Explore
 Lists  Reviews  Images  Update feed
Categories
MoviesTV ShowsMusicBooksGamesDVDs/Blu-RayPeopleArt & DesignPlacesWeb TV & PodcastsToys & CollectiblesComic Book SeriesBeautyAnimals   View more categories »
Listal logo
Avatar
Added by Kenji on 20 Dec 2014 11:26
286 Views 4 Comments
5
vote

Female Poets

Sort by: Showing 34 items
Rating: List Type:
DELMIRA AGUSTINI: EXPLOSION
If life were love, how blessed it would be!
I want more life so to love! Now I feel
A thousand years of ideas are not worth
One blue minute of sentiment.

My heart was dying slowly, sadly…
Now it opens like a Phoebean flower:
Life rushes forth like a turbulent sea
Whipped by the hand of love.

My sorrow flies into the night, sad, cold
With its broken wings;
Like an old scar that continues to ache–
In the distant shade it dissolves…
All my life sings, kisses, laughs!
All my life is a flowering mouth!
(translation)
Rate:
ANNA AKHMATOVA: THAT CITY THAT I HAVE LOVED
That city that i have loved since i was a child
seemed to me today
in its December stillness
to be my squandered inheritance.

Everything that was handed to me spontaneously,
was so easy to give away:
the soul’s burning heat, the sounds of prayer,
and the grace of the first song-

all, all carried away in transparent smoke,
turned to ash in the depths of mirrors…
and now a noseless violinist
strikes up a tune from the irrevocable past.

With the curiosity of a foreigner
captivated by everything new
I listened to my Mother Tongue
and watch the sledges race.

Happiness blew in my face
with a wild freshness and force,
as though an eternally dear friend
accompanied me onto the steps.
(translation)
Rate:
SOPHIA DE MELLO BREYNER ANDRESEN: THE GREEKS
To the gods we attributed a dazzling existence
Consubstantial with the sea the clouds trees and light
In them the waves’ glinting the foam’s long white frieze
The woods’ secret and soft green the wheat’s tall gold
The river’s meandering the mountain’s solemn fire
And the great dome of resonant weightless free air
Emerged as self-aware consciousness
With no loss of the first day’s marriage-and-feast oneness

Anxious to have this experience for ourselves
We humans repeated the ritual gestures that re-establish
The initial whole presence of things –
This made us attentive to all forms known by the light of day
As well as to the darkness which lives within us
And in which the ineffable shimmer travels
(translation)
Rate:
Average listal rating (22 ratings) 7.5 IMDB Rating 0
MAYA ANGELOU: PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Rate:
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being an Ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old grief's, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!-- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Rate:
ELIZABETH BISHOP: THE FISH
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
- the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly-
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
- It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
- if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels- until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
Rate:
LOUISE BOGAN: SONNET
Since you would claim the sources of my thought
Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed,
The reedy traps which other hands have times
To close upon it. Conjure up the hot
Blaze that it cleared so cleanly, or the snow
Devised to strike it down. It will be free.
Whatever nets draw in to prison me
At length your eyes must turn to watch it go.

My mouth, perhaps, may learn one thing too well,
My body hear no echo save its own,
Yet will the desperate mind, maddened and proud,
Seek out the storm, escape the bitter spell
That we obey, strain to the wind, be thrown
Straight to its freedom in the thunderous cloud
Rate:
ANNE BRADSTREET: TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that Rivers cAnneot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Rate:
EMILY DICKINSON: As imperceptibly as Grief
As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dusk drew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.

EMILY DICKINSON: Because I could not stop for Death
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—
Rate:
GILLIAN CLARKE: OVERHEARD IN COUNTY SLIGO
I married a man from County Roscommon
and I live in the back of beyond
with a field of cows and a yard of hens
and six white geese on the pond.

At my door’s a square of yellow corn
caught up by its corners and shaken,
and the road runs down through the open gate
and freedom’s there for the taking.

I had thought to work on the Abbey stage
or have my name in a book,
to see my thought on the printed page,
or still the crowd with a look.

But I turn to fold the breakfast cloth
and to polish the lustre and brass,
to order and dust the tumbled rooms
and find my face in the glass.

I ought to feel I’m a happy woman
for I lie in the lap of the land,
but I married the man from County Roscommon
and I live at the back of beyond.

