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Sasha's poetry corner
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grahamb



Joined: 30 Apr 2003
Posts: 1945

PostPosted: Mon Mar 31, 2014 11:08 am    Post subject: Pardon? Reply with quote

Sasha's using the Wingdings font again. Crying or Very sad
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Mon Mar 31, 2014 7:00 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Easier than Arabic...
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Fri Apr 04, 2014 4:14 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 9:16 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

A Grey Day

I spoke in a hurry, in a nervous hush,
Because the time was short—
The lightning was shuddering,
Slowing down, running.

Or was that my blood,
The quiet diminishing of daily life?
It’s time for me to go forth
Into Your tiny mustard seed.

In the house of my Father, everything is fading,
In the house of the Father, all the angels are crying,
Because the anguish of a jaded, exhausted horse
Sometimes finds its way even unto them.

One gray day, I was alive on this earth,
And amid the mist of day—in triumph—
The Spirit may approach and look
So that you will see Him, without seeing.

And, so, celebrate the meager light,
Curse not the twilight.
If Christ is to visit us
It will be on such pitiful days as these.

I was thinking: God has abandoned me,
So, what of it—he is a priceless ray of light,
Or a thin needle in the haystack of man. And cruel.
I have turned away from him—torment me no more.
But which of us is more cruel? More to be feared?
The one who has no body, of course.
He has made us endless, vast—
So that our grief will know no bounds.

Elena Shvartz
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 12:53 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

МОЙ ДОМ

А в доме, где жила я много лет,
откуда я ушла зимой блокадной,
по вечерам опять в окошках свет.
Он розоватый, праздничный, нарядный.

Взглянув на бывших три моих окна,
я вспоминаю: здесь была война.
О, как мы затемнялись! Ни луча...
И все темнело, все темнело в мире...

Потом хозяин в дверь не постучал,
как будто путь забыл к своей квартире.
Где до сих пор беспамятствует он,
какой последней кровлей осенен?

Нет, я не знаю, кто живет теперь
в тех комнатах, где жили мы с тобою,
кто вечером стучится в ту же дверь,
кто синеватых не сменил обоев -
тех самых, выбранных давным-давно...
Я их узнала с улицы в окно.

Но этих окон праздничный уют
такой забытый свет в сознанье будит,
что верится: там добрые живут,
хорошие, приветливые люди.

Там даже дети маленькие есть
и кто-то юный и всегда влюбленный,
и только очень радостную весть
сюда теперь приносят почтальоны.
И только очень верные друзья
сюда на праздник сходятся шумливый.

Я так хочу, чтоб кто-то был счастливым
там, где безмерно бедствовала я.

Владейте всем, что не досталось мне,
и всем, что мною отдано войне...

Но если вдруг такой наступит день -
тишайший снег и сумерек мерцанье,
и станет жечь, нагнав меня везде,
блаженное одно воспоминанье,
и я не справлюсь с ним и, постучав,
приду в мой дом и встану на пороге,
спрошу... Ну, там спрошу: "Который час?"
или: "Воды", как на войне в дороге,-
то вы приход не осуждайте мой,
ответьте мне доверьем и участьем:
ведь я пришла сюда к себе домой
и помню все и верю в наше счастье...

Ольга Фёдоровна Берггольц
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 12:54 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

For those who do not read the wingdings...

My Home

In the home where I lived many years,
From where I left the winter of the blockade,
A light once again appears in the evening windows.
It is pinkish, festive, elegant.

Glancing at the three windows that used to be mine,
I remember: the war happened here.
Oh how we darkened, without a ray of hope...
And everything darkened, everything darkened in this world...

Afterwards the owner did not knock on the door,
As though he had forgotten the way back to his own apartment.
Where is he now, absent-mindedly roaming?
What is the last place that gave him shelter?

No, I do not know who lives there now,
In these rooms where you and I used to live,
Who, in the evenings, knocks on that very door,
Who left the blue wallpaper as it was,
The very same wallpaper that was chosen so long ago...
I recognized it from outside through the window.

The windows’ inviting comfort,
Awaken memories of such bright, forgotten light,
That I believe that kind people live there,
Good, welcoming people.

