ALL THE OTHER POEMS
Autor: A VIDA NUMA GOA | Publicado: 2011-08-05T11:39:00-07:00

THE RAVENE.A. Poe    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,   As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-                Only this, and nothing more."    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.    Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow    From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-                Nameless here for evermore.    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain  Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,    "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-                This it is, and nothing more."    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,  That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-                Darkness there, and nothing more.    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,        fearing,  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-                Merely this, and nothing more.SONG OF MYSELFWalt WhitmanI celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. This is my letter to the world,Emily DickinsonThis is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,   The simple news that Nature told,With tender majesty. Her message is committedTo hands I cannot see;For love of her, sweet countrymen,Judge tenderly of me!The brain is wider than the skyEmily DickinsonThe brain is wider than the sky,For, put them side by side,The one the other will includeWith ease, and you beside.The brain is deeper than the sea,For, hold them, blue to blue,The one the other will absorb,As sponges, buckets do.The brain is just the weight of God,For, lift them, pound by pound,And they will differ, if they do,As syllable from sound.STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENINGRobert FrostWhose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep.But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep. I AM THE PEOPLE, THE MOBCarl SandburgI am the people – the mob – the crowd – the mass.Do you know that all the great work of the world is    done through me?I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the    world's food and clothes.I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons    come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And    then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand    for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.    I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.    I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and    makes me work and give up what I have. And I    forget.Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red    drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the    People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer    forget who robbed me last year, who played me for    a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world    say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a    sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.The mob – the crowd –  the mass –  will arrive then.THE HOUSE WAS QUIET AND THE WORLD WAS CALMWallace StevensThe house was quiet and the world was calm.The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book,Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much most to beThe scholar to whom the book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought.The house was quiet because it had to be. The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:The access of perfection to the page. And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,In which there is no other meaning, itself Is calm, itself is summer and night, itselfIs the reader leaning late and reading there.e.e.cummingshush)noonesare comingout in the gloaming together arestanding together under a particular treeare all breathing bright darkness together are slowly all togethervery magically smiling and ifwe are not perfectly careful believe me you and i’ll go strollingright through these each ilimitable to speak verysoftly altogether miraculous citizens of(hushe.e. cummingsyou shall above all things be glad and young.For if you're young, whatever life you wearit will become you; and if you are gladwhatever's living will yourself become.Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:i can entirely her only lovewhose any mystery makes every man'sflesh put space on;and his mind take off timethat you should ever think, may god forbidand (in his mercy) your true lover spare:for that way knowledge lies, the foetal gravecalled progress, and negation's dead undoom.i'd rather learn from one bird how to singthan teach ten thousand stars how not to dance TIME WILL SAY NOTHINGW. H. AudenTime will say nothing but I told you so,Time only knows the price we have to pay;If I could tell you I would let you know.If we should weep when clowns put on their show,If we should stumble when musicians play,Time will say nothing but I told you so.There are no fortunes to be told, although,Because I love you more than I can say,If I could tell you I would let you know.The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,There must be reasons why the leaves decay;Time will say nothing but I told you so.Perhaps the roses really want to grow,The vision seriously intends to stay;If I could tell you I would let you know.Suppose all the lions get up and go,And all the brooks and soldiers run away;Will Time say nothing but I told you so?If I could tell you I would let you know.DADDYSylvia PlathYou do not do, you do not doAny more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.Daddy, I have had to kill you.You died before I had time ----Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,Ghastly statue with one gray toeBig as a Frisco sealAnd a head in the freakish AtlanticWhere it pours bean green over blueIn the waters off the beautiful Nauset.I used to pray to recover you.Ach, du.In the German tongue, in the Polish townScraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars.But the name of the town is common.My Polack friendSays there are a dozen or two.So I never could tell where youPut your foot, your root,I never could talk to you.The tongue stuck in my jaw.It stuck in a barb wire snare.Ich, ich, ich, ich,I could hardly speak.I thought every German was you.And the language obsceneAn engine, an engine,Chuffing me off like a Jew.A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.I began to talk like a Jew.I think I may well be a Jew.LOVE IS NOT ALL: IT IS NOT MEAT NOR DRINK                                                              Edna ST. Vincent MillayLove is not all:  it is not meat nor drinkNor slumber nor a roof against the rain;Nor yet a floating spar to men that sinkAnd rise and sink and rise and sink again;Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;Yet many a man is making friends with deathEven as I speak, for lack of love alone.It well may be that in a difficult hour,Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,I might be driven to sell your love for peace,Or trade the memory of this night for food.It well may be.  I do not think I would.SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?William ShakespeareShall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:      So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,      So long lives this and this gives life to thee. HOW DO I LOVE THEE?Elizabeth Barrett BrowningHow do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for right.I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVENW.B. YeatsHad I the heavens' embroidered cloths,Enwrought with golden and silver light,The blue and the dim and the dark clothsOf night and light and the half-light,I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. I DO NOT LOVE YOU EXCEPT BECAUSE I LOVE YOUPablo NerudaI do not love you except because I love you;I go from loving to not loving you,From waiting to not waiting for youMy heart moves from cold to fire.I love you only because it's you the one I love;I hate you deeply, and hating youBend to you, and the measure of my changing love for youIs that I do not see you but love you blindly.Maybe January light will consumeMy heart with its cruelRay, stealing my key to true calm.In this part of the story I am the one whoDies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood. HOMEWORK Allen GinsbergIf I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my dirty IranI'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap,scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back inthe jungle,I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos, Flush that sparklyCesium out of Love CanalRinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain the Sludgeout of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the littleClouds so snow return white as snow,Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake ErieThen I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood &Agent Orange,Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze outthe tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or anAeon till it came out clean OH CAPTAIN MY CAPTAINWalt WhitmanO Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead. ONE ARTElizabeth BishopThe art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster,Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.The art of losing isn't hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meantto travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three beloved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love) I shan't have lied. It's evidentthe art of losing's not too hard to masterthough it may look like (Write it!) a disaster. Alas! This Is Not What I Thought Life WasShelleyAlas! this is not what I thought life was. I knew that there were crimes and evil men, Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering, through the rugged glen. In mine own heart I saw as in a glass The hearts of others ... And when I went among my kind, with triple brass Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful mass!A RED, RED ROSERobert BurnsO my Love's like a red, red roseThat's newly sprung in June;O my Love's like the melodyThat's sweetly played in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in love am I;And I will love 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 love thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee well, my only Love,And fare thee well awhile!And I will come again, my Love,Tho' it ware ten thousand mile. THE ARROW AND THE SONGH.W. LongfellowI shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.