Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass growsThe West Wind goes walking, and about the walls it goes.What news from the West, oh wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?‘I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey;I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed awayInto the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.’Oh, Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar.But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.From the mouth of the sea the South Wind flies,From the sand hills and the stones;The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moansWhat news from the South, oh sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.‘Ask me not where he doth dwell--so many bones there lieOn the white shores and on the black shores under the stormy sky;So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing sea.Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!’Oh Boromir! Beyond the gate the Seaward road runs South,But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey seas mouth.From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides,And past the roaring fallsAnd loud and cold about the Tower its loud horn calls.What news from the North, oh mighty wind, do you bring to me today?What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.‘Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he foughtHis cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;And Rauros, Golden Rauros Falls, bore him upon its breast.’Oh Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gazeTo Rauros, Golden Rauros Falls until the end of days.

قلبي في المساءعندما يأتي المساء تسمع صيحات الخفافيش.حصانان أسودان مقيدان في المرعى،القيقب الأحمر يحدث حفيفاً،الشخص الذي يمشي على طول الطريق يرى أمامه حانة صغيرة.البندق والخمر الجديدة لهما طعم لذيذ،لذيذ: ترنح السكران في الغابة الداجية.أجراس القرية، مؤلم سماعها، يتردد صداها عبر أغصانالتنوب السوداء،ندىً يتشكل على الوجه

Do I, then, belong to the heavens?Why, if not so, should the heavensFix me thus with their ceaseless blue stare,Luring me on, and my mind, higherEver higher, up into the sky,Drawing me ceaselessly upTo heights far, far above the human?Why, when balance has been strictly studiedAnd flight calculated with the best of reasonTill no aberrant element should, by rights, remain-Why, still, should the lust for ascensionSeem, in itself, so close to madness?Nothing is that can satify me;Earthly novelty is too soon dulled;I am drawn higher and higher, more unstable,Closer and closer to the sun's effulgence.Why do these rays of reason destroy me?Villages below and meandering streamsGrow tolerable as our distance grows.Why do they plead, approve, lure meWith promise that I may love the humanIf only it is seen, thus, from afar-Although the goal could never have been love, Nor, had it been, could I ever haveBelonged to the heavens?I have not envied the bird its freedomNor have I longed for the ease of Nature,Driven by naught save this strange yearningFor the higher, and the closer, to plunge myselfInto the deep sky's blue, so contraryTo all organic joys, so farFrom pleasures of superiority But higher, and higher,Dazzled, perhaps, by the dizzy incandescenceOf waxen wings.Or do I then Belong, after all, to the earth?Why, if not so, should the earthShow such swiftness to encompass my fall?Granting no space to think or feel,Why did the soft, indolent earth thusGreet me with the shock of steel plate?Did the soft earth thus turn to steelOnly to show me my own softness?That Nature might bring home to meThat to fall, not to fly, is in the order of things,More natural by far than that improbable passion?Is the blue of the sky then a dream?Was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged,On account of the fleeting, white-hot intoxicationAchieved for a moment by waxen wings?And did the heavens abet the plan to punish me?To punish me for not believing in myself Or for believing too much;Too earger to know where lay my allegianceOr vainly assuming that already I knew all;For wanting to fly offTo the unknownOr the known:Both of them a single, blue speck of an idea?

داروگخشک آمد کشتگاه ِ مندر جوار ِ کشت ِ همسايه .گرچه می‌گويند : « می‌گريند روی ِ ساحل ِ نزديکسوکواران در ميان ِ سوکواران . »قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! [1] کی می‌رسد باران ؟بر بساطی که بساطی نيست ،در درون ِ کومه‌ی ِ تاريک ِ من که ذرّه‌ای با آن نشاطی نيستو جدار ِ دنده‌های ِ نی به ديوار ِ اتاقم دارد از خشکيش می‌ترکد- چون دل ِ ياران که در هجران ِ ياران –قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! کی می‌رسد باران ؟

Very Like a WhaleOne thing that literature would be greatly the better forWould be a more restricted employment by authors of simile and metaphor.Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,Can'ts seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but haveto go out of their way to say that it is like something else.What foes it mean when we are toldThat the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold?In the first place, George Gordon Byron had had enough experienceTo know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lotof Assyrians.However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus hinder longevity,We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wolfon the fold?In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy thereare a great many things,But i don't imagine that among then there is a wolf with purpleand gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings.No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof;Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big redmouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof woof?Frankly I think it very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say,at the very most,Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host.But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he hadto invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolatethem,With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiersto people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lotof wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them.That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets,from Homer to Tennyson;They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison,And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanketafter a winter storm.Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanketof snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoeticalblanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm,And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly,What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.