Kenji's rating:
Rate:
CAROL ANN DUFFY: WARMING HER PEARLS
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I’ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day think of her,

resting in the Yellow room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She’s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit’s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Kenji's rating:
Rate:
FOROUGH FARROKHZAD: THE WIND WILL TAKE US AWAY

In my little night, alas
The storm has a fateful tryst
with the sweet sleep of the trees.

In my little night, alas
The freezing fright of ruin streams.

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

This bliss seems so odd to me,
I am addicted to my despair,
I feel that something will disrupt
this flowing peace of our quiet night.

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

Don’t you see?
Our roof is shaking in fear of collapse,
and over this roof, an immense dark cloud,
like a dull, grieving crowd,
is expecting the moment of cry.

Don’t you hear?
Night is marching behind the window’s glass
and the wind is cutting our yard’s breath
It seems that stranger eyes
are watching this house.

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

You,
O green like the soul of the leaves,
Put your hands into mine,
And hold them like the burning memories of love.

You,
O green like the soul of the leaves,
Leave your lips to the stroke of mine,
And savor them like the swell flavor of an old wine.

If we forget,
The wind will take us away,
The wind will take us away.
(translation)

Rate:
FRANCES HOROVITZ: RAIN- BIRDOSWALD
I stand under a leafless tree
more still, in this mouse-pattering
thrum of rain,
than cattle shifting in the field.
It is more dark than light.
A Chinese painter’s brush of deepening grey
moves in a subtle tide.

The beasts are darker islands now.
Wet-stained and silvered by the rain
they suffer night,
marooned as still as stone or tree.
We sense each other’s quiet.

Almost, death could come
inevitable, unstrange
as is this dusk and rain,
and I should be no more
myself, than raindrops
glimmering in last light
on black ash buds

or night beasts in a winter field
Rate:
KATHLEEN JAMIE: SKEINS O GEESE
Skeins o geese write a word
across the sky. A word
struck lik a gong
afore I wis born.
The sky moves like cattle, lowin.

I’m as empty as stane, as fields
ploo’d but not sown, naked
an blin as a stane. Blin
tae the word, blin
tae a’ soon but geese ca’ing.

Wire twists lik archaic script
roon a gate. The barbs
sign tae the wind as though
it was deef. The word whustles
ower high for ma senses. Awa.

No lik the past which lies
strewn aroun. Nor sudden death.
No like a lover we’ll ken
an connect wi forever.
The hem of its goin drags across the sky.

Whit dae birds write on the dusk?
A word niver spoken or read.
The skeins turn hame,
on the wind’s dumb moan, a soun,
maybe human, bereft.
Rate:
JENNY JOSEPH: WARNING
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Rate:
VENUS KHOURY-GHATA: FOR NOHA AL HEGELAN
At that time the earth was so high up
women hung out clouds and laundry on the same line
angels gripped their skirts to keep them from following stray souls

Everything that frequented water had a soul
clay jug, gourd, basin
buckets fished out the ones stagnating in the wells’ indifference

Every moving shadow sketched a phantom
every cock-crow became an omen
the announcer of births spoke louder than the waterfall
but more softly than the wind which had taken over the indoors and the outdoors
swelling the paltry fields
pushing back the horizon of an acre as soon as the houses shrank to the size of cages

The wise man tried not to cross its path
it would break a man for you over its knee like a straw
(translation)
Rate:
DENISE LEVERTOV: BREATHING
An absolute
patience.
Trees stand
up to their knees in
fog. The fog
slowly flows
uphill.
White
cobwebs, the grass
leaning where deer
have looked for apples.
The woods
from brook to where
the top of the hill looks
over the fog, send up
not one bird.
So absolute, it is
no other than
happiness itself, a breathing
too quiet to hear.
Rate:
EDNA ST VINCENT MILLAY: CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
Rate:
GABRIELA MISTRAL: TINY FEET
A child's tiny feet,
Blue, blue with cold,
How can they see and not protect you?
Oh, my God!
Tiny wounded feet,
Bruised all over by pebbles,
Abused by snow and soil!
Man, being blind, ignores
that where you step, you leave
A blossom of bright light,
that where you have placed
your bleeding little soles
a redolent tuberose grows.
Since, however, you walk
through the streets so straight,
you are courageous, without fault.
Child's tiny feet,
Two suffering little gems,
How can the people pass, unseeing?
Rate:
SAROJINI NAIDU: CRADLE SONG
From groves of spice,
O’er fields of rice,
Athwart the lotus-stream,
I bring for you,
Aglint with dew
A little lovely dream.

