American Poets and Poems

 

Allen Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg
Paterson, 3 juni 1926 - New York, 6 april 1997.
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Dylan Thomas


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
.

 

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson.......
enkele fragmenten uit haar dichtwerk....
....
Het Brein – is weidser dan de Lucht –
Het Brein is dieper dan de zee –
Het Brein weegt net zoveel als God –

547
Ik zag een Stervend Oog
Alsmaar door een Kamer rennen –

 

 

Stanley Kunitz

Stanley Kunitz
Worcester (Massachusetts), 29 juli 1905
– New York City, 14 mei 2006.
.....................................
Ten tijde van zijn leven werd hij door
veel critici als de beste nog in
leven zijnde Amerikaanse dichter beschouwd.
Zijn poëzie werd en wordt dan ook alom geprezen.
.
.
.

First Love by Stanley Kunitz
.
At his incipient sun
The ice of twenty winters broke,
Crackling, in her eyes.
.
Her mirroring, still mind,
That held the world (made double) calm,
Went fluid, and it ran.
.
There was a stir of music,
Mixed with flowers, in her blood;
A swift impulsive balm
.
From obscure roots;
Gold bees of clinging light
Swarmed in her brow.
.
Her throat is full of songs,
She hums, she is sensible of wings
Growing on her heart.
.
She is a tree in spring
Trembling with the hope of leaves,
Of which the leaves are tongues.
.
.
.

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