This feeling is like a wonderful sting.
I want this feeling to hold me captive.
I wouldn't give this up, not even for all four seasons to be spring.
It doesn't need to be masked as attractive,
This unstable beautiful pain is mine, its what I want, what I need!
My happiness continually gains,
This is great. Something this good cannot be greed!
I'm glad to leave them, I found a better lain.
This I intend to keep.
No one else can have it, its mine!
Its mine when I'm awake, its mine when I'm asleep!
What's going on. This feeling is no longer a straight line.
I'm trapped in this bind, I no longer feel fine,
and now, I'm alone without a sign. 

 by David P. Leverett

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

by Robert Burns

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

by Anne Finch

A Farewell to False Love

Farewell false love, the oracle of lies, 
A mortal foe and enemy to rest, 
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, 
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, 
A way of error, a temple full of treason, 
In all effects contrary unto reason. 

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, 
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, 
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers 
As moisture lend to every grief that grows; 
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, 
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. 

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, 
A siren song, a fever of the mind, 
A maze wherein affection finds no end, 
A raging cloud that runs before the wind, 
A substance like the shadow of the sun, 
A goal of grief for which the wisest run. 

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, 
A path that leads to peril and mishap, 
A true retreat of sorrow and despair, 
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, 
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, 
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. 

Sith* then thy trains my younger years betrayed, [since] 
And for my faith ingratitude I find; 
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed*, [revealed] 
Whose course was ever contrary to kind*: [nature] 
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu. 
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

Sir Walter Raleigh

(For Aline)

Monsignore,
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring. 

It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
That I love a beautiful lady.
Her eyes, Monsignore,
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
On everything that she looks at,
Such as a wall
Or the moon
Or my heart.
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
Yet not quite like it,
For the blueness is not transparent,
Only translucent.
Her soul's light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
Made in the manner of the Japanese.
It is very blue-
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
Sweetly staining it
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
Loving her, Monsignore,
I love all her attributes;
But I believe
That even if I did not love her
I would love the blueness of her eyes,
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. 

Monsignore,
I have never before troubled you with a request.
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
And your brother bishop, my patron,
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
Do me this favour:
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it,
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
I beg you, say to her:
"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
For wearing a blue gown".

by Joyce Kilmer

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.

But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

a poem by Emily Dickinson

It takes strength to be firm
It takes courage to be gentle.

It takes strength to stand guard.
It takes courage to let down your guard

It takes strength to conquer.
It takes courage to surrender.

It takes strength to be certain.
It takes courage to have doubt.

It takes strength to fit in.
It takes courage to stand out.

It takes strength to feel a friend"s pain.
It takes courage to feel your own pain.

It takes strength to hide your own pains.
It takes courage to show them.

It takes strength to endure abuse.
It takes courage to stop it.

It takes strength to stand alone.
It takes courage to lean on another.

It takes strength to love.
It takes courage to be loved.

It takes strength to survive.
It takes courage to live

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), whose real name is Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, was born on 12 July, 1904, in the town of Parral in Chile. His father was a railway employee and his mother, who died shortly after his birth, a teacher. Some years later his father, who had then moved to the town of Temuco, remarried doña Trinidad Candia Malverde. The poet spent his childhood and youth in Temuco, where he also got to know Gabriela Mistral, head of the girls' secondary school, who took a liking to him.here is adapted a few poem of him

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

 I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Love Sonnet XVII

 do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

 If You Forget Me 

Morning

They earn an enormous amount of money
For memorizing two hours worth of dialogue
Then pretending to be someone else
Doing it so well that we believe them
Paying them all that money
To do something we all left behind us
In Childhood.
In their world
All problems are solved in two hours
And after being bloodily slaughtered
Folks get up and go out for a power lunch
Bodyguards protect their backs
Maids clean their homes
Nannies watch their children&
Temporary Queens and Kings of their domains
Until someone younger, more beautiful
Pushes them off the pinnacle
The worst tragedy of their sphere
To become a has been&

&so when a war started far away
To save a people who were really dying
Who were tortured and enslaved
To protect us from a valid enemy
Is it any wonder that these people
Who are so far from our reality
Would side more with the man
Who owns the palaces
Than face that strange thing
Anathema to their profession
That thing called reality?

