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POETRY

BACK OFTEN AND TAKE ME: Poetry, by Konstantinos Kavafis

BACK OFTEN AND TAKE ME     Return often and take me. Back and get me, or feel loved, if the memory of the body awakens, and the old pang passes into the blood, then the lips and skin from rising, and yet it seems that the hands touch. Return often and take me at night, then the lips and …

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WHEN YOU SET OUT FOR ITHACA: Poetry, by Konstantinos Kavafis

WHEN YOU SET OUT FOR ITHACA When you set out for Ithaka, you hope your road is long, full of adventure, full of discovery. The Lestrigoni or Cyclops, the angry Neptune do not worry: it will not be this kind of meetings if your thoughts remain lofty, and a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Cyclops or Lestrigoni …

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PRAYER: Poetry, by Kathleen Jamie

PRAYER Our baby’s heart, on the sixteen-week scan, was a fluttering bird, held in cupped hands. I thought of St Kevin, hands opened in prayer, and a bird of the hedgerow nesting there, and how he’d borne it, until the young had flown, and I prayed: this new heart must outlive my own. (Kathleen Jamie) http://www.amazon.co.uk/Findings-Kathleen-Jamie/dp/0954221745/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

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AS THE MIST LEAVES NO SCAR: Poetry, by Leonard Cohen

AS THE MIST LEAVES NO SCAR On the dark green hill, So my body leaves no scar On you, nor ever will. When wind and hawk encounter, What remains to keep? So you and I encounter, Then turn, then fall to sleep. As many nights endure, without a moon or star. So will we endure, when one is gone and …

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FANTASY: Poetry, by John Keats

FANTASY Leave always wandering imagination, the pleasure is always somewhere else, and it melts, only to touch sweet, like the bubbles when rain hits. Let her then wander, her, the winged, for the thought that even in front of it lies. Opens the door to the cage of the mind, and you’ll see, it will launch flying into the sky. …

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THE KING OF SNAKES: Poetry of Joanna Wajs

THE KING OF SNAKES I hear the sounds, the crash of the books closed shutter to dislodge the dust, steps on the floorboards creaking, the clicking of fingers keyboard sticky earl gray sweetened. (Joanna Wajs)

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CLOTHING: Poetry of Wislawa Szymborska

CLOTHING You take off, we take off, we remove coats, jackets, waistcoats, blouses of wool, cotton, terylene, skirts, pants, socks, underwear, laying, hanging, throwing on backs of chairs, doors screens. For now, he says the doctor, nothing serious; you put on, rest, take a trip, take the case, after lunch, in the evening; come back in three months, six a …

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THE CURTAINS IN MY DRAMAS: Poetry of Tadeusz Różewicz

THE CURTAINS IN MY DRAMAS The curtains in my dramas do not rise and not fall, do not cover and do not show. They rust, rot, tear at the first screech of iron, according to the cloth, the third paper. They fall apart, over the heads of the spectators, the actors. The curtains in my dramas, hang on the scene, …

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WITH HER CLOTHES: Poetry of Charles Baudelaire

WITH HER CLOTHES With her clothes swaying and iridescent, even when walking one would say that dance, like those long snakes that jugglers sacred shake rhythmically on top of their sticks. As off the sand and the blue of the desert, both insensitive to the human pain, such as long plots wave marina, she moves with all indifference. Her sharp …

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SHELLS: Poetry of Paul Verlaine

SHELLS Each encrusted shell, which is in that cave where we loved, has its own peculiarities. One, our soul has the purple that has sucked the blood, our hearts, and when I burn you in the fire blaze. Another, imitate you in your languor, and in your pallor of when, tired; are you mad at me because I mocking eyes. …

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