The pale, the cold, and the moony smile Which the meteor beam of a starless night Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light, Is the flame of life so fickle and wan That…devamıThe pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.
O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy wordly way,
And the billows of clouds that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompass'd by nerves of steel:
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live, to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
(Percy Bysshe Shelley)
See, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought, And then my heart that for you only sighs; With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not, But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes. The dew upon my…devamıSee, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought,
And then my heart that for you only sighs;
With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not,
But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes.
The dew upon my hair is still undried,--
The morning wind strikes chilly where it fell.
Suffer my weariness here at your side
To dream the hour that shall it quite dispel.
Allow my head, that rings and echoes still
With your last kiss, to lie upon your breast,
Till it recover from the stormy thrill,--
And let me sleep a little, since you rest.
(Paul Verlaine)
Passing the visions, passing the night, Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, As low and…devamıPassing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the dooryard, blooming, returning with spring.
I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.
Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands--and this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.
(Walt Whitman)
There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone. Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred…devamıThere is an air for which I would disown
Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, -
A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,
And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,
Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;
The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
The windows gay with many coloured glass;
Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
A lady looks forth from her window high;
It may be that I knew and found her fair,
In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
(Gerard de Nerval)
Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under ground Leaned backward with a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of balls Stared from the sockets of the eyes! He knew that thought…devamıWebster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her
Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
(T. S. Eliot)
Hiç kullanılmamış bir zamanın gözkapaklarını açıyorum dünyamsın benim, zorbam, düzenim bundan gözlerim göğe çevrili ellerim denizde hiç katılmadan sende yaşıyorum dirimimsin benim doğarken öldüğüm aşağılık belirtileri sahipliğin, birleştirdi ne geceyi ne gündüzü kölelik yetişemedi aralık paylarına sevincin üşümüşüm bu yaklaşan…devamıHiç kullanılmamış bir zamanın gözkapaklarını açıyorum
dünyamsın benim, zorbam, düzenim
bundan gözlerim göğe çevrili
ellerim denizde
hiç katılmadan sende yaşıyorum
dirimimsin benim
doğarken öldüğüm
aşağılık belirtileri sahipliğin, birleştirdi
ne geceyi ne gündüzü
kölelik yetişemedi aralık paylarına sevincin
üşümüşüm
bu yaklaşan kışla değil
deniz ürpertisi, göğün alacasıyla değil
ellerimin soğukluğu hep bir kalabalıkta
kaçışının gizini gönlünde tuttuğun
bilisiz aşkı/nı ver bana
üşümeyeyim
kendimizle oynayan güçsüz mahluklarız biz, yaptırımla ödülü gönlümüzde barışık tutan. mesafemiz kuyruğumuzla başımız arasında gider gelir, dehşetli sevincimiz bulunca ayrılmazlığını yengimizle yenilgimizin. devimimiz: felcimizin kaynağından fışkıran. güçsüzlüğümüz: kıvrak istemimizin yatağı. böylece doldururuz biz her kaygının, her doyumun kucağını.
az ışıkları yaşamın kabulümüzdür
kururken damarlarımızın son solukları
kalabalıktan arta kalan biricik ay ışığını
katmalı öyleyse görülmez akışına
yaşamlarımızın
"biz rengin değil
ara rengin peşindeyiz"
gerçek bilinsin, diliyoruz
düz, eğri, çapraz ya da değirmi
güzeldir açığa çıkışı yüreğin
sen bil ki, ben de seveyim
ve doğruluruz her karanlıkla
sarsılmanın yakın imgesinde
yüreğin burkulması
göz dayanıksızlığı
aşk azlığı
açılır ve kapanmaz
tarihin yakut yarası
ılık bir süzülüşle
geri dön hayat
bırakma yeryüzü salına
tünemiş pek kara kuşlar
örtsün bakışımı
görmek acısı sürsün
pencere tutsağının
düşsün hayatı suya
aşk küçük bir kilimdir
duvarlarıyla sayılan küçük bir deniz
sevgili küçük ölüm
dur ayaklarının altını anlayalım
kaşlarını, eksik kalan yerlerini
karlar kraliçesini ev içlerinin
tarihin sonsuz noktalama işaretlerini de
kaçalım kalık çalıkuşundan ve daha nelerden
ülkemizin kırmızı kayığıyla
o döker yine suçunu
örtse de sisle ayıbını gece
gece; ipek dokusu çözüldüğünde
ellerim: eksik cennetim benim
gerçek yasaktır
"ben babamın yuvarladığı
çığın altında kaldım"
çocukluğun kendini saf bir biçimde
akışa bırakması ne güzeldi
yiten bu işte
çok kullanılmış bir zamanın gözlerini kapattım.