Perhaps we should leave them to their world
Where silly little statues matter
And Human Suffering doesn't
Peace signs another accessory
To fancy dress
Perhaps a little boycott
Will remind them that real life
Is not lines learned
Life and death matters
Are not solved in two hours.

by: P-MAN 

The Constitution of the United States
Allows Susan Sarandon to protest the war
The First Amendment allows Sean Penn
To take tea with Saddam in Baghdad
The Constitution of the United States
Allows a Dixie Chick to publicly proclaim
She is ashamed of her Texas President.
The Constitution of the United States
Allows Martin Sheen to call the same president
A moron; a bad comic
Without fear of prosecution
Without government interference
No one will come to their door
In the middle of the night
Take them away
Never to be heard from again
It is their inalienable right.

The Free Enterprise System in this country
Allows me to boycott Susan, Sean; Sheen and Chick
The First Amendment allows me
To tell one and all how I feel.
The Armed Forces of the United States
Sends our sons and daughters
Our brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers
To fight and sometimes die defending
The Constitution of the United States
That allows Susan Sarandon to protest;
Sean to drink tea;
A Chick to be ashamed
And Sheen to be sarcastic
That same Constitution
Allows us to boycott them
To let them know
How ashamed of them
We feel.

Yet even while I flinch at their ignorance
And boycott their performances
I know this is why we fight
This simple freedom
That allows even the foolish
A voice
Is worth dying for.

BY: P-MAN

Never say I love you
If you really don't care
Never talk about feelings
If they aren't really there
Never hold my hand
If you are going to break my heart
Never say you are going to
If you don't plan to start
Never look into my eyes
If all you do is lie
Never say hello
If you really mean good bye
If you really mean forever
Then say you will try
Never say forever

Cause forever makes me cry

A Mother's love is something
that no on can explain,
It is made of deep devotion
and of sacrifice and pain,
It is endless and unselfish
and enduring come what may
For nothing can destroy it
or take that love away . . .
It is patient and forgiving
when all others are forsaking,
And it never fails or falters
even though the heart is breaking . . .
It believes beyond believing
when the world around condemns,
And it glows with all the beauty
of the rarest, brightest gems . . .
It is far beyond defining,
it defies all explanation,
And it still remains a secret
like the mysteries of creation . . .
A many splendoured miracle
man cannot understand
And another wondrous evidence
of God's tender guiding hand

by:Helen Steiner Rice

I wish we had time to hear you cry.
I wish we had time to hear you laugh,
I wish we had time to watch you play ...
To see you become your own person.

I wish we had time to comfort you,
When you were sad,
And time to share your joy,
When you were happy.
I wish we had time to show you
What we can about life ...

I wish we had time to protect you ...

You will be in our thoughts forever.
I wish we had a lifetime

wake up
wak up,wake up
wake up from sleep
wake from winter sleep
wake up from any sleep
or fantasy

dream is beautiful
but if you appear it to real
it must be more beautiful

so wake up
and start a new life
start for a better life
with steretching
with patiant
with loveful
with hope for tommorow

 Saeed Kashfi

star...star...star...we can see the shine of the stars...we can shine with stars...we can be shine like stars...we can shine better than stars...we can shine like sun...we can shine better than sun...we can be like the best shiner of the world...we can be the best shiner of the world....look at ourself...we are the better degree in the world...we are the best...i beleive that we are the best and everything built for us....so we have to show that we belong to this degree...so wake up...wake up from this winter sleep...wake up from sleep and fantasy....and start for a new life....start for a better life...start and have the most steretching....the steretching to take more scinefiction....to take more culture...to take everything you want or need...to take the best life that is possible....an i love you can...and i hope you can...and i know you can ...and i love you do...and i hope you do

saeed kashfi

I came to hate parking lots. Row upon row of cars and me without keys. I wove in and out of the junkers and shiny ego trips. All of them locked up tight. I heard the sound of leather, tasted dashboard dust. Maybe I could learn to jimmy locks. I tapped at windows waiting for alarms or a long shot. I wished I knew how to hot-wire. I dreamed of asking for directions at a greasy gas station. Yet driving randomly and reaching my destination anyway. All I could feel was the echo of engines. The sound of their cooling like the ticking of clocks. I sat on a curb considering the weight of my shoes.