There are even little children there,
And someone young, who is perpetually in love,
And the postman only brings them happy news,
And only the truest friends come here for noisy holidays.

I want so dearly for someone to be happy,
There, where I suffered immeasurably.

Possess everything that was denied to me,
And all that I gave up for the war...

However, should such a day arrive,
When the tranquil snow and glimmering twilight,
Will light ablaze my blessed memories,
So vividly that I will not resist knocking on the door,
Coming into my home, standing in my threshold,
And asking...well asking, “What time is it?”
Or “Water,” like I did on those roads of war.
If that happens, do not judge me,
Answer me trustingly and compassionately,
After all, I have come here to my home,
And I remember it all and believe in our happiness.

Olga Fyodorovna Berggolts
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 12:58 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Requiem

1935-1940
Not under foreign skies protection
Or saving wings of alien birth –
I was then there – with whole my nation –
There, where my nation, alas! was.

1961


INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

In the awful days of the Yezhovschina I passed seventeen months in the outer waiting line of the prison visitors in Leningrad. Once, somebody ‘identified’ me there. Then a woman, standing behind me in the line, which, of course, never heard my name, waked up from the torpor, typical for us all there, and asked me, whispering into my ear (all spoke only in a whisper there):
“And can you describe this?”
And I answered:
“Yes, I can.”
Then the weak similarity of a smile glided over that, what had once been her face.

April 1, 1957; Leningrad


DEDICATION

The high crags decline before this woe,
The great river does not flow ahead,
But they’re strong – the locks of a jail, stone,
And behind them – the cells, dark and low,
And the deadly pine is spread.
For some one, somewhere, a fresh wind blows,
For some one, somewhere, wakes up a dawn –
We don’t know, we’re the same here always,
We just hear the key’s squalls, morose,
And the sentry’s heavy step alone;
Got up early, as for Mass by Easter,
Walked the empty capital along
To create the half-dead peoples’ throng.
The sun downed, the Neva got mister,
But our hope sang afar its song.
There’s a sentence… In a trice tears flow…
Now separated, cut from us,
As if they’d pulled out her heart and thrown
Or pushed down her on a street stone –
But she goes… Reels… Alone at once.
Where are now friends unwilling those,
Those friends of my two years, brute?
What they see in the Siberian snows,
In a circle of the moon, exposed?
To them I send my farewell salute.


PROLOGUE

In this time, just a dead could half-manage
A weak smile – with the peaceful state glad.
And, like some heavy, needless appendage,
Mid its prisons swung gray Leningrad.
And, when mad from the tortures’ succession,
Marched the army of those, who’d been doomed,
Sang the engines the last separation
With their whistles through smoking gloom,
And the deathly stars hanged our heads over
And our Russia writhed under the boots –
With the blood of the guiltless full-covered –
And the wheels on Black Maries’ black routes.

1

You were taken away at dawn’s mildness.
I convoyed you, as my dead-born child,
Children cried in the room’s half-grey darkness,
And the lamp by the icon lost light.
On your lips dwells the icon kiss’s cold
On your brow – the cold sweet … Don’t forget!
Like a wife of the rebel of old
On the Red Square, I’ll wail without end.

2

The quiet Don bears quiet flood,
The crescent enters in a hut.

He enters with a cap on head,
He sees a woman like a shade.

This woman’s absolutely ill,
This woman’s absolutely single.

Her man is dead, son – in a jail,
Oh, pray for me – a poor female!

3

No, ‘tis not I, ‘tis someone’s in a suffer –
I was ne’er able to endure such pain.
Let all, that was, be with a black cloth muffled,
And let the lanterns be got out ... and reign
just Night.

4

You should have seen, girl with some mocking manner,
Of all your friends the most beloved pet,
The whole Tsar Village’s a sinner, gayest ever –
What should be later to your years sent.
How, with a parcel, by The Crosses, here,
You stand in line with the ‘Three Hundredth’ brand
And, with your hot from bitterness a tear,
Burn through the ice of the New Year, dread.
The prison’s poplar’s bowing with its brow,
No sound’s heard – But how many, there,
The guiltless ones are loosing their lives now…

5

I’ve cried for seventeen long months,
I’ve called you for your home,
I fell at hangmen’ feet – not once,
My womb and hell you’re from.
All has been mixed up for all times,
And now I can’t define
Who is a beast or man, at last,
And when they’ll kill my son.
There’re left just flowers under dust,
The censer’s squall, the traces, cast
Into the empty mar…
And looks strait into my red eyes
And threads with death, that’s coming fast,
The immense blazing star.

