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William Blake's Birthday. William Blake was born in London on November 28 1757. For all things Blake, we refer you to the phenomenal William Blake Archives, an extraordinary resource, overseen by the University of North Carolina's Joseph Viscomi, the University of Rochester's Morris Eaves, and the University of California's Robert Essick. A complete hypertext version of "The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake, edited by David V Erdman" is available there. Even more impressive, perhaps, the high-resolution scans, electronic versions, of numerous editions of Blake's illuminated books (not to mention drawings, paintings, engravings, and more), faithfully reproducing his extraordinary, integral, visionary art work, indeed bringing it through into a new technological era.Allen, of course, had his seminal, break-through Blakean vision (recounted, for example, here - and remembered by his friend, William Burroughs here).

La poesia e lo spirito | Potrà questa bellezza rovesciare il mondo? Ferlinghetti on Ginsberg & Blake et al. A Poet Unlike Any Other by Hermione Lee. All the Poems by Stevie Smith, edited and with an introduction by Will May New Directions, 806 pp., $39.95 More than with most poets, when people write and talk about Stevie Smith (1902–1971), they try to nail her down with comparisons. She is a female William Blake, an Emily Dickinson of the English suburbs, a mixture of Dorothy Parker, Ogden Nash, and the Brothers Grimm.

Her reading style, which became legendary, with her cropped hair, baleful expression, little-girl dresses, and singsong lugubrious chanting voice, was described (by Jonathan Miller) as a cross between Mary Poppins and Lawrence Olivier’s Richard III. She is often described as dotty, batty, silly, odd, childish, droll, or “fausse-naïve” (Philip Larkin’s term).2 Her English quirkiness and eccentricity are played up, as in Stevie, the play of 1977 by Hugh Whitemore (made into a film by Robert Enders in 1978), with Glenda Jackson as Stevie. The bare facts of the life, as summed up by Will May, don’t look enticing: Vita Sackville-West's erotic verse to her lover emerges from 'intoxicating night' | Books. When Vita Sackville-West married the diplomat Sir Harold Nicolson in the chapel of the palatial family home at Knole in Kent in 1913, the society column-writers enthused over the 21-year-old bride's beauty and her magnificent wedding gown.

But as a poem going on display this week for the first time makes clear, there was more to the marriage than a conventional fairytale romance. Sackville-West's erotic verse, written in French to her lover Violet Trefusis and translated by Harvey James, the scholar who found it, contrasts daytime strolls through floral meadows with "intoxicating night" when "I search on your lip for a madder caress/ I tear secrets from your yielding flesh. " Nicolson and Sackville-West went on to create one of the most famous gardens in England at their home at Sissinghurst Castle in Kent, now, like Knole, in the care of the National Trust, but both had many same-sex affairs during their long marriage, which only ended with her death in 1962.

DN! Guests Juan Felipe Herrera first Latino to be named U.S. poet laureate. He is the son of migrant farm workers and the author of 28 books, including 187 Reasons Mexicanos Can’t Cross the Border and, mostly recently, Notes on the Assemblage. He is a past winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award and the International Latino Book Award.

This is viewer supported news Donate We speak with Juan Felipe Herrera, who has begun his term as the 21st poet laureate of the United States. This is a rush transcript. AMY GOODMAN: We end today’s show with Juan Felipe Herrera. In announcing Juan Felipe Herrera’s appointment as poet laureate, the librarian of Congress, Director James Billington, said, quote, "I see in Herrera’s poems the work of an American original—work that takes the sublimity and largesse of 'Leaves of Grass' and expands upon it. Juan Felipe Herrera is the author of 28 books, including 187 Reasons Mexicanos Can’t Cross the Border and, mostly recently, Notes on the Assemblage. Two Poems 27 Years after Tiananmen.

About Freedom Finishing the booze in the dead of night Then smashing the glass This is not freedom Opening the window Jumping out, but forgetting which floor of the high-rise you were on This is not freedom Writing to your beloved Confiding all of your private thoughts This is not freedom Being ignorant among the crowd demonstrating In the streets, opening an umbrella against tear gas This is not freedom Erecting in the square a white plaster statue of The Goddess of Democracy, fitting someone else’s mold This is not freedom Stopping a tank, telling the tank To step aside at the very moment history is about to lose This is not freedom Shedding tears silently on a beach Reminding yourself of the solitary situation you are in This is not freedom Kissing another man’s wife Or flaunting one’s own husband while also betraying him This is not freedom Seeking a spiritual teacher in Tibet Then negotiating a coal business deal at a private club in Beijing This is not freedom.

An Illustrated Guide to Ginsberg's Delightful Poem on Walt Whitman. Whenever I think of Whitman — the king of American poetry, the self-publisher, the war-time nurse, and the singer of songs of himself — I think of an English professor I had as a freshman at a Quaker school in North Carolina. He gave assignments that felt like riddles to my seventeen-year-old mind, things about Buddhists climbing mountains and writing by looking at trees. One day, in his dim office, while he sat in front of a large tattered American flag, he started telling me about the importance of Whitman. He talked about Leaves of Grass, and put so much importance on which version of the book I should read that I thought the actual title was Leaves of Grass Eighteen Fifty-Five. I was struggling in his class, and he gave me a copy of the book because he thought it would help. I continued to struggle in that class, and was only saved by the school’s policy of having students grade themselves.

