Wat vind JIJ een mooi gedicht

RORSCHACH

Ik zwoer dat ik je niet zou schrijven.
Toen ik aan een brief begon,
een zware, zwarte brief om ‘s nachts
te posten in een regenbui,
liep alles uit tot inktpatronen.
Lange zinnen dreven samen
tot een donkerblauwe brij.
Woorden vielen uit elkaar.
Letters gingen kopje onder
en verdronken in de kantlijn.
Vlekken stolden tot jouw ogen.
Later kwam je mond omhoog
uit het papier en zei: je moeite
is ontroerend, maar je doet
altijd zo moeilijk, kijk,
de liefde is van brandhout
en een inktvlek is een inktvlek
en voorbij voorgoed voorbij.

Ingmar Heytze

...zag jij mischien dat ik naar jou.
dat ik je zag en dat ik zag dat jij
naar mij te kijken zoals ik naar jou
en dat ik hoe dat heet zo steels.
zo en passant en ook zo zijdelijks-
dat ik je net zo lang bekeek tot ik
naar je staarde en dat ik staren bleef.
Ik zag je toen en ik wist in te zien
dat in mijn leven zoveel is gezien
zonder dat ik het ooit eerder zag:
dat kijken zoveel liefs vermag.

Joost Zwagerman

Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.

Anonymous

En hier staat een 'prose poem' die te lang is om te posten maar wel heel mooi is.

* Razztwizzle gedichten fan is

En nog een mooie van Ingmar Heytze:

IMPASSE

Bijna alles gaat vanzelf: seizoenen, neerslag, zwaartekracht,
vulkanen ook, gewoon een kwestie van nergens aanzitten,
de hendels de hendels laten.
Al weet hooguit een enkeling waar hij naartoe moet,
men neemt treinen naar kantoor alsof het allemaal zo hoort,
slaapt in een doos onder de brug of leest de krant in het café,
samen onderweg over de grote springplank naar het niets.
In dat droevigmoedige geschuifel zit beweging - geen vooruitgang,
het is meer iets dat je afleidt van het ruisen van je bloed
en het gerommel in je hoofd, bijvoorbeeld over jou en mij;
wij liggen in het park van deze stad als lucht op water,
onze lippen overwegen al seconden lang een
- kus -

Iets lastiger, maar wel prachtig:

The Good Morrow

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers` den?
`Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be;
If every any beauty I did see.
Which I desired, and got, `twas but a dream of thee.

And now good - morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea - discoverers to new worlds have gone;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

John Donne

[ Bericht 0% gewijzigd door #ANONIEM op 04-04-2004 16:53:07 ]

Romeo:

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.
It is my lady! O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing.
What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

quote:

Op zondag 4 april 2004 17:03 schreef sioux_ het volgende:
There once was a young man named Peter,
sprinkled his bed with a ghieter.
His father got woost,
took hold of a knoost,
and gave him a pack on his meter.

titel en schrijver weet ik even niet meer

Die is van John O'Mill

quote:

Op zondag 4 april 2004 17:04 schreef Locusta het volgende:

[..]

Jij bent dus ook een enorme gedichtenfan?
Heb je een speciale voorkeur? Genre?

Enorme fan Mja niet enorm maar wel leuk tijdverdrijf.
Gedeeltelijk moet het ook wel als je Engels studeert.
Ik vind bijna alles mooi; heel modern; heel oud, maar sommige dingen raken je gewoon meer dan andere.

OT: deze is ook mooi:

At the San Francisco Airport

By Yvor Winters

This is the terminal: the light
Gives perfect vision, false and hard;
The metal glitters, deep and bright.
Great planes are waiting in the yard--
They are already in the night.

And you are here beside me, small,
Contained and fragile, and intent
On things that I but half recall--
Yet going whither you are bent.
I am the past, and that is all.

But you and I in part are one:
The frightened brain, the nervous will,
The knowledge of what must be done,
The passion to acquire the skill
To face that which you dare not shun.

The rain of matter upon sense
Destroys me momently. The score:
There comes what will come. The expense
Is what one thought, and something more--
One's being and intelligence.

This is the terminal, the break.
Beyond this point, on lines of air,
You take the way that you must take;
And I remain in light and stare--
In light, and nothing else, awake.

een lange:

owja dit zijn persimmons:

ff voor het idee

Persimmons

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.


My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

Li-Young Lee