6

The light weeks fly faster here,
What has happened I don’t know,
How, into your prison, stone,
Did white nights look, my son, dear?
How do they stare at you, else,
With their hot eye of a falcon,
Speak of the high cross, you hang on,
Of the slow coming death?

7

THE SENTENCE

The word, like a heavy stone,
Fell on my still living breast.
I was ready. I didn’t moan.
I will try to do my best.

I have much to do my own:
To forget this endless pain,
Force this soul to be stone,
Force this flesh to live again.

Just if not … The rustle of summer
Feasts behind my window sell.
Long before I’ve seen in slumber
This clear day and empty cell.

8

TO DEATH

You’ll come in any case – why not right now, therefore?
I wait for you – my strain is highest.
I have doused the light and left opened the door
For you, so simple and so wondrous.
Please, just take any sight, which you prefer to have:
Thrust in – in the gun shells’ disguises,
Or crawl in with a knife, as an experienced knave,
Or poison me with smoking typhus,
Or quote the fairy tale, grown in the mind of yours
And known to each man to sickness,
In which I’d see, at last, the blue of the hats’ tops,
And the house-manager, ‘still fearless’.
It’s all the same to me. The cold Yenisei lies
In the dense mist, the Northern Star – in brightness,
And a blue shine of the beloved eyes
Is covered by the last fear-darkness.

9

Already madness, with its wing,
Covers a half of my heart, restless,
Gives me the flaming wine to drink
And draws into the vale of blackness.

I understand that just to it
My victory has to be given,
Hearing the ravings of my fit,
Now fitting to the stranger’s living.

And nothing of my own past
It’ll let me take with self from here
(No matter in what pleas I thrust
Or how often they appear):

Not awful eyes of my dear son –
The endless suffering and patience –
Not that black day when thunder gunned,
Not that jail’s hour of visitation,

Not that sweet coolness of his hands,
Not that lime’s shade in agitation,
Not that light sound from distant lands –
Words of the final consolations.

10

CRUCIFIXION
Don’t weep for me, Mother,
seeing me in a grave.

I

The angels’ choir sang fame for the great hour,
And skies were melted in the fire’s rave.
He said to God, “Why did you left me, Father?”
And to his Mother, “Don’t weep o’er my grave…”

II

Magdalena writhed and sobbed in torments,
The best pupil turned into a stone,
But none dared – even for a moment –
To sight Mother, silent and alone.


EPILOGUE

I

I’ve known how, at once, shrink back the faces,
How fear peeps up from under the eyelids,
How suffering creates the scriptural pages
On the pale cheeks its cruel reigning midst,
How the shining raven or fair ringlet
At once is covered by the silver dust,
And a smile slackens on the lips, obedient,
And deathly fear in the dry snicker rustles.
And not just for myself I pray to Lord,
But for them all, who stood in that line, hardest,
In a summer heat and in a winter cold,
Under the wall, so red and so sightless.

II

Again a memorial hour is near,
I can now see you and feel you and hear:

And her, who’d been led to the air in a fit,
And her – who no more touches earth with her feet.

And her – having tossed with her beautiful head –
She says, “I come here as to my homestead.”

I wish all of them with their names to be called;
But how can I do that? I have not the roll.

The wide common cover I’ve wov’n for their lot –
>From many a word, that from them I have caught.

Those words I’ll remember as long as I live,
I’d not forget them in a new awe or grief.

And if will be stopped my long-suffering mouth –
Through which always shout our people’s a mass –

Let them pray for me, like for them I had prayed,
Before my remembrance day, quiet and sad.