Jessica Maren Spenny

Your watch stopped forty-five minutes after you died. Years later I brought it from that shallow drawer where the futile artifacts resided (donor card, wallet with petrol receipts, driving cap to hide no hair), and placed it on my wrist, forced to adjust the link; unlike you, I have yet to be eaten. Then I waited, hoping that with each stride I took, with a pulse, the innards would be granted energy and stir. In the morning I woke to no change, shaking hard, willing it on; next seated with mother in a repair shop, terse glances at the work room. The attendant returned it with a frown, even a look of hostility, confirming that it was beyond repair, that somehow the coils and springs had been wrenched inside-out, and what precise, violent change of atmosphere had afflicted me, pulverizing each mechanism clear? I hurried home, cradled that unresponsive metal in my palms, awed by the tumultuousness of your passing-- how, so trapped in bed, you struggled within and sundered time to the anger of leaving us alone.

Ashley D. Faulkner

I sing in the shower
Because America doesn't want to hear
The song I'd like to sing to them,
They like to rip me up
And say that I don't sing it right.
I don't sing the way
They'd like me to,
They try to make me, I won't budge.
For some strange reason
It gets to them
That I won't fit into their bubble.
They say that I can't sing right.
My voice, it is disabled.
That I should go sing elsewhere
Or maybe never sing at all,
Or if I try, I should just hum,
Or maybe even whistle.
But no one will stop me
From being myself

bye:jonathon david svendsen

A heart beats wildly in the night
As breath races out of control
Darkness clouds the vision
Slowly she spoke
A tongue rapt with desire
Lips untouched
Now forever mine

Love is hard to find,
when not everyone is kind
Love may be infront of you,
difficult to be the same as two

Love is the master key that opens the gates of happines
Love is an act of endless forgivess
Love makes the world go round,
it is what makes a compound

Love may be a simple luck
For others may be a sound track
Love is friendship set on fire
You may be the best up higher

Love may be a bright star,
Brightening out side but far.

by: Jarjour Hernandez

Life is like a wave
It goes down and up
It dances the low and high tide
Shows tears and laughters
Can be short or long journey
Without love,no one could see
The beginning and the end
The ugly and the beauty
The worst and the best
That this world has to give
The world without life
The life without world
Anything without its contrary
Something life can never have
Or else life wouldn't be a life
Life could be not or against the world
But one thing one shouldn't forget
That life is a gift from above
So whichever wave you would be
Hold on to God,He guides the way

by: Jarjour Hernandez

And you could feel my breath
Warm against your skin
As I let my presence beg you
To let this true love in

I wish that I could hold you
And whisper long into your night
Never would you wonder then
As I held you to me tight

bye crisite

و تو می توانی نفسم را احساس کنی

گرما به مخالفت پوست تو بر می خیزد

همانطور که به وجودم اجازه میدهم تو را طلب کند

به این حقیقت که عاشقت هستم

من ارزومندم که تو را داشته باشم

و تو را می پرستم در تمام شب

و هیچ گاه تو  متحیر نمی شوی که

چرا من تو را اینگونه سر سخت نگه میدارم.

توسط کریستین

Wine and Water

 

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale
He ate his egg with a ladle in a egg-cup big as a pail
And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and fish he took was Whale
But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail, 
And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine
"I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine 
The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink 
As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink 
The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink
And Noah he cocked his eye and said, "It looks like rain, I think,
The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine 
But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine
But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod
Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod 
And you can't get wine at a P.S.A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod
For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, 
And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine 
But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine

by G.K.Chesterton

شراب و اب

نواا پیر , مزرعه ای پراز شتر مرغ داشت و بر روی پوست این جانوران شکار میکرد

او تخم مرغ هایش را با ملاقه ای که درون ظرفی به بزرگی یک سطل بود میخورد

و سوپی که میخورد سوپ فیل و ماهی که میخورد وال بود

ولی همه اینها برای شکم او به هنگام برگشت به خانه کم بود 

,

و نواا اغلب به زنش می گفت وقتی که برای غذا اماده میشه

من نمیدونم اگر اب داخل شراب نره,چه بدردی می خوره

I wish I could remember the first day 

 First hour, first moment of your meeting me

If bright or dim the season it might be

 Summer or winter for aught I can say

 So, unrecorded did it slip away  

 So blind was I to see and to forsee

 So dull to mark the budding of my tree

 That would not blossom, yet, for many a May

 If only I could recollect it!  Such

 A day of days!  I let it come and go

 As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow

 It seemed to mean so little, meant so much

If only now I could recall that touch

 First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know

I am left in the night , trembling with fear

I have seen to the future and the future in here

Our leader will bring victory but our land is in flames

And as the final sounds of battle disappear I had to say

What about me , andthe ones that we love

What about me , and you , ant the ones that we love

well , what about us

 در ظلمت شب از ترس به خود می لرزم

در اندیشه آینده که اکنون است

منجی می آید با ارمغان پیروزی اما سرزمینم در آتش می سوزد

به دور از همه این جنگ ها و سیاهی ها باید بگویم

پس من چه و تو و انهایی که دوستشان داریم

پس من چه و تو و انهایی که دوستشان داریم

به من بگو چه کنیم ؟

( کریس دبرگ )