غزلچون سنگ ها صداي مرا گوش مي كني سنگي و ناشنيده فراموش مي كنيرگبار نوبهاري و خواب دريچه رااز ضربه هاي وسوسه مغشوش مي كنيدست مرا كه ساقه سبز نوازش استبا برگ هاي مرده همآغوش مي كنيگمراه تر ز روح شرابي و ديده رادر شعله مي نشاني و مدهوش مي كنياي ماهي طلائي مرداب خون منخوش باد مستيت كه مرا نوش مي كنيتو دره بنفش غروبي كه روز رابر سينه مي فشاري و خاموش مي كنيدر سايه ها فروغ تو بنشست و رنگ باختاو را به سايه از چه سيه پوش مي كني ؟

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lineshe wrote a poemAnd he called it "Chops"because that was the name of his dogAnd that's what it was all aboutAnd his teacher gave him an Aand a gold starAnd his mother hung it on the kitchen doorand read it to his auntsThat was the year Father Tracytook all the kids to the zooAnd he let them sing on the busAnd his little sister was bornwith tiny toenails and no hairAnd his mother and father kissed a lotAnd the girl around the corner sent him aValentine signed with a row of X'sand he had to ask his father what the X's meantAnd his father always tucked him in bed at nightAnd was always there to do itOnce on a piece of white paper with blue lineshe wrote a poemAnd he called it "Autumn"because that was the name of the seasonAnd that's what it was all aboutAnd his teacher gave him an Aand asked him to write more clearlyAnd his mother never hung it on the kitchen doorbecause of its new paintAnd the kids told himthat Father Tracy smoked cigarsAnd left butts on the pewsAnd sometimes they would burn holesThat was the year his sister got glasseswith thick lenses and black framesAnd the girl around the corner laughedwhen he asked her to go see Santa ClausAnd the kids told him whyhis mother and father kissed a lotAnd his father never tucked him in bed at nightAnd his father got madwhen he cried for him to do it.Once on a paper torn from his notebookhe wrote a poemAnd he called it "Innocence: A Question"because that was the question about his girlAnd that's what it was all aboutAnd his professor gave him an Aand a strange steady lookAnd his mother never hung it on the kitchen doorbecause he never showed herThat was the year that Father Tracy diedAnd he forgot how the endof the Apostle's Creed wentAnd he caught his sistermaking out on the back porchAnd his mother and father never kissedor even talkedAnd the girl around the cornerwore too much makeupThat made him cough when he kissed herbut he kissed her anywaybecause that was the thing to doAnd at three a.m. he tucked himself into bedhis father snoring soundlyThat's why on the back of a brown paper baghe tried another poemAnd he called it "Absolutely Nothing"Because that's what it was really all aboutAnd he gave himself an Aand a slash on each damned wristAnd he hung it on the bathroom doorbecause this time he didn't thinkhe could reach the kitchen.

ضمني،ثم أوقفني في الرمالودعاني:بميم وحاء وميم ودالواستوى ساطعاً في يقينيوقال:أنت والنخلُ فرعانِأنت افترعت بنات النوىورفعت النواقيسهن اعترفن بسر النوىوعرفن النواميسفاكهة الفقراءِوفاكهة الشعراءِتساقيتما بالخليطين:جمراً بريئاً وسحراً حلالُأنت والنخل صنوانِهذا الذي تدعيه النياشينُذاك الذي تشتهيه البساتينُهذا الذيدَخَلت إلى أفلاكه العذراءذاك الذيخلدت إلى أكفاله العذراءهذا الذي في الخريف احتمالُوذاك الذي في الربيع اكتمال

