En utav mina personliga favoriter kommer ifrån mannen W.B. Yeats.
HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of 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.
En annan, ifrån bokserien Dune.
The sand beach as gray as a dead cheek,
A green tideflow reflects cloud ripples;
I stand on the dark wet edge.
Cold foam cleanses my toes.
I smell driftwood smoke.
Citat:
Ursprungligen postat av litteraturfantast
Både fin och sorglig, micrograM, men slutet kan man ju undra över. Som jag ser det:
1: Att det helt enkelt tar slut
2: Att det onda tar slut och att livet vänder om till det bättre
3: Att våra liv är korta och att lidandet också därmed är kort
Låter mer som ett ytterst deprimerat sista försök att ropa på hjälp snarare, självmordet hänger i takbjälken troligen.
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Senast redigerad av Idiotpod 2011-05-22 kl. 16:19.
Jag har aldrig läst poesi, men dikten från four weddings and a funeral älskar jag.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Jag tycker också att Meduza är bra, FetFulElak, men inte är det där "urklippta" fragmentet ifrån en låttext nån stor poesi i mina ögon. Däremot så kanske ett längre stycke hade gillats mer av undertecknad, så att man kan sätta saken i sitt sammanhang bättre.
Däremot har jag tänkt tanken att Eddie borde ha skrivit en roman, för den tror jag skulle ha blivit riktigt bra. Korta kåserier kanske också vore en idé.
kan någon säga eller länka en bra enkel dikt med handling ? måste göra en diktanalys men hittar inget som är enkelt och bra att analysera på dom frågorna jag ska analysera efter ! :/
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
Av Bukowski. Det bästa jag någonsin läst.
Yes. I really enjoyed this one. It's very pure, honest and contains no bullshitting.
Invecklad fråga, ifall för mig, som läser ofta och byter favoriter titt och tätt. Just nu läser jag alla samlingar av Edgar Allan Poe - det får bli hans dikt ''To Helen'' (Versionen som kom senare) som nomineras av mig för idag:
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
I have outlasted all desire,
My dreams and I have grown apart;
My grief alone is left entire,
The gleanings of an empty heart.
The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb-
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come.
Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted
By tardy winter's whistling chill,
A single leaf which has outlasted
Its season will be trembling still.
