Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Whitman, a young poet and Dylan Thomas

11 October 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

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-@Instagram-

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-@YouTube video, 2: 46 mins.-

Dead Poets Society

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Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet- 1914-1953

‘Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’

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dylan-and-caitlin-thomas

about Dylan Thomas

‘Dylan Marlais Thomas was born on October 27, 1914, in Swansea, South Wales. His father was an English Literature professor at the local grammar school and would often recite Shakespeare, fortifying Thomas’s love for the rhythmic ballads of Gerard Manley Hopkins, W. B. Yeats, and Edgar Allan Poe.

Thomas dropped out of school at sixteen to become a junior reporter for the South Wales Daily Post. By December of 1932, he left his job at the Post and decided to concentrate on his poetry full-time. It was during this time, in his late teens, that Thomas wrote more than half of his collected poems.’

(…)

https://poets.org/poet/dylan-thomas

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In a Station of the Metro (Ezra Pound)

14 September 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

Grand-Central-Station-170614090305005

 

In a Station of the Metro
BY EZRA POUND
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

 

smoking woman

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‘My love’ (e. e. cummings) / extras

29 August 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

bod

@tumblr

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My Love
e. e. cummings

‘my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers


thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in those armpits is the approach of spring


thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song


my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets


thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness


thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver


in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes


thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense.’

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https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1621/my-love/

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#PDF

https://tinyurl.com/3y3ysta9

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muse

-piece by Orit Fuchs-

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Lyrics

I’ve got to find my baby

ELVIS PRESLEY

https://www.songstraducidas.com/letratraducida-Ive_got_to_find_my_baby_584602.htm

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@YouTube, 1:45 mins. Elvis Presley

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“At the Grave of Burns” (William Wordsworth)

29 July 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

1627308671329

-@tumblr-

At the Grave of Burns
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

July 21, 1803, seven years after his death.

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapors breathed from dungeons cold,
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould

Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that’s here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.

Off weight—nor press on weight!—away
Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius “glinted” forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?—
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.

I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.

Alas! where’er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,—
Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbors we were, and loving friends
We might have been;

True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature’s skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.

The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou “poor Inhabitant below,”
At this dread moment—even so—
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.

What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
But why go on?—
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father’s side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:

For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harbored where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.”

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https://www.bartleby.com/297/417.html

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Fleet on fleek

6 June 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

beautfiful

Collins Dictionary (on fleek)

https://www.collinsdictionary.com/es/diccionario/ingles/on-fleek

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1/ rose

rose 1

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2/ woman

woman hair

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3/ meaning of life (Carl Sandburg)

sandburg 3

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4/ flesh and bone

women 4

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5/ flowers

flowers 5

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6/ tweet

1622823964821

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nitter is a twin twitter

31 May 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

nitter

 

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 Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins

poetryfoundation.org

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gerard-manley-hopkins

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‘My own heart let me more have pity on’
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

 

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
‘s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.

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Wikisource.org (more poems by Gerard M. Hopkins)

https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Poems_of_Gerard_Manley_Hopkins

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1622390150508

Woodstock / Emilio 

Joseph Brodsky ´s reading list

6 January 2021

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

 

extract: 

“Russian poet and Soviet dissident Joseph Brodsky immediately rose to the highest academic echelon when he arrived in America in 1972. By all accounts, the autodidact held his classes to a high standard, frequently dismissing any student arguments about literary greatness unless they centered on Milosz, Lowell, or Auden.

Monica Partridge, a former student in his class, told Open Culture, “I took a poetry class with [Joseph Brodsky] at Mount Holyoke College my freshman year… It was all 19th [century] Russian poetry, and he would give us four pages of poems to memorize overnight. We would have to come in the next [morning] and transcribe the poems we had memorized. Very Russian.”

No less impressive was the list of books that Brodsky distributed to Partridge’s class.

1. Bhagavad Gita
2. Mahabharata
3. Gilgamesh
4. The Old Testament
5. Homer: Iliad, Odyssey
6. Herodotus: Histories
7. Sophocles: Plays
8. Aeschylus: Plays
9. Euripides: Plays (Hippolytus, The Bachantes, Electra, The Phoenician Women)
10. Thucydides: The Peloponnesian War
11. Plato: Dialogues
12. Aristotle: Poetics, Physics, Ethics, De Anima
13. Alexandrian Poetry: The Greek Anthology
14. Lucretius: On the Nature of Things
15. Plutarch: Lives [presumably Parallel Lives]
16. Virgil: Aeneid, Bucolics, Georgics
17. Tacitus: Annals
18. Ovid: Metamorphoses, Heroides, Amores
19. The New Testament
20. Suetonius: The Twelve Caesars
21. Marcus Aurelius: Meditations

(…)

Continue reading: 

https://tinyurl.com/yxueet85

via OPEN CULTURE

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Dream Song 14 (John Berryman)

6 December 2020

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

-@tumblr-

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Desayuno con flores

2 August 2020

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

“An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest”

To His Coy Mistress“, Andrew Marvell

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44688/to-his-coy-mistress

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“When women speak it is mostly poetry”

8 July 2020

twitter: @eugenio_fouz

Christy Turlington (@tumblr)

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