belle hawk

Divan edebiyatıyla şiirden nefret etmiş ve poetry dersinde tekrar şiire aşık olmuş biri olarak beni etkileyen şiirleri paylaşmak istedim.

Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath

The Sea-Gull

Hark to the whimper of the sea-gull;
He weeps because he's not an ea-gull,
Suppose you were, you silly sea-gull,
Could you explain it to your she-gull?

Ogden Nash

belle hawk

1. The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20


Robert Frost

belle hawk

Curiosity
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

Alastair Reid

belle hawk

A Red, Red Rose

by Robert Burns

O my luve's like a red, red rose.

That's newly sprung in June;

O my luve's like a melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve 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 luve thee still, my Dear,

While the sands o'life shall run.

And fare thee weel my only Luve!

And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

belle hawk

Bu şiire kesinlikle aşığım iki senedir bıkmadan okuyorum. Bana şiiri tekrar sevdiren şiir diyebilirim. Okuduğum herşeyden çok farklı.

THE ERKLING
Who rides so late through the windy night?
It's a father with a child;
He holds his son in his arms,
To keep the boy so close and warm.


"My son, why hide your face in fear?" *
Father, don't you see the Erlking?
The Erlking's Crown and flowing Robe? *
"My son, it's just a wisp of fog."


"O, you dear child, come along with me!
Such a lovely game we'll play!
Fragrant flowers the shores abound,
My mother's made you a Golden Gown ."


Father, father, do you not hear
What the Erlking has promised me ? *
"Be quiet, my child, be still;
'Tis but the dry leaves rustling." *


"Won't you come along with me, fine boy?
My girls will tend your keeping.
The Daughters dance such lullabies,
'Twill sing you off to sleeping."


O father, father, why can't you see
The Erlking's daughters dark and gay? *
"My son, my son, there's no one there
But Willow trees twisted and grey."


"I love you, boy; your charming face;
But if you're not willing, then I'll use force."
Father, father, he's grabbing me!
The Erlking is hurting me! *


The father shudders and rides so fast,
He holds his moaning child.
To the courtyard swiftly his horse has sped,
But in his arms . . . the child was dead.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe