Start Where You StandStart where you stand and never mind the past,The past won’t help you in beginning new,If you have left it all behind at lastWhy, that’s enough, you’re done with it, you’re through;This is another chapter in the book,This is another race that you have planned,Don’t give the vanished days a backward look,Start where you stand.The world won’t care about your old defeatsIf you can start anew and win success;The future is your time, and time is fleetAnd there is much of work and strain and stress;Forget the buried woes and dead despairs,Here is a brand-new trial right at hand,The future is for him who does and dares,Start where you stand.Old failures will not halt, old triumphs aid,Today’s the thing, tomorrow soon will be;Get in the fight and face it unafraid,And leave the past to ancient history,What has been, has been; yesterday is deadAnd by it you are neither blessed nor banned;Take courage, man, be brave and drive ahead,Start where you stand.

LoreleiIt is no night to drown in:A full moon, river lapsingBlack beneath bland mirror-sheen,The blue water-mists droppingScrim after scrim like fishnetsThough fishermen are sleeping,The massive castle turretsDoubling themselves in a glassAll stillness. Yet these shapes floatUp toward me, troubling the faceOf quiet. From the nadirThey rise, their limbs ponderousWith richness, hair heavierThan sculptured marble. They singOf a world more full and clearThan can be. Sisters, your songBears a burden too weightyFor the whorled ear's listeningHere, in a well-steered country,Under a balanced ruler.Deranging by harmonyBeyond the mundane order,Your voices lay siege. You lodgeOn the pitched reefs of nightmare,Promising sure harborage;By day, descant from bordersOf hebetude, from the ledgeAlso of high windows. WorseEven than your maddeningSong, your silence. At the sourceOf your ice-hearted calling-Drunkenness of the great depths.O river, I see driftingDeep in your flux of silverThose great goddesses of peace.Stone, stone, ferry me down there.

A thousand years or more ago,When I was newly sewn,There lived four wizards of renown,Whose name are still well-known:Bold Gryffindor from wild moor,Fair Ravlenclaw from glen,Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad,Shrewd Slytherin from fen.They share a wish, a hope, a dream,They hatched a daring plan,To educate young sorcerers,Thus Hogwarts school began.Now each of these four foundersFormed their own house, for eachDid value different virtues,In the ones they had to teach.By Gryffindor, the bravest werePrized far beyond the rest;For Ravenclaw, the cleverestWould always be the best;For Hufflepuff, hardworkers wereMost worthy of admission;And power-hungry SlytherinLoved those of great ambition.While still alive they did divideTheir favourates from the throng,Yet how to pick the worthy onesWhen they were dead and gone? 'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,He whipped me off his headThe founders put some brains in meSo I could choose instead!Now slip me snug around your ears,I've never yet been wrong,I'll have alook inside your mind And tell where you belong!

Le serpent qui danseQue j'aime voir, chère indolente,De ton corps si beau,Comme une étoffe vacillante,Miroiter la peau!Sur ta chevelure profondeAux acres parfums,Mer odorante et vagabondeAux flots bleus et bruns,Comme un navire qui s'éveilleAu vent du matin,Mon âme rêveuse appareillePour un ciel lointain.Tes yeux où rien ne se révèleDe doux ni d'amer,Sont deux bijoux froids où se mêlentL’or avec le fer.A te voir marcher en cadence,Belle d'abandon,On dirait un serpent qui danseAu bout d'un bâton.Sous le fardeau de ta paresseTa tête d'enfantSe balance avec la mollesseD’un jeune éléphant,Et ton corps se penche et s'allongeComme un fin vaisseauQui roule bord sur bord et plongeSes vergues dans l'eau.Comme un flot grossi par la fonteDes glaciers grondants,Quand l'eau de ta bouche remonteAu bord de tes dents,Je crois boire un vin de bohême,Amer et vainqueur,Un ciel liquide qui parsèmeD’étoiles mon coeur!

My second crush,don’t know, who you are,by thinking of you,my day pass.The things, the things, the things changed,forgot the first, second begins.The second crush,my second crush,don’t know who you are,but, by thinking of you,my day pass.Who you are, i don’t know,but seeing you shed tears.My feelings drop, water stops,in my eyes.The things, the things, the things changed.I fall in love, are you goddess or what.As i came near you,my heart beat rise.Want to stop my legs,but they attracts.Like your tears attract the sand,when they are falling on land.My heart, my heart, my heart beat rise,you came, you came, you are closer to my eyes.I see tears fallen on the ground,my love rotating around you round and round.Now, you are the first,you are the last,that i told you my sweet heart.When i see you first time,it was my last time,to fall in love, my dear valentine.The second crush,my second crush,don’t know who you are,but, by thinking of you,my day pass.The things, the things, the things changed.Now, crush end,time spend,love start,now, you are my life part.:-)

The world is a wide place where we stumble like children learning to walk. The world is a bright mosaic where we learn like children to see, where our little blurry eyes strive greedily to take in as much light and love and colour and detail as they can.The world is a coaxing whisper when the wind lips the trees, when the sea licks the shore, when animals burrow into earth and people look up at the sympathetic stars. The world is an admonishing roar when gales chase rainclouds over the plains and whip up ocean waves, when people crowd into cities or intrude into dazzling jungles.What right have we to carry our desperate mouths up mountains or into deserts? Do we want to taste rock and sand or do we expect to make impossible poems from space and silence? The vastness at least reminds us how tiny we are, and how much we don't yet understand. We are mere babes in the universe, all brothers and sisters in the nursery together. We had better learn to play nicely before we're allowed out..... And we want to go out, don't we? ..... Into the distant humming welcoming darkness.

