The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back...

Git’er DoneThey beat their swords upon their shieldsTo no beast or man would they yield

My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and lamentations, were witnessed by myself and heaven alone. When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any powerful feelings which we must keep...

Come, let us speak with our bodies.Teach me how to please you.I am here to learn.Let us not waste this time.It is the hour of union.ComeAnd after you do,Come again.

The taste of moon’s song.

Look, the treesare turningtheir own bodiesinto pillarsof light,are giving off the richfragrance of cinnamonand fulfillment,the long tapersof cattailsare bursting and floating away overthe blue shouldersof the ponds,and every pond,no matter what itsname is, isnameless now.Every...

Erudition is the crude residue of wilted harvests; wit: the meddlesome weed that wilts them.

Time goes by at the speed of lifeSlower than a slow danceon a hot summer nightFaster than the skin breakson the edge of a knifeAnd we just go on at the speed of life

I want to sleep in the ovenbecause I just burn in the bed.

But tears are an indulgence. Memory sings.

But you hate poetry!Yes, but you make me want to write it.

I can’t love anymore.Except for you…I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

These hands are unlike any otherstrongbut gentlecaringlovingand understanding

Sugar cane reach up to GodAnd every baby cryingShame the blanket of my nightAnd all my days are dying

POETRY SHAPES MY GENDER.

A book of verses underneath the boughA flask of wine, a loaf of bread and thouBeside me singing in the wildernessAnd wilderness is paradise now.

I heard your whispered fantasies so clear Softly told in my earI opened my eyes you weren’t thereSo real my dream, I was so awareBut we’ll meet again so certainlyIn our whispered fantasy

Recall what used to be the theme of poetry in the romantic era. In neat verses the poet lets us share his private, bourgeois emotions: his sufferings great and small, his nostalgias, his religious or...

crawled like a blind slug into the web

Our state cannot be severed, we are one,One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

there are so many dayswhen living stops and pulls up and sitsand waits like a train on the rails.

Each in the most hidden sack keptthe lost jewels of memory,intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs,other men loved the dawn scratchingmountain ranges or...

Be generous with your smile and try not to frown.And you will see my children; your smile will never let you down ☺

Las lágrimas que no se lloranesperan en pequeños lagos?O serán ríos invisiblesque corren hacia la tristeza?

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it’s playing hard to catch.

If it doesn’t sound insane, I would only talk about you and the only word which would come out of my mouth, will be your name.

Que grande vantagem o recordar intrasigentemente!Agora tenho pena de nunca mais ter visto a outra raparigaE tenho pena de nem sequer ter olhado para esta(…)Porque todas as recordações são a mesma recordação,Tudo o que foi...

We have seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom at poetry readings.

SolitudeHappy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with...

with shrunken fingerswe ate our oranges and bread,shivering in the parked car;though we know we had neverbeen there before,we knew we had been there before.

Sevgili Güllük;Yastık kanepenin üzerine konur. Tekme atılarak düşürülür o. Pazar günleri kuru fasulye yenir. Karşılıklı, alt alta, üst üste ve daha değişik şekillerde durulur. Islak vardır. Portakalın içi de dışı gibi portakal rengidir. Köstebeklerin uçma...

The stars, like the hollow eyes of a god forgotten, marry the sadness of the exhausted hour and inspire a little chaos, a little gentleness, to those below. I look up at the sky and...

Complexity is not an aesthetic criterion. It is a quality associated only with division and organization of labor.

…in my dream the shadings of your soul are the dark tincture of rain…

Wars, wars, wars’: reading up on the region I came across one moment when quintessential Englishness had in fact intersected with this darkling plain. In 1906 Winston Churchill, then the minister responsible for British colonies,...

…I will find once again the light of your beauty – your colored windows in the night…

You bend the nailBut keep hammering becauseHammering makes the world

I,” I’ll type. And that will be enough.Then there are the other days, when nothing is enough. The poem grins. It grins because it knows it is a terrible poem. It grins in embarrassment. It...

Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.

I Still Have Everything You Gave MeIt is dusty on the edges.It is slightly rotten.I guard it without thinking.I focus on it once a yearwhen I shake it out in the wind.I do not ache.I...

I travel, always arriving in the same place.

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terratrafitto da un raggio di sole: ed e subito sera.(Everyone stands along on the heart of the earth transfixed by a sun ray: and suddenly it is evening.)

There is nobody to wake up eternal seekers.

I eat the hearts of girls and puke slugs and snails.

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell youDon’t go back to sleep!You must ask for what you really want.Don’t go back to sleep!People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two...

He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving. All the food’s in the oven. And I’m in the bedroom performin’ self lovin’.

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

This is what I think aboutwhen I shovel compostinto a wheelbarrow,and when I fill the long flower boxes,then press into rowsthe limp roots of red impatiens—the instant hand of Deathalways ready to burst forthfrom the...