Sweet, shut your eyes,
The wild fire-fiies
Dance through the fairy neem;
From the poppy-bole
For you I stole
A little lovely dream.

Dear eyes, good-night,
In golden light
The stars around you gleam;
On you I press
With soft caress
A little lovely dream.
Kenji's rating:
Rate:
SHARON OLDS: THE CONNOISSEUSE OF SLUGS
When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the
ends, delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.
Rate:
Average listal rating (61 ratings) 8.2 IMDB Rating 0
SYVIA PLATH: MORNING SONG
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

SYLVIA PLATH: CONVERSATION AMONG THE RUINS
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
Rate:
MARIA POLYDOURI: DREAM
I gathered roses for you
wandering about the mount;
a thousand thorns in my view,
my clasping hands in hurt abound.

I longed so much for you to pass
through the icy northern wind,
holding a gift for you –alas-
tight against my bosom’s tilt.

I kept on gazing afar,
full of yearning was my heart
and my eyes streaming tears.

In my craving I failed to see
the dead of night was drawing nigh;
and I cried and cried –whatever be-
me and my roses in the night
(translation)

MARIA POLYDOURI: TO A FRIEND
I shall come upon the night, on the way that drags me along,
I shall come and find you there alone.
With indolent movements, eventide will spin her delicate shades,
drifting past your desolate window.

In the stillness of your room you shall have me in-
books scattered around, consigned to silence deep.
And we shall sit side by side, musing over moments past,
yet long before we lose them, still are dying and last.

For the bitterness of ungrateful life, the dreariness,
for having no yearning, no craving,
for decay and silence abiding
plunged in brooding stillness
our speech and ultimate thought shall fade away.

But the night will come to rest
right at your window’s nest.
Scents and glittering stars and fair breezes shall mingle
with the grand call that Nature delivers,
with your heart that even silence itself will not shelter.
(translation)

Rate:
SHEENAGH PUGH: SOMETIMES
Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.
Rate:
LYNETTE ROBERTS: POEM FROM LLANYBRI (1944)
If you come my way that is …

Between now and then, I will offer you
A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank
The valley tips of garlic red with dew
Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank

In the village when you come. At noon-day
I will offer you a choice bowl of cawl
Served with a ’lover’s’ spoon and a chopped spray
Of leeks or savori fach, not used now,

In the old way you’ll understand. The din
Of children singing through the eyelet sheds
Ringing smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;
Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread

With quartz stones from the wild scratchings of men:
You will have to go carefully with clogs
Or thick shoes for it’s treacherous the fen,
The East and West Marshes also have bogs.

Then I’ll do the lights, fill the lamp with oil,
Get coal from the shed, water from the well;
Pluck and draw pigeon, with crop of green foil
This your good supper from the lime-tree fell.

A sit by the hearth with blue flames rising,
No talk. Just a stare at ‘Time’ gathering
Healed thoughts, pool insight, like swan sailing
Peace and sound around the home, offering

You a night’s rest and my day’s energy.
You must come – start this pilgrimage
Can you come? – send an ode or elegy
In the old way and raise our heritage.
Rate:
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI: REMEMBER
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.



CHRISTINA ROSSETTI: IN THE BLEAK MID-WINTER(from)
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Rate:
Average listal rating (4 ratings) 10 IMDB Rating 0
SAPPHO: MY GARDEN
I’ve a garden, a garden of dreams,

Where the cool breeze whispering sways
Softly the apple-sprays,

And from leaves that shimmer and quiver
Down on mine eyelids streams
A slumber-river.
(translation)
Rate:
Average listal rating (7 ratings) 8.3 IMDB Rating 0
ANNE SEXTON: HER KIND
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Rate:
Rate:
STEVIE SMITH: NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Rate:
ALFONSINA STORNI: THEY’VE COME
Today my mother and sisters
came to see me.

I had been alone a long time
with my poems, my pride . . . almost nothing.

My sister—-the oldest—-is grown up,
is blondish. An elemental dream
goes through her eyes: I told the youngest
“Life is sweet. Everything bad comes to an end.”

My mother smiled as those who understand souls
tend to do;
She placed two hands on my shoulders.
She’s staring at me . . .
and tears spring from my eyes.

We ate together in the warmest room
of the house.
Spring sky . . . to see it
all the windows were opened.

