Posts tagged ‘1955’

Saturday, 10 August 2019

A Withered Rose by Muhammad Iqbal

How shall I call you now a flower—
Tell me, oh withered rose!
How call you that beloved for whom
The nightingale’s heart glows?
The winds’ soft ripples cradled you
And rocked your bygone hours,
And your name once was Laughing Rose
In the country of flowers;
With the dawn breezes that received
Your favours you once played,
Like a perfumer’s vase your breath
Sweetened the garden glade.

These eyes are full, and drops like dew
Fall thick on you again;
This desolate heart finds dimly its
Own image in your pain,
A record drawn in miniature
Of all its sorry gleaming;
My life was all a life of dreams,
And you—you are its meaning.
I tell my stories as the reed
Plucked from its native wild
Murmurs; oh Rose, listen! I tell
The grief of hearts exiled.

From: Iqbal, Muhammad and Kiernan, V. G. (ed. and transl.), Poems from Iqbal, 1955, John Murray: London, p. 1.
(https://archive.org/details/in.gov.ignca.2950/)

Date: before 1905 (original in Urdu); 1955 (translation in English)

By: Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938)

Translated by: Edward Victor Gordon Kiernan (1913-2009)

Saturday, 29 June 2019

In These Dark Waters by Maeda Ringai

In these dark waters
drawn up from
my frozen well…
glittering of spring.

From: Beilenson, Peter (ed. and transl.), Japanese Haiku, 1955, Peter Pauper Press: Mount Vernon, New York, p. 7.
(https://www.sacred-texts.com/shi/jh/index.htm)

Date: c1890 (original in Japanese); 1955 (translation in English)

By: Maeda Ringai (1864-1946)

Translated by: Peter Beilenson (1905-1962)

Monday, 7 November 2016

The Enemies by Elizabeth Jennings

Last night they came across the river and
Entered the city. Women were awake
With lights and food. They entertained the band,
Not asking what the men had come to take
Or what strange tongue they spoke
Or why they came so suddenly through the land.

Now in the morning all the town is filled
With stories of the swift and dark invasion;
The women say that not one stranger told
A reason for his coming. The intrusion
Was not for devastation:
Peace is apparent still on hearth and field.

Yet all the city is a haunted place.
Man meeting man speaks cautiously. Old friends
Close up the candid looks upon their face.
There is no warmth in hands accepting hands;
Each ponders, ‘Better hide myself in case
Those strangers have set up their homes in minds
I used to walk in. Better draw the blinds
Even if the strangers haunt in my own house’.

From: http://www.ppu.org.uk/learn/poetry/poetry_women2.html

Date: 1955

By: Elizabeth Jennings (1926-2001)

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Experience by Dorothy Kathleen May Livesay

“For your own good” they said,
And they gave me bread
Bitter and hard to swallow.
My head felt tired after it,
My heart felt hollow.

So I went away on my own road
Tasting all fruits, all breads:
And if some were bitter, others were sweet –
So I learned
How the heart is fed.

From: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?46860-Poem-Experience-by-Dorothy-Livesay

Date: 1955

By: Dorothy Kathleen May Livesay (1909-1996)

Saturday, 21 September 2013

Poem by Lawrence George Durrell

Find time hanging, cut it down
All the universe you own.

Masterless and still untamed
Poet, lead the race you’ve shamed.

Lover, cut the rational knot
That made your thinking rule-of-thumb.

And barefoot on the plum-dark hills
Go Wander in Elysium.

From: Durrell, Lawrence, The Poetry of Lawrence Durrell, 1962, E P Dutton & Co Inc: New York, p. 7.
(http://archive.org/stream/poetryoflawrence00durr#page/6/mode/2up)

Date: 1955

By: Lawrence George Durrell (1912-1990)

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Number 8 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

It was a face which darkness could kill
in an instant
a face as easily hurt
by laughter or light

‘We think differently at night’
she told me once
lying back languidly

And she would quote Cocteau

‘I feel there is an angel in me’ she’d say
‘whom I am constantly shocking’

Then she would smile and look away
light a cigarette for me
sigh and rise

and stretch
her sweet anatomy

let fall a stocking.

From: http://www.litkicks.com/Texts/GoneWorld8.html

Date: 1955

By: Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919- )

Thursday, 31 May 2012

Wombat by Douglas Alexander Stewart

Ha there! old-pig, old bear, old bristly and gingery
Wombat out of the red earth peering gingerly,
Was there some thud of foot in the midst and the silence
That stiffens whisker and ear in sounds’ fierce absence.
Some smell means man!
I see the dewdrop trembling upon the rushes,
All else is the mist’s now, river and rocks and ridges.
Poor lump of movable clay, snuffling and blinking,
Too thick in the head to know what thumps in your thinking,
Rears in the rain-
Be easy, old tree-root’s companion; down there where your burrow
Dips in its yellow shadow, deep in the hollow,
We have one mother, good brother; it is Her laughter
That sends you now snorting and plunging like red flood-water
To earth again.

From: http://allpoetry.com/poem/8530079-Wombat-by-Douglas_Alexander_Stewart

Date: 1955

By: Douglas Alexander Stewart (1913-1985)

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg

          What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
          In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
          What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families
shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!–and you, Garcia Lorca, what
were you doing down by the watermelons?

          I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
boys.
          I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
          I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
          We strode down the open corridors together in our
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

          Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in
an hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?
          (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
          Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be
lonely.

          Will we stroll dreaming of the lostAmericaof love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
          Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

                                                                                               Berkeley, 1955

From: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/g_l/ginsberg/onlinepoems.htm

Date: 1955

By: Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)