hear me, please,

have mercy, for I have hurt people,
though I think not much and where

much never intentionally and I have
accumulated a memory (and some heavy

fantasy) guilt–ridden and as a
nonreligious person, I have no way

to assuage, relieve, or forgive
myself: I work and work to try to

redeem old wrong with present good
:but I'm not even sure my good is good

or who it's really for: I figure I
can be forgiven, nearly, at least

by forgiving; that is, by understanding
that others, too, are caught up in

flurries of passion, of anger and
resentment and, my, my, jealousy and

that coincidences and unintentional
accidents of unwinding ways can't

be foreknown: what is started here,
say, cannot be told just where to

go and can't be halted midway and
can't, worst, be brought

back and started over: we are not,
O You, at the great height, whoever

you are or whatever, if anything, we
are not in charge, even though we

riddle localities with plans,
schemes, too, and devices, some of

them shameful or shameless: half–guilty
in most cases, sometimes in all, we

are half–guilty, and we live in
pain but may we suffer in your cool

presence, may we weep in your surround–
ing that already has understood:

we could not walk here without our
legs, and our feet kill, our

steps however careful: if you can
send no word silently healing, I

mean if it is not proper or realistic
to send word, actual lips saying

these broken sounds, why, may we be
allowed to suppose that we can work

this stuff out the best we can and
having felt out our sins to their

deepest definitions, may we walk with
you as along a line of trees, every

now and then your clarity and warmth
shattering across our shadowed way

Marina

Thomas Stearns Eliot (Gran Bretaña, 1888-1965)

Quis hic locus, quae regio,
quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what
grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the wood
thrush singing through
the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the
tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the
glory of the humming-bird,
meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of
contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the
ecstasy of the animals,
meaningDeath

Are become insubstantial,
reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the
wood song fog
By this grace dissolved in
place
What is this face, less
clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less
strong and stronger
-Given or lent? more distant
than stars and nearer than
the eye
Whispers and small
laughter between leaves and
hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the
waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice
and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the
canvas rotten
Between one June and
another September.
Made this unknowing, half
conscious, unknown, my
own.
The garboard strake leaks,
the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of
time beyond me;
let meResign my life for this life,
my speech for that
unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted,
the hope, the new ships.

What seas what shores
what granite islands towards
my timbers
And woodthrush calling
through the fog
My daughter.

El Olvido

Vicente Aleixandre (Sevilla, 1898-1984)

No es tu final como una copa vana
que hay que apurar. Arroja el casco, y muere.
Por eso lentamente levantas en tu mano
un brillo o una mención, y arden tus dedos,
como una nieve súbita.
Está y no estuvo, pero estuvo y calla.
El frío quema y en tus ojos nace
su memoria. Recordar es obsceno,
peor: es triste. Olvidar es morir.
Con dignidad murió. Su sombra cruza.

Se querían

Vicente Aleixandre (Sevilla, 1898-1984)

Sufrían por la luz, labios azules en la madrugada,
labios saliendo de la noche dura,
labios partidos, sangre, ¿sangre dónde?
Se querían en un lecho navío, mitad noche, mitad luz.
Se querían como las flores a las espinas hondas,
a esa amorosa gema del amarillo nuevo,
cuando los rostros giran melancólicamente,
giralunas que brillan recibiendo aquel beso.
Se querían de noche, cuando los perros hondos
laten bajo la tierra y los valles se estiran
como lomos arcaicos que se sienten repasados:
caricia, seda, mano, luna que llega y toca.
Se querían de amor entre la madrugada,
entre las duras piedras cerradas de la noche,
duras como los cuerpos helados por las horas,
duras como los besos de diente a diente solo.
Se querían de día, playa que va creciendo,
ondas que por los pies acarician los muslos,
cuerpos que se levantan de la tierra y flotando...
Se querían de día, sobre el mar, bajo el cielo.
Mediodía perfecto, se querían tan íntimos,
mar altísimo y joven, intimidad extensa,
soledad de lo vivo, horizontes remotos
ligados como cuerpos en soledad cantando.
Amando. Se querían como la luna lúcida,
como ese mar redondo que se aplica a ese rostro,
dulce eclipse de agua, mejilla oscurecida,
donde los peces rojos van y vienen sin música.
Día, noche, ponientes, madrugadas, espacios,
ondas nuevas, antiguas, fugitivas, perpetuas,
mar o tierra, navío, lecho, pluma, cristal,
metal, música, labio, silencio, vegetal,
mundo, quietud, su forma. Se querían, sabedlo.

Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

;)

Christina Georgina Rossetti (England, 1830–1894)

(...)
Ten years ago, five years ago,
one year ago,
even then you had arrived in time,
though somewhat slow;

Song

Rita Dove (EEUU, 1952- )

When I was young, the moon spoke in riddles
and the stars rhymed. I was a new toy
waiting for my owner to pick me up.

When I was young, I ran the day to it's knees.
There were trees to swing on, crickets for capture.

I was narrowly sweet, infinitely cruel,
tongued in honey and coddled in milk,
sunburned and silvery ans scabbed like a colt.

And the world was already old.
And I was older than I am today.