And if once, whenever in my native land,
They’d think of the raising up my monument,

I give my permission for such good a feast,
But with one condition – they have to place it

Not near the sea, where I once have been born –
All my warm connections with it had been torn,

Not in the tsar’s garden near that tree-stump, blessed,
Where I am looked for by the doleful shade,

But here, where three hundred long hours I stood for
And where was not opened for me the hard door.

Since e’en in the blessed death, I shouldn’t forget
The deafening roar of Black Maries’ black band,

I shouldn’t forget how flapped that hateful door,
And wailed the old woman, like beast, it before.

And let from the bronze and unmoving eyelids,
Like some melting snow flow down the tears,

And let a jail dove coo in somewhat afar
And let the mute ships sail along the Neva.

Anna Akhmatova
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 6:19 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Lilichka

Tobacco smoke has consumed the air.
The room
is a chapter in Kruchenykh's inferno.
Remember -
beyond that window
in a frenzy
I first stroked your hands.
You sit here today
with an iron-clad heart.
One more day
you'll toss me out,
perhaps, cursing.
In the dim front hall my arm,
broken by trembling won't fit right away in my sleeve.
I'll run out,
throw my body into the street.
I'll rave,
wild,
lashed by despair.
Don't let it happen
my dear,
my darling,
let us part now.
After all
my love
is a heavy weight
hanging on you
no matter where you go.
Let me bellow a final cry
of bitter, wounded grievance.
If you drive a bull to exhaustion
he will run away,
lay himself down in the cold waters.
Besides your love
I have
no ocean
and your love won't grant even a tearful plea for rest.
When a tired elephant wants peace
he lies down regally in the firebound sand.
Besides your love
I have
no sun,
but I don't even know where you are and with whom.
If you tortured a poet like this,
he
would berate his beloved for money and fame,
but for me
no sound is joyous
but the sound of your beloved name.
I won't throw myself downstairs
or drink poison
nor can I put a gun to my head.
No blade
holds me transfixed
but your glance.
Tomorrow you'll forget
that I have crowned you,
that I burned my flowering soul with love,
and the whirling carnival of trivial days
will ruffle the pages of my books...
Would the dry leaves of my words
force you to a stop
gasping for air?

At least let me
pave with a parting endearment
your retreating path.

Vladimir Mayakovsky
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 7:55 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

‘Here, in my Moscow – cupolas gleaming!’

Here, in my Moscow – cupolas gleaming!
Here, in my Moscow – great bells ringing!
And the tombs here, facing,
Of Tsarinas, and the Tsars.

You’ll not know, at dawn in the Kremlin,
It’s easiest to breathe – in this world, I mean!
You’ll not know, at dawn in the Kremlin
I pray for you – till it’s dark!

And you stroll beside your Neva;
At that time, beside the Moskva,
Here I stand, with head bowed lower,
In the bright streetlight’s arc.

With my weight of insomnia, I love you,
With my weight of insomnia, I hear you,
At that time, in the Kremlin, too,
The bell-ringers start.

But my river, with your river,
My hand, with your hand never
May meet, my joy, while ever
Dawn and dusk are apart.

Marina Tsvetaeva
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Apr 05, 2014 7:57 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Homesickness

Homesickness! That long
Exposure to misery!
It’s all the same to me –
Where I’m utterly lonely

Or what stones I wander
Home by, with my sacks,
Home that’s no more mine
Than a hospital, a barracks.

It’s all the same to me, what
Faces I bristle among, a lion
Captive, what human crowd
– as it must do – thrusts me on,

Into myself, individual feeling,
From the pole, a Kamchatka bear;
Where I fail to fit (and won’t try!),
Where I’m debased: I don’t care.

I won’t let the milky call
Of my native language tempt me.
It’s all the same to me in what
Tongue they misunderstand me!

(By what readers swallowing
Newsprint tonnage, gossip’s grime…)
They belong to the twentieth century
While I’m – before my time,

Petrified, like a log left
From an avenue, let fall.
They’re all the same – it’s all
The same – perhaps most of all –

What was native to me – of all.
All the signs and tokens, there,
All the dates – a hand erased:
The soul once born – somewhere.

My land cares so little for me
That even the keenest sleuth
Could traverse my whole – spirit!
And find no birthmark, in truth!

