Nu am vazut un topic de genul asta, chiar daca am cautat. Daca exista, l-am ocolit din greseala si va rog mult sa ma iertati si sa il trimite-ti pe asta la arhiva. :) 

Ma gandesc ca exista foarte multi dintre voi care scrieti si apreciati poezia. Eu ador sa citesc poezie, dar din pacate talentele mele lirice lasa mult de dorit. >__> Oricum, topicul asta l-am facut pentru ca sunt curioasa care sunt poeziile voastre preferate si sa incurajez sa le postati aici, sa ne delectam si noi cu ele. :) Bineinteles, daca nu sunt SUPER LUNGI. Daca sunt foarte lungi, puneti-ne partea voastra preferata. 

Pot sa incep eu? :D Daca tot pornesc eu topicul, banuiesc ca da. 


To Althea, From Prison: 

De Richard Lovelace

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings  
  Hovers within my gates,  
And my divine Althea brings  
  To whisper at the grates;  
When I lie tangled in her hair         
  And fetter'd to her eye,  
The birds that wanton in the air  
  Know no such liberty.  
 
When flowing cups run swiftly round  
  With no allaying Thames,  
Our careless heads with roses bound,  
  Our hearts with loyal flames;  
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,  
  When healths and draughts go free—  
Fishes that tipple in the deep  
  Know no such liberty.  
 
When, like committed linnets, I  
  With shriller throat shall sing  
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,  
  And glories of my King;   
When I shall voice aloud how good  
  He is, how great should be,  
Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,  
  Know no such liberty.  
 
Stone walls do not a prison make,
  Nor iron bars a cage;  
Minds innocent and quiet take  
  That for an hermitage;  
If I have freedom in my love  
  And in my soul am free,   
Angels alone, that soar above,  
  Enjoy such liberty.



Poezia asta am descoperit-o acum cativa ani si m-am indragostit de ea imediat. E despre ce inseamna sa fii liber - poezia e destul de directa, dar imi place atat de mult formularea lui Lovelace incat trebuia sa o pun aici. 


The Balad of the Reading Gaol, 

de Oscar Wilde. 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves 
  By each let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 
  Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, 
  And some when they are old; 
Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 
  Some with the hands of Gold: 
The kindest use a knife, because 
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, 
  Some sell, and others buy; 
Some do the deed with many tears, 
  And some without a sigh: 
For each man kills the thing he loves, 
  Yet each man does not die. 


Asta e partea mea preferata din balada cea lunga a lui Oscar Wilde, scrisa in inchisoare. Am vrut sa o pun aici pentru ca, in ciuda faptului ca nu e scrisa de cineva consacrat ca si poet, mi se pare extrem de frumoasa si de sincera. Am descoperit-o recent, cand am studiat-o la facultate si m-a impresionat foarte mult. De asemenea, cred ca e o opera mai putin cunoscuta a lui, si poate postand aici putin din ea o sa va fac curiosi. :D 

Din defect "profesional", cred ca inima mea tinde mai mult catre poeziile englezesti. E din cauza faptului ca am studiat la liceu foarte multa lirica britanica. Nu inseamna ca poeziile romanesti nu imi plac, doar ca sunt mai putin familiarizata cu ele. 

Am o pasiune deosebita pentru George Cosbuc, care se trage din frageda pruncie cand bunica imi recita poeziile lui ca sa adorm. Dintre toate poeziile lui, preferatele mele sunt "La Oglinda" si "Noi vrem pamant!" din motive diferite.

incep si eu cu o poezie in engleza peste care am dat acum ceva timp. Yep, i can understand you perfectly when you say you fell in love with it :D

Epidermal Macabre by Theodore Roethke
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

i just soo love it :X from head to toe :X:X

Cam tot ce-au publicat Sorescu, Stănescu, Minulescu şi Ana Blandiana îmi place. :))
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the moment you realize
that your bones are made of the same dust
as the planets,
your lungs are breathing the same air
as the migrating butterflies,
and your blood is pumping because
of the love and care of thousands;
is when you realize
that you are not as broken
as you think you are.
you are full
of the world.