Demeter's prayer to Hades

Rita Dove (EEUU, 1952- )

This alone is what I wish for you: knowledge.
To understand each desire has an edge,
to know we are responsible for the lives
we change. No faith comes without cost,
no one believes anything without dying.
Now for the first time
I see clearly the trail you planted,
what ground opened to waste,
though you dreamed a wealth
of flowers.

There are no curses -- only mirror
sheld up to the souls of gods and mortals.
And so I give up this fate, too.
Believe in yourself,
go ahead -- see where it gets you.

To laugh often and love much...

Ralph Waldo Emerson (EEUU, 1803-1882)

To laugh often and love much
To win respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children

To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends
To appreciate beauty
To find the best in others
To leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition

To know even one life has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

de De materia verbalis (1957-58)

Lo que quiero decir
Es que no tengo nada que decir
Que todo lo que digo
Lo digo solamente
Solamente lo digo
Sin decir nada
Que mis palabras son fragmentos
Balbuceos de una frase oscura
Migajas de una vieja historia
Repleta de personajes
De señores y señoras que pasean
Bajo grandes cielos mudos
Sin saber que su sonrisa
Sus vestidos y sus huesos
Paseaban tranquilamente
Hace millares de años
Y seguirán paseando todavía
Millares de años más. Fragmentos
De una catástrofe celeste
De un insondable estornudo
Tan parecido al amor
Y hasta a la misma muerte
Que no distingue la arcilla
De la nada y nos sorprende cada día
Amarrados a una cama o una silla
Bajo la misma luz amarilla
El mismo miserable torbellino


Alguien dice
Que en la noche del cohete
Y la computadora
Los verdaderos poetas
Ya no escriben
Sino piensan solamente
Avanzan sin tropiezo
Entre la nada y la materia
Atraviesan cifras y galaxias
Que quizás no existen
Yo mientras tanto
Escribo solamente
Solamente escribo
Otros dicen
Que los verdaderos poetas
Se ocupan del amor
De la primavera y de la muerte
Yo solamente escribo
Escribo solamente
Todo es palabra para mí
Palabras centelleantes son los días
Palabras mi corazón y mis costillas
Y los diez mil objetos
Que me rodean como lobos
Palabras solamente
Y las diez mil parejas
Que copulan en la tierra
Como si fueran pájaros o peces
Palabras solamente
Porque la poesía
Que ahora mueve mi mano
Mueve también millares
Y millares de luceros
Como si fueran cerillas
No dice nada la poesía
Que ya no canta ni sonríe
Ni solloza entre las flores
Sino calla simplemente
En el tintero
¿Qué puedo yo agregar
A tanto silencio
Sino silencio
Más silencio
Sólo silencio?


Que somos todos poetas
No cabe duda alguna
Y no sólo los humanos
Sino también el cocodrilo
Las hormigas y los monos
Son poetas. El mismo sol
Que parece el más grande de todos
Es un poeta menor
Que nos alumbra débilmente
Y no nos deja ver
Más allá de nuestros ojos
Pero hay también personas
Que jamás han escrito
Una sola palabra
Porque ellos mismos son
Confusas palabras balbuceos
De ese brillante adefesio
Que llamamos universo
Insolentes criaturas
Que atraviesan nuestro mundo
Con un zapato en la cabeza
Y un sombrero en los pies
Siempre en busca de algo puro
De incandescentes bicicletas
Que según afirman
Llevan a las estrellas
Puesto que para ellos
Dios pasea diariamente
A través de sus galaxias
Y sus átomos azules
Siempre en bicicleta
Sin darse cuenta ¡oh inocentes!
Que nada de eso existe
Que no hay ninguna bicicleta
Y que lo que ellos buscan
Sin escribir nunca nada
Ni llamarse poetas
Se llama simplemente
Poesía

The Starry Night

Anne Sexton (1928-1974)

That doesnot keep me from having a terrible need of -shall I say the word- religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.
Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother


The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. Te night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
To push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swalows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.

Her Kind

Anne Sexton (1928-1974)

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Interlunar

Margaret Atwood (1939 - )

Darkness waits apart from any occasion for it;
like sorrow it is always available.
This is only one kind, the kind

in which there are stars
above the leaves, brilliant as steel nails
and countless and without regard.

We are walking together
on dead wet leaves in the intermoon
among the looming nocturnal rocks
which would be pinkish grey
in daylight, gnawed and softened
by moss and ferns, which would be green,
in the musty fresh yeast smell
of trees rotting, each returning
itself to itself

and I take your hand, which is the shape a hand
would be if you existed truly. I wish to show you
the darkness you are so afraid of.

Trust me. This darkness
is a place you can enter and be
as safe in as you are anywhere;
you can put one foot in front of the other
and believe the sides of your eyes.
Memorize it. You will know it
again in your own time.
When the appearances of things have left you,
you will still have this darkness.
Something of your own you can carry with you.

We have come to the edge:
the lake gives off its hush;
in the outer night there is a barred owl
calling, like a moth
against the ear, from the far shore
which is invisible.
The lake, vast and dimensionless,
doubles everything, the stars,
the boulders, itself, even the darkness
that you can walk so long in
it becomes light.