What a skeletal wreck of man this is.Translucent flesh and feeble bones,the kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic domes.Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear.When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at alaundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now.We all have a little sin that needs venting,virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are rippedfrom the branches of office, do you know where your post entails? Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve?When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, and a winter earned.For the rest of us, there is always Sunday.The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath,so we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book.To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers.A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life andcounting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube,and hope you get a taste.WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS FOR?WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON? SHUT UP!I can go on and on but lets move on, shall we?Say, your me, and I’m you, and they all watch the things we do,and like a smack of spite they threw me down the stairs,haven’t felt like this in years.The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse, let me go,and punch me into the dead spout again.That’s where you go when there’s no one else around,it’s just you, and there was never anyone to begin with, now was there?Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards with their thumb on the pulse,and a finger on the trigger.CLASSIFIED MY ASS! THAT’S A FUCKING SECRET, AND YOU KNOW IT!Government is another way to say better…than…you.It’s like ice but no pick, a murder charge that won’t stick,it’s like a whole other world where you can smell the food,but you can’t touch the silverware.Huh, what luck. Fascism you can vote for.Humph, isn’t that sweet?And we’re all gonna die some day, because that’s the American way,and I’ve drunk too much, and said too little,when your gaffer taped in themiddle, say a prayer, say a face, get your self together and see what’s happening.SHUT UP! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!I’m sorry, I could go on and on buttheir times to move on so, remember: you’re a wreck, an accident.Forget the freak, your just nature.Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort,and blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run.Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we’ve done.

زندگي شايديك خيابان درازست كه هر روز زني با زنبيلي از آن مي گذردزندگي شايدريسمانيست كه مردي باآن خود را از شاخه مي آويزدزندگي شايد طفليست كه از مدرسه بر مي گرددزندگي شايد افروختن سيگاري باشد ،در فاصله ي رخوتناك دو همآغوشييا عبور گيج رهگذري باشدكه كلاه از سر بر مي داردو به يك رهگذر ديگر با لبخندي بي معني مي گويد “صبح بخير”زندگي شايد آن لحظه ي مسدوديستكه نگاه من ،در ني ني چشمان تو خود را ويران مي سازدو در اين حسي استكه من آن را با ادراك ماه و با دريافت ظلمت خواهم آميخت

When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet's company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of. It would be a monologue of sorts, the self-contemplation of a student on a summer afternoon who is reading Euphues. The poem itself would be a subtle series of euphuisms, translating the heat, the day, the student's concerns, into symmetrical posies; translating even his contempt and boredom with that famously foolish book into a euphuism.The poet nodded his big head in a sympathetic, rhythmic way as this was explained to him, then told him that there are two kinds of poems. There is the kind you write; there is the kind you talk about in bars. Both kinds have value and both are poems; but it's fatal to confuse them.In the Seventh Saint, many years later, it had struck him that the difference between himself and Shakespeare wasn't talent - not especially - but nerve. The capacity not to be frightened by his largest and most potent conceptions, to simply (simply!) sit down and execute them. The dreadful lassitude he felt when something really large and multifarious came suddenly clear to him, something Lear-sized yet sonnet-precise. If only they didn't rush on him whole, all at once, massive and perfect, leaving him frightened and nerveless at the prospect of articulating them word by scene by page. He would try to believe they were of the kind told in bars, not the kind to be written, though there was no way to be sure of this except to attempt the writing; he would raise a finger (the novelist in the bar mirror raising the obverse finger) and push forward his change. Wailing like a neglected ghost, the vast notion would beat its wings into the void.Sometimes it would pursue him for days and years as he fled desperately. Sometimes he would turn to face it, and do battle. Once, twice, he had been victorious, objectively at least. Out of an immense concatenation of feeling, thought, word, transcendent meaning had come his first novel, a slim, pageant of a book, tombstone for his slain conception. A publisher had taken it, gingerly; had slipped it quietly into the deep pool of spring releases, where it sank without a ripple, and where he supposes it lies still, its calm Bodoni gone long since green. A second, just as slim but more lurid, nightmarish even, about imaginary murders in an imaginary exotic locale, had been sold for a movie, though the movie had never been made. He felt guilt for the producer's failure (which perhaps the producer didn't feel), having known the book could not be filmed; he had made a large sum, enough to finance years of this kind of thing, on a book whose first printing was largely returned.