Two Poems 27 Years after Tiananmen. A Morte (Fernando Pessoa) La morte è la curva della strada,morire è solo non essere visto.Se ascolto, sento il tuo passo esistere come io esisto. La terra è fatta di cielo.La menzogna non ha nido.Nessuno si è mai perduto.Tutto è verità e via. Fernando Pessoa (dipinto di Marco Crivello) A morte é a curva da estrada,Morrer é só não ser visto.Se escuto, eu te oiçoa passada existir como eu existo. A terra é feita de céu.A mentira não tem ninho.Nunca ninguém se perdeu.Tudo é verdade e caminho. Fernando Pessoa Death is a bend in the road,Dying is just being missed.I listen and hear you goneExisting as I exist. The earth is made of heaven.Deception has no heir.No one has ever been lost.All's true, and a way somewhere. A Centenary Pessoa - Fernando Pessoa.

Guardian Books poetry podcast: Jo Shapcott reads Emily Dickinson. 01 Gioia ItalAm. Carl Sandburg. Il policeman compra le scarpe con lentezza e attenzione; il caposquadra compra i guanti con lentezza e attenzione; essi hanno cura dei loro piedi e delle loro mani; essi vivono dei loro piedi e delle loro mani. Il lattaio non discute mai; lui lavora solo e nessuno gli parla; la città dorme quando lui è sul lavoro; posa una bottiglia di latte su seicento verande e lo chiama il lavoro d’un giorno; s’arrampica per duecento scale di legno; due cavalli gli fanno compagnia; egli non discute mai. Gli operai delle acciaierie sono fratelli delle ceneri; essi vuotano dalle loro scarpe la cenere, dopo il lavoro quotidiano; essi chiedono alle loro mogli di cucirgli i pantaloni bruciati sulle ginocchia; i loro colli e le loro orecchie sono coperti di sudicio; essi si lavano il collo e le orecchie; essi sono fratelli delle ceneri.

Traduzione di Attilio Bertolucci da Attilio Bertolucci, Imitazioni, Libri Scheiwiller, 1994. I 60 haiku più belli di Matsuo Basho - AFORISTICAMENTE. Poeti contemporanei | Interno poesia. La neve smorza l’ocra autunnale. E il cielo riacquista il suo blu usuale. E rosso, curato e pasciuto Occhieggia il mattino muto. Sale lento il sole – non si deve affrettare Va il mondo, così come deve andare.

E tu stesso di fronte a un giorno di tal quiete, Non vuoi più sbattere la testa alla parete Divincolarti dal sonno, questo ti preme, E nella neve affondare un quieto seme. Parlare, scrivere, piantare e seminare, Perché non possano più ammazzare. Da Sēkla sniegā – Un seme nella neve (Damocle, 2015), trad. it. Mi piace: Mi piace Caricamento... Robert Pinsky | Interno poesia. — La poesia è viva | «La poesia è poesia quando porta con sè un segreto». G. Ungaretti.

Mary Oliver - Books, Biography, Poetry » Books by Mary Oliver. On this page, you’ll find a list of Mary Oliver’s books of poetry and prose. Poetry books are listed first, with UK editions at the bottom of the list. Books of prose are listed second. Poetry Swan: Poems and Prose Poems (Beacon Press, September 2010) “Joy is not made to be a crumb,” writes Mary Oliver, and certainly joy abounds in her new book of poetry and prose poems. Swan, her twentieth volume, shows us that, though we may be “made out of the dust of stars,” we are of the world she captures here so vividly: the acorn that hides within it an entire tree; the wings of the swan like the stretching light of the river; the frogs singing in the shallows; the mockingbird dancing in air. Blue Horses (Penguin, October 2014) At its heart, Blue Horses asks what it means to truly belong to this world, to live in it attuned to all its changes. Dog Songs (Penguin, October 2013) A New York Times bestselling collection of new and favorite poems, celebrating the dogs that have enriched the poet’s world.

Italian Mother Syndrome: Poet Mary Oliver (and my friend Chuck) on wonder. MYSTERIES, YESby Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How people come, from delight or the scars of damage, to the comfort of a poem.Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.Let me keep company always with those who say "Look! " and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. What does this poem mean to you? When I re-posted the closing quotes on Facebook a few months back, my friend Chuck chimed in with a thoughtful rumination on the subtle challenge Oliver poses: It's a balance between persistence and humility, something that I've always struggled with.

I suppose the first step is to follow Oliver's advice and surround yourself with people who maintain wonder. Yeah. Amen. Italian Mother Syndrome: The Origins of Italian Mother Syndrome. Italian Mother Syndrome, more commonly known as IMS. To my knowledge, I am one of the only young women out there afflicted with this rare, untreatable disease. I was diagnosed with IMS as early as high school. Symptoms included doorway-wide hips, a moustache like my mother's, and my persistent clarion call of "Eat something!!! " My friends started to suspect something was amiss when I kept getting cast as mothers, old women, and tough broads in school theatrical productions.

Thank God they were paying attention--I thought all young women with any sense acted this way. Turns out I was wrong. In the years since, I've slowly come to accept my situation. But when all is said and done, IMS isn't such a bad thing to have. Now for god's sakes, mangia. Mary Oliver. Mary Oliver - Sedendo quietamente. Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass,the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.I don't know exactly what a prayer is.I do know how to pay attention, how to fall downinto the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,which is what I have been doing all day.Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to dowith your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver, The House Light Beacon Press Boston, 1990. Wage peace with your breath.Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds. Mary Oliver: poesie – traduzione di Federica Galetto | Viadellebelledonne. ..The Swan Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air – An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds – A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? From The Paris Review # 124, Fall, 1992 Il cigno L’hai visto, vagabondare, tutta notte, sul fiume scuro? Wild geese You do not have to be good. Oche selvatiche Non devi essere buono. A Visitor from Dream Work (1986). Un visitatore Mi piace: Mi piace Caricamento... Informazioni su margherita ealla.