نوشته شده توسط دوست عزیز ترانه

http://pariegolha.blogfa.com

Aldington, christened Edward Godfree, was born at Portsmouth, Hampshire, England, on July 8, 1892. At an early age, he moved with his mother, Jesse May, and father, middle-class lawer Albert Edward Aldington, to Dover. There he grew up with his sister Margery and attended preparatory schools, after which he studied for four years at Dover College.

Childhood by Richard Aldington

The bitterness. the misery, the wretchedness of childhood
Put me out of love with God.
I can't believe in God's goodness;
I can believe
In many avenging gods.
Most of all I believe
In gods of bitter dullness,
Cruel local gods
Who scared my childhood.

II

I've seen people put
A chrysalis in a match-box,
"To see," they told me, "what sort of moth would come."
But when it broke its shell
It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison
And tried to climb to the light
For space to dry its wings.

That's how I was.
Somebody found my chrysalis
And shut it in a match-box.
My shrivelled wings were beaten,
Shed their colours in dusty scales
Before the box was opened
For the moth to fly.

III

I hate that town;
I hate the town I lived in when I was little;
I hate to think of it.
There wre always clouds, smoke, rain
In that dingly little valley.
It rained; it always rained.
I think I never saw the sun until I was nine --
And then it was too late;
Everything's too late after the first seven years.

The long street we lived in
Was duller than a drain
And nearly as dingy.
There were the big College
And the pseudo-Gothic town-hall.
There were the sordid provincial shops --
The grocer's, and the shops for women,
The shop where I bought transfers,
And the piano and gramaphone shop
Where I used to stand
Staring at the huge shiny pianos and at the pictures
Of a white dog looking into a gramaphone.

How dull and greasy and grey and sordid it was!
On wet days -- it was always wet --
I used to kneel on a chair
And look at it from the window.

The dirty yellow trams
Dragged noisily along
With a clatter of wheels and bells
And a humming of wires overhead.
They threw up the filthy rain-water from the hollow lines
And then the water ran back
Full of brownish foam bubbles.

There was nothing else to see --
It was all so dull --
Except a few grey legs under shiny black umbrellas
Running along the grey shiny pavements;
Sometimes there was a waggon
Whose horses made a strange loud hollow sound
With their hoofs
Through the silent rain.

And there was a grey museum
Full of dead birds and dead insects and dead animals
And a few relics of the Romans -- dead also.
There was a sea-front,
A long asphalt walk with a bleak road beside it,
Three piers, a row of houses,
And a salt dirty smell from the little harbour.

I was like a moth --
Like one of those grey Emperor moths
Which flutter through the vines at Capri.
And that damned little town was my match-box,
Against whose sides I beat and beat
Until my wings were torn and faded, and dingy
As that damned little town.

IV

At school it was just as dull as that dull High Street.
The front was dull;
The High Street and the other street were dull --
And there was a public park, I remember,
And that was damned dull, too,
With its beds of geraniums no one was allowed to pick,
And its clipped lawns you weren't allowed to walk on,
And the gold-fish pond you mustn't paddle in,
And the gate made out of a whale's jaw-bones,
And the swings, which were for "Board-School children,"
And its gravel paths.

And on Sundays they rang the bells,
From Baptist and Evangelical and Catholic churches.
They had a Salvation Army.
I was taken to a High Church;
The parson's name was Mowbray,
"Which is a good name but he thinks too much of it --"
That's what I heard people say.

I took a little black book
To that cold, grey, damp, smelling church,
And I had to sit on a hard bench,
Wriggle off it to kneel down when they sang psalms
And wriggle off it to kneel down when they prayed,
And then there was nothing to do
Except to play trains with the hymn-books.

There was nothing to see,
Nothing to do,
Nothing to play with,
Except that in an empty room upstairs
There was a large tin box
Containing reproductions of the Magna Charta,
Of the Declaration of Independence
And of a letter from Raleigh after the Armada.
There were also several packets of stamps,
Yellow and blue Guatemala parrots,
Blue stags and red baboons and birds from Sarawak,
Indians and Men-of-war
From the United States,
And the green and red portraits
Of King Francobello
Of Italy.