The Law of the Jungle NOW this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear. And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair. When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail. When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again. If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away. Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man! If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide. The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies. The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will; But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill. Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same. Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same. Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own: He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone. Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!

This poem is very longSo long, in fact, that your attention spanMay be stretched to its very limitsBut that’s okayIt’s what’s so special about poetrySee, poetry takes timeWe live in a timeCall it our culture or societyIt doesn’t matter to me cause neither one rhymesA time where most people don’t want to listenOur throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fireWaiting until we can speakNo patience to listenBut this poem is longIt’s so long, in fact, that during the time of this poemYou could’ve done any number of other wonderful thingsYou could’ve called your fatherCall your fatherYou could be writing a postcard right nowWrite a postcardWhen was the last time you wrote a postcard?You could be outsideYou’re probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunsetWatch the sun riseMaybe you could’ve written your own poemA better poemYou could have played a tune or sung a songYou could have met your neighborAnd memorized their nameMemorize the name of your neighborYou could’ve drawn a picture(Or, at least, colored one in)You could’ve started a bookOr finished a prayerYou could’ve talked to GodPrayWhen was the last time you prayed?Really prayed?This is a long poemSo long, in fact, that you’ve already spent a minute with itWhen was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute?Or told them that you love them?Tell your friends you love them…no, I mean it, tell themSay, I love youSay, you make life worth livingBecause that, is what friends doOf all of the wonderful things that you could’ve doneDuring this very, very long poemYou could have connectedMaybe you are connectingMaybe we’re connectingSee, I believe that the only things that really matterIn the grand scheme of life are God and peopleAnd if people are made in the image of GodThen when you spend your time with peopleIt’s never wastedAnd in this very long poemI’m trying to let a poem do what a poem does:Make things simplerWe don’t need poems to make things more complicatedWe have each other for thatWe need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matterTo take timeA long timeTo be alive for the sake of someone else for a single momentOr for many momentsCause we need each otherTo hold the hands of a broken personAll you have to do is meet a personShake their handLook in their eyesThey are youWe are all broken togetherBut these shattered pieces of our existence don’t have to be a messWe just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimesTo sit and listen to a very long poemA story of a lifeThe joy of a friend and the grief of friendTo hold and be heldAnd be quietSo, prayWrite a postcardCall your parents and forgive them and then thank themTurn off the TVCreate art as best as you canShare as much as possible, especially moneyTell someone about a very long poem you once heardAnd how afterward it brought you to them

دمی با غم به سر بردن جهان یک سر نمی‌ارزدبه می بفروش دلق ما کز این بهتر نمی‌ارزدبه کوی می فروشانش به جامی بر نمی‌گیرندزهی سجاده تقوا که یک ساغر نمی‌ارزدرقیبم سرزنش‌ها کرد کز این باب رخ برتابچه افتاد این سر ما را که خاک در نمی‌ارزدشکوه تاج سلطانی که بیم جان در او درج استکلاهی دلکش است اما به ترک سر نمی‌ارزدچه آسان می‌نمود اول غم دریا به بوی سودغلط کردم که این طوفان به صد گوهر نمی‌ارزدتو را آن به که روی خود ز مشتاقان بپوشانیکه شادی جهان گیری غم لشکر نمی‌ارزدچو حافظ در قناعت کوش و از دنیی دون بگذرکه یک جو منت دونان دو صد من زر نمی‌ارزد

می تراود مهتابمی تراود مهتابمی درخشد شب تابنیست یک دم شکند خواب به چشم کس ولیکغم این خفته ی چندخواب در چشم ترم می شکندنگران با من استاده سحرصبح می خواهد از منکز مبارک دم او آورم این قوم به جان باخته رادر جگر لیکن خاریاز ره این سفرم می شکندنازک آرای تن ساق گلیکه به جانش کشتمو به جان دادمش آبای دریغا به برم می شکنددست ها می سایمتا دری بگشایمبر عبث می پایمکه به در کس آیددر و دیوار به هم ریخته شانبر سرم می شکند***می تراود مهتابمی درخشد شب تابمانده پای آبله از راه درازبر دم دهکده مردی تنهاکوله بارش بر دوشدست او بر در، می گوید با خود:غم این خفته چندخواب در چشم ترم می شکند