(Nilgün Marmara)
size, bu odanın alacakaranlığından, okyanusundan, beni boğan dalgalarından, tenimde kalan tuzundan ve yastıklarda kuruyan gözyaşından hiç bahsetmedim. size, nasılsın diyerek başlayan telefonlarınıza (garip, tuhaf aslında) beyaz bembeyaz tabiatımla 'iyiyim' diyorum. yani aslında korkuyorum bütün bunlar kıyamet bütün bunlar cinnet bütün…devamısize,
bu odanın alacakaranlığından,
okyanusundan, beni boğan dalgalarından,
tenimde kalan tuzundan ve
yastıklarda kuruyan gözyaşından
hiç bahsetmedim.
size,
nasılsın diyerek başlayan telefonlarınıza
(garip, tuhaf aslında)
beyaz bembeyaz tabiatımla
'iyiyim' diyorum.
yani aslında korkuyorum
bütün bunlar kıyamet
bütün bunlar cinnet
bütün bunlar cinayet demeye
bir daha düzeltilemeyecek sözler
söylemeye korkuyorum.
telefonla birlikte ışığı da kapatıp
bol şanslar deyişiniz, şanslar deyişiniz, deyişiniz
çınlarken içimde,
bunun beni ne kadar kırdığından
hiç bahsetmedim.
bahsetmediğim çok şey var daha
yaz çiçekleri, cam çiçekleri ölüyor
akşamın altını, gümüşe dönüyor
bunlar da önemli elbette
en az,
bana ihaneti öğrettiğiniz
bana kanatlarımı bıraktırdığınız kadar.
(Birhan Keskin)
So thou art come again, old black-winged night, Like an huge bird, between us and the sun, Hiding, with out-stretched form, the genial light; And still, beneath thine icy bosom's dun And cloudy plumage, hatching fog-breathed blight And embryo storms,…devamıSo thou art come again, old black-winged night,
Like an huge bird, between us and the sun,
Hiding, with out-stretched form, the genial light;
And still, beneath thine icy bosom's dun
And cloudy plumage, hatching fog-breathed blight
And embryo storms, and crabbéd frosts, that shun
Day's warm caress. The owls from ivied loop
Are shrieking homage, as thou cowerest high;
Like sable crow pausing in eager stoop
On the dim world thou gluttest thy clouded eye,
Silently waiting latest time's fell whoop,
When thou shalt quit thine eyrie in the sky,
To pounce upon the world with eager claw,
And tomb time, death, and substance in thy maw.
(Thomas Lovell Beddoes)
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:…devamıGive me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
(John Keats)
I should have thought in a dream you would have brought some lovely, perilous thing, orchids piled in a great sheath, as who would say (in a dream), "I send you this, who left the blue veins of your throat…devamıI should have thought
in a dream you would have brought
some lovely, perilous thing,
orchids piled in a great sheath,
as who would say (in a dream),
"I send you this,
who left the blue veins
of your throat unkissed."
Why was it that your hands
(that never took mine),
your hands that I could see
drift over the orchid-heads
so carefully,
your hands, so fragile, sure to lift
so gently, the fragile flower-stuff--
ah, ah, how was it
You never sent (in a dream)
the very form, the very scent,
not heavy, not sensuous,
but perilous--perilous--
of orchids, piled in a great sheath,
and folded underneath on a bright scroll,
some word:
"Flower sent to flower;
for white hands, the lesser white,
less lovely of flower-leaf,"
or
"Lover to lover, no kiss,
no touch, but forever and ever this."
(Hilda Doolittle)