And while we talked together quietly
of so much that is old and forgotten,
My sister—-the youngest—-interrupts:
“The swallows are flying by us.”
(translation)



ALFONSINA STORNI: ME AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
There’s a house of glass
at the bottom of the sea.

It fronts on a street
of solid madrepore.

At five o’clock,
a fat golden fish
comes calling.

He brings me
a scarlet spray
of coral blossoms.

I sleep on a bed
just a bit bluer
than the sea.

An octopus
winks at me
from the other side of the glass.
In the green forest
all around –
ding-dong, ding-dang –
the sea-green pearly
sirens sing
and sway.

And over my head
in the twilight, burning,
all the bristle-points
of the sea.
(translation. Alfonsina Storni later drowned in the sea)
Rate:
TADA CHIMAKO: ALONG THE RIVERBANK
I stand someplace and watch
People without weight transported
From this bank to that
Only once are they carried across

The water is clear, finely textured yet viscous
The boatman’s oar sends up no spray
Although the passengers are spirits perhaps
All spirit seems to have left them long ago

As if caught in a deep sleep
Their mouths hang slightly open
They need no water from the river of forgetfulness
Probably their memories are already long gone

The old women look like my mother
So I probably resemble them too
Standing with mouth slightly agape
A close resemblance like one dream to another

As I gaze on them, I begin to wonder
From which side of the river I watch . . .
Meanwhile, a dragonfly perched on the helm measures
The weight of the vast afternoon on its thin wings
(translation)
Rate:
MARINA TSVETAEVA: TO THE NEXT ONE
Tender caresses of kind little sisters
Are ready for you.
With the birds' songs, O the charmed prince,
We're waiting for you.
Branch drunk with sun, you grew, visage of heaven
Before my eyes.
Like a girl tender, like a child quiet,
All - surprise.
They'll often say: 'These sisters are treacherous
In each reply!'
Cocky with daring ones, kids with a boy, timid
With someone shy.
We love, like you, melting clouds and birches
And melted snow.
We love the tales about grandmother's daughters,
Little and slow!
Pitiful is the wind, spring remembering,
Gems in the skies..
We wait for you, one that knows nothing of life,
And has blue eyes!
Rate:
BLANCA VARELA: THE MAGICIAN’S POSTSCRIPT
Morning crept in through a rip in the curtain.
There the two of them lay,
wrapping each other in their sleep.
They notched together,
nose to nap, chest to back, knees to thighs,
an asymmetrical coupling among sheets and disorder.

In her belly rested their first child
who would see the light in two months:
boy or girl?
Flip a coin.
Such certainties and others would be known in the fitting time.

Meanwhile that question mark lay curled in its liquid state,
pure potential which arched her abdomen,
waiting to burst out,
a fullness which at times cramped her breathing.

Through his drowsy awakening,
he extended a hand over that swollen vessel
and awoke with a start at the touch of her taut firmness.
Impulsively, his hand fumbled over her belly,
checked her measured breath,
recognized the features of life.
Confident she would survive, he dropped back to sleep.
(translation)
Rate:

Added to

27 votes
Favorite Lists (169 lists)
list by mirinbuddy
Published 5 years, 6 months ago 4 comments
19 votes
My Female-centred lists (83 lists)
list by Kenji
Published 5 years, 4 months ago 1 comment
4 votes
My Poetry Lists (6 lists)
list by Kenji
Published 4 years, 9 months ago 1 comment
5 votes
My Literature lists (22 lists)
list by Kenji
Published 5 years, 4 months ago 1 comment
17 votes
Favorite Lists #13 (30 lists)
list by kathy
Published 5 years, 2 months ago 2 comments



Related lists

Poets
45 item list by Mr. Saturn
12 votes 2 comments
Poets (and poems)
45 item list by Kenji
10 votes 1 comment
Favorite Poets
40 item list by vadeboncoeur
5 votes 1 comment
Favorite Poets
12 item list by Daniela_C_xx
10 votes 4 comments
My favourites poets
17 item list by Merisana
4 votes
Welsh Poets & Poems
16 item list by Kenji
3 votes 1 comment
Poets: Sylvia Plath
7 item list by PulpRoman
9 votes 1 comment
Portuguese-language poets
21 item list by Nusch
3 votes 2 comments
Beautiful Poems by Romanian Poets
16 item list by Moon River
27 votes 1 comment
Top 10 Best Female Protagonists
15 item list by filmbuilder
2 votes 1 comment

View more top voted lists

People who voted for this also voted for