Houses alien, churches empty,
All – one and the same – to me:
Yet if by the side of the road
A particular bush shows – rowanberry…

Marina Tsvetaeva
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Mon Apr 07, 2014 4:51 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Bow and the Strings

‘How deep and dark the delirium!
How clouded the moonlit heights!
To have touched the violin so long
yet not know the strings in the light!

Who wants us now? Who lights
two faded melancholy faces?’…..
And the bow felt someone suddenly
seize them, and bring them together.

‘Oh how long! Tell me the one thing,
in the dark: are you the same, the same?’
And the strings pressed close, caressing
sounding, trembling in that caress.

‘Is it true, yes? Enough separation,
and we’ll not part again?’
And the violin said yes
though its heart was gripped with pain.

The bow knew, and was still,
but the note rang in the violin,
and what seemed music to others,
was torment and ruin to them.

And till dawn the player did not quench
the candles…the strings sang on instead…
and the sun, alone, found them,
drained, on the black velvet bed.

Innokenty Annensky
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Mon Apr 07, 2014 7:25 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Stranger

At evening, above the restaurants,
the sultry air is savage, heavy,
and the breath of spring, corruption,
holds the sound of drunken shouting.

Far off, over the dusty streets
the boredom of suburban houses,
the bakery’s gilt sign glitters, faintly,
and there’s the noise of children, crying.

And every night, beyond the toll,
the expert wits, in bowler hats,
tipped at a rakish angle, stroll
along the ditches with their ladies.

On the lake oars creak,
and somewhere a woman shrieks,
while the moon’s orb in the sky
inured, leers mindlessly.

And every night my only friend
is reflected in my wine-glass,
quiet like myself, and stunned
by sour mysterious drink.

While nearby waiters half-asleep
round the neighbouring tables pass,
and drunks with their rabbit eyes
cry out: ‘In vino, veritas!’

And each night at the appointed hour
(or is it only in dream I see it?)
the form of a girl, clothed in silk,
moves across the misted pane.

Passing slowly through the drunks,
and always on her own,
sits down by the window
scattering mist and perfume.

And her stiff silk brocades,
and her hat with its dark feather,
and her slender hand, clothed with rings,
breathe the air of ancient stories.

And bewitched by mysterious nearness,
I gaze through a shadowy veil,
and see an enchanted shoreline
and an enchanted distance.

Hidden secrets are given to me,
someone’s sun is for me to hold,
and the sour wine has entered
in the labyrinth of my soul.

And the soft ostrich plumes
nod gently in my brain,
and blue unending eyes bloom
in some distant place.

A treasure’s buried in my soul,
and the only key to it is mine!
You’re right, you drunken fool!
I know: ‘There’s truth in wine.’

Aleksandr Blok
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PostPosted: Sat Aug 30, 2014 9:11 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Aug 30, 2014 9:20 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Breaking Camp

Once before, fanfares tore to blood my impatient heart
So, like a rearing horse that bit its mouth apart.
Then, the march of drumbeats drove the storm along the ways,
And most wonderful music of the earth sent us bullet sprays.
Then, suddenly, life stood still. Paths led between old trees.
Rooms beckoned. It was sweet, to stay awhile and be at ease,
The body from reality released as from dusty armour freed,
To lie voluptuously in the feather down of soft dreams' bed.
But one morning through mist air the echo of signals rolled
Hard, sharp, a singing sword-thrust. As if fingers of light in the dark took hold.
It was as when trumpets' blare through dawn bivouacs sound,
Sleepers spring to action, camp is broken, horses paw the ground.
I was lined in ranks that pushed into the dawn, fire over helmet and saddle
Forwards, in the eyes and in the blood, with stiff-held reins, the battle.
At day's end, perhaps, paeans for us would play,
Perhaps under the dead somewhere stretched out we lay.
Yet before the stir to arms and before to earth we sink
Full and gleaming our eyes would of the world and sunlight drink.

Ernst Stadler
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 11061
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Mon Sep 01, 2014 7:44 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Cure at Troy

Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.

The innocent in gaols
Beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker's father
Stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
Faints at the funeral home.

History says, don't hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there's fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.

Seamus Heaney
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