হেঁয়ালি রেখো না কিছু মনে;হৃদয় রয়েছে ব'লে চাতকের মতন আবেগহৃদয়ের সত্য উজ্জ্বল কথা নয়,-যদিও জেগেছে তাতে জলভারানত কোনো মেঘ;হে প্রেমিক, আত্মরতিমদির কি তুমি?মেঘ;মেঘ, হৃদয়ঃ হৃদয়, আর মরুভূমি শুধু মরুভূমি..

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for a chance to escape On a few loose strands in the air I keep my anger on my lips Just waiting to unleash into the world But trust me; it’s never in my heart It evaporates into words I keep my dignity upon my chin Like a torch held up high For those who have betrayed me Radiating a silent, strong message I keep my gratitude in my smileA glistening waterfall in the sun Gently splashing at that personWho made me happy for some reason I keep my sensitivity in my hands Reaching out for your wet cheek Holding you, with all the love The love I want to share, and feel I keep my passion in my writing My words breathing like fire Screeching against an endless road As I continue to be inspired I keep my simplicity in my soul Spread over me like a clear sky Reflecting all that I am And all that’s ever passed me by And I hope you will look Beyond my ordinary faceMy simple, tied hairMy ordinary tastes And I hope you will see me From everyone...apart As I keep my beauty in my heart.

Praėjusią savaitę ponia Modžeri paskolino man knygą. Ji vadinasi "Oksfordo šiuolaikinės poezijos antologija, 1892-1935". Jie leido tokiam žmogui, pavarde Jytsas, atrinkti eilėraščius. Geriau jau būtų to nedarę. Kas jis toks - ir ką jis išmano apie eiles? Perverčiau visą knygą, ieškodamasVilfredo Ouveno arba Zygfrido Sasūno eilėraščių. Neradau - nė vieno. Ir žinote kodėl? Nes tas ponas Jytsas sako - taigi, jis sako: "Aš sąmoningai nuspredžiau NEĮTRAUKTI nė vieno eilėraščio iš Pirmojo pasaulinio karo. Man jie nepatinka. Pasyvi kančia - netinkama tema poezijai." PASYVI KANČIA? PASYVI KANČIA! Manęs vos neištiko priepuolis. Kas tam žmogui yra? Leitenantas Ouvenas parašė tokią eilutę: "Ir krintančius palydi ne varpai, / O piktas ir rūstus pabūklų griausmas." Norėčiau žinoti, kas čia yra pasyvaus? Būtent taip jie miršta. Mačiau tai savo akimis, ir sakau: velniop tą poną Jytsą.

que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questionsoù être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instantverse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir étésans cette onde où à la fincorps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissentque ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmureshaletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amoursans ce ciel qui s'élèvesur la poussieère de ses lestsque ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'huiregardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seulà errer et à virer loin de toute viedans un espace pantinsans voix parmi les voixenfermées avec moiwhat would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incuriouswhere to be lasts but an instant where every instantspills in the void the ignorance of having beenwithout this wave where in the endbody and shadow together are engulfedwhat would I do without this silence where the murmurs diethe pantings the frenzies towards succour towards lovewithout this sky that soarsabove its ballast dustwhat would I do what I did yesterday and the day beforepeering out of my deadlight looking for anotherwandering like me eddying far from all the livingin a convulsive spaceamong the voices voicelessthat throng my hiddenness

The Power of the Dogby Rudyard KiplingThere is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; And when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie-- Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, Then you will find--it's your own affair-- But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!). When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear. We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent. Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- So why in--Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

BurialCathy Linh CheThere is the rain, the odor of fresh earth, and you, grandmother, in a box. I bury the distance, 22 years of not meeting you and your ruined hands.I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back, your áo dài of crushed velvet, the implements you used to farm,the stroke which claimed your right side, the land you gave up when you remarried, your grief over my grandfather's passing,the war that evaporated your father's leg, the war that crushed your bowls, your childhood home razedby the rutted wheels of an American tank— I bury it all.You learned that nothing stays in this life, not your daughter, not your uncle, not even the dignity of leaving this worldwith your pants on. The bed sores on your hips were clean and sunken in. What did I know, child who heard you speak only once,and when we met for the first time, tears watered the side of your face. I held your hand and said,bà ngoai, bà ngoaiTen years later, I returned. It rained on your gravesite. In the picture above your tomb,you looked just like my mother. We lit the joss sticks and planted them. We kept the encroaching grass at bay.

حبيبتي, لا تخطئيفلن يبقى أحد سواياإذا ما بكت السماءحبيبتي, لا تخطئيإن المطر بعض بكاياوإنني رجل الشتاءلا يصبح الياسمين ياسميناًما لم يمر بين يديافأنا أمنحه الكبرياءأي إمرأة عاديةإذا ما رأت عينياتصبح أجمل النساءكل الياسمين يموت شتاءًإلا ياسميني فإنه لا يمارس الانحناء

Already the people murmur that I am your enemybecause they say that in verse I give the world your me.They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.Who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voicebecause you are the dressing and the essence is me;and the most profound abyss is spread between us.You are the cold doll of social lies,and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;in all my poems I undress my heart.You are like your world, selfish; not mewho gambles everything betting on what I am.You are only the ponderous lady very lady;not me; I am life, strength, woman.You belong to your husband, your master; not me;I belong to nobody, or all, because to all, to allI give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,tied to the prejudices of men; not me;unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinantesnorting horizons of God's justice.You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;your husband, your parents, your family,the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,heaven and hell, and the social, "what will they say."Not in me, in me only my heart governs,only my thought; who governs in me is me.You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,while me, my nothing I owe to nobody.You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,and me, a one in the numerical social divider,we are the duel to death who fatally approaches.When the multitudes run riotingleaving behind ashes of burned injustices,and with the torch of the seven virtues,the multitudes run after the seven sins, against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.

Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.