Car poems

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Risus Dei

© Edward Thomas

Methinks in Him there dwells alway
A sea of laughter very deep,
Where the leviathans leap,
And little children play,

Picture of Autumn

© Thomas Chatterton

When autumn, bleak and sun-burnt, do appear,

With his gold hand gilting the falling leaf,

The Old Men Used to Sing

© Annie Louisa Walker

The old men used to sing

And lifted a brother

Today your things depart. Your faience cup
fell off the table at sunrise and cracked.
Your old grey dog did not come up
the stairs. I went to look for him, he had died
in the long grass, near your library,
under your favourite mango-tree.

Sonnets To Europa

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

Frost apple on a knotted whirling bough
of dark becoming where it cannot be.
So much both for the soil and for the tree,
so much for things that are becoming now.

Propertius

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

The dead dont know how to cry, they dont
have any hopes to lose, any illusions
to bargain for. Theyre lost
like limpid feathers of a slow bird,
too slow to make it to the other shore.

Captain Who Voyages No More

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

Troubled slumbering of things, the curtain blown aside
by the gush of the salty wind, the advent of the tide
mixing grains of dry sand, the disjoined palimpsest,
the thin wing beating under the chest, restlessly,
the splinters of far-off vessels stuck in the sea,
not entering the harbour, as if they have something to hide.

Run And Won

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

When you entered the workshop, I was already here.
How many statues, and torsos, and heads !
Like remains of the battle that never ends.
I am giggling into my beard. Wind's fluffy plume
is struggling with the curtain. I know you can hear
both, not becoming distinct, no matter for whom.

The Passing Glory

© Madison Julius Cawein

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball

Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,--

Eight Epitaphs

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

You liked your scrolls ? Here they are.
The manuscript of your book ? Here it is.
Your wine and figs ? Here they are.
The portrait of your wife ? Here it is.
Your garden and your house ? Here they are.
The box you never opened ? Here it is.

Wreath Of Sonnets

© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)

And if sometimes they happen to perform
Some droning dance which smells of here and now,
With springing forms and circles staying warm,
They start to tremble on a pointed prow
Of universe and dream of their home
In whirls destroying leaves to leave a bough.

On A Cornelian Heart Which Was Broken

© George Gordon Byron

Ill-fated Heart! And can it be,
That thou should'st thus be rent in vain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employ'd in vain?

First Letter

We crossed to the other side, the burgee of the boat
ceased flapping and lagged behind like a dead wing.
The visible air seemed neither cold nor hot,
the violet clouds flew past us, scurrying.
The plain was dark, and the mountain was tall,
and the echo swallowed the boatman's call.

Extinguish Thou My Eyes

Extinguish Thou my eyes:I still can see Thee,
deprive my ears of sound:I still can hear Thee,
and without feet I still can come to Thee,
and without voice I still can call to Thee.

O Soldado Espanhol

O céu era azul, tão meigo e tão brando,
E a terra era a noiva que bem se arreava
Que a mente exultava, mais longe escutando
O mar a quebrar-se na praia arenosa.

The Passing Of Arthur

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.