V

I don't believe in God.
I do believe in avenging gods
Who plague us for sins we never sinned
But who avenge us.

That's why I'll never have a child,
Never shut up a chrysalis in a match-box
For the moth to spoil and crush its brght colours,
Beating its wings against the dingy prison-wall.

Sophie Hannah was born in 1971 in Manchester. She was educated at the University of Manchester, where she studied English Literature and Spanish. Fellow Commoner in the Creative Arts at Trinity College, Cambridge, and a Fellow of Wolfson College, Oxford, she currently teaches at Manchester Metropolitan University's Writing School. She was awarded an Eric Gregory Award in 1995 and was a Patron for the Swansea Year of Literature in the same year

Leaving and Leaving You by Sophie Hannah

Ros Barber (born 1964) is a British poet and writer. Barber was born in Washington D.C., where her father was working for the US government, and grew up in Essex, later moving to Sussex to study for a Biology degree. Both parents are physicists by training, and Barber has a strong interest in science and mathematics which comes through i the formal aspects of many of her poems

How to Leave the World that Worships should by Ros Barber

Let faxes butter-curl on dusty shelves
Let junkmail build its castles in the hush
of other people’s halls. Let deadlines burst
and flash like glorious fireworks somewhere else
As hours go softly by, let others curse
the roads where distant drivers queue like sheep
Let e-mails fly like panicked, tiny birds
Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep

Above, the sky unrolls its telegram
immense and wordless, simply understood
you’ve made your mark like birdtracks in the sand
now make the air in your lungs your livelihood
See how each wave arrives at last to heave
itself upon the beach and vanish. Breathe

 

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) was born in Dublin to unconventional parents. His mother, Lady Jane Francesca Wilde (1820-96), was a poet and journalist. Her pen name was Sperenza. According to a story she warded off creditors by reciting Aeschylus. Wilde's father was Sir William Wilde, an Irish antiquarian, gifted writer, and specialist in diseases of the eye and ear, who founded a hospital in Dublin a year before Oscar was born. His work gained for him the honorary appointment of Surgeon Oculist

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde

Sonnet To Liberty by Oscar Wilde

Born in Yorkshire in 1952, Helen Dunmore studied English at York University and taught in Finland for two years before publishing her first book. She has worked as a writer, reader, performer and teacher of Poetry and Creative Writing, tutoring residential writing courses for the Arvon Foundation and taking part in the Poetry Society's Writer in Schools scheme. She has also taught at the University of Glamorgan, the University of Bristol's Continuing Education Department and for the Open College

 All The Things You Are Not Yet by Helen Dunmore

Tonight there's a crowd in my head
all the things you are not yet
You are words without paper, pages
sighing in summer forests, gardens
where builders stub out their rubble
and plastic oozes its sweat
All the things you are, you are not yet

Not yet the lonely window in midwinter
with the whine of tea on an empty stomach
not yet the heating you can't afford and must wait for
tamping a coin in on each hour
Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors
and their interiors, always so much smaller
Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur
on your fingertips — your fame. Not yet

the love you will have for Winter Pearmains
and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable
to buy both washing-machine and computer
when your baby's due to be born,
and my voice saying, "I'll get you one"
and you frowning, frowning
at walls and surfaces which are not mine
all this, not yet. Give me your hand

that small one without a mark of work on it
the one that's strange to the washing-up bowl
and doesn't know Fairy Liquid for whiskey
Not yet the moment of your arrival in taxis
at daring destinations, or your being alone at stations
with the skirts of your fashionable clothes flapping
and no money for the telephone

Not yet the moment when I can give you nothing
so well-folded it fits in an envelope
a dull letter you won't reread
Not yet the moment of your assimilation
in that river flowing westward: rivers of clothes
of dreams, an accent unlike my own
saying to someone I don't know: darling

.

Ruth Padel is a British poet, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. She has won the UK National Poetry Competition and published six collections of poetry, celebrated for glittering imagery, and for "passion, wit, music, texture and elegance" (Paul Durcan).
Voodoo Shop (2002) was shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot and Whitbread Prizes. "Visual, sensuous and highly seductive, as if Wallace Stevens had hijacked Sylvia Plath with a dash of punk Sappho thrown in," said the Times Literary Suppl

TIGER DRINKING AT FOREST POOL by Ruth Padel