Najczęściej czytane ▸
Sara Teasdale
Careless forever, beautiful proud sea,
You laugh in happy thunder all alone,
You fold upon yourself, you dance your dance
Impartially on drift-weed, sand or stone.
You make us believe that we can outlive death,
You make us for an instant, for your sake,
Burn, like stretched silver of a wave,
Not breaking, but about to break.
Consider what one might learn
by meditating on a corpse:
how the flesh can crawl, the bones
of a beautiful face break
the crust of fantasy like little moons
out of the ground, vacant snail-shells
still glistening with an off-white rheum.
Or consider swallowing two squares
of LSD & looking in the mirror:
what perfectly disintegrating visions
might be yours, & with what slight effort.
It’s exhilarating, really, to find this
blind matter – that it somehow coheres
despite its utter insensitivity to longing
or loneliness. It gives itself
only half-grudgingly to the chance
My eyes could not see it
My ears could not hear it
My fingers could not touch it
But I knew it was there
The same way you know the sun will rise again
The way winter will melt into spring
The way the wave will always beat on the sand
Because even if something is not evident
It is still there
Lurking in the shadows
Of pride
Of ego
Of distance
But all of these things can be overcome
If you allow it
For even though
Held above,
The water.
Balanced on,
Seams.
Rippling waves,
Beneath us.
Gentle seas,
And streams.
Fingers intertwined,
Floating on air.
Light reflecting off eyes,
Wind blowing through hair.
Droplets from lashes,
Created this river.
Every sea hides,
Mountains of silver.
A gentle,
Lapping breeze.
A slight,
Winter chill.
A distant,
Cry of birds.
A peaceful,
Lull of waves.
A passing,
Swimming mermaid.
A blaring,
Faraway fire engine.
A towering,
Threatening dinosaur.
A bleak,
Colourless world.
There in the courtyard
Spending my time
Here in the glaring sun
Sat at a table
Not really able
To tell when the day is done
Frankly, it's wild
Much like an ocean
The waves on the rise
Constantly in motion
Here I am swimming
Hoping to stay
Trying real hard not to drift away
So here I sit now
Sadly alone
Watching the clouds go by
Whenever i see you cry,
I'm reminded that a bit too much of something is not good for you.
I'm reminded of waves, and how, like people
they have the ability to bring joy
and also cause pain.
I'm reminded that even on it's bad days,
the ocean, together with cliffs
continues to be a great conductor
of the only sound that keeps me sane.
I'm reminded that the only difference
between tears and waterfalls,
is what causes the water to fall down.
a kind of nervousness, an impending change
to doom or to flourish? a change in any case
an uneasiness, an excitement; nerves in any case
about to burst, about to fall, impending thirst, precariously balancing all
too much coffee? no, none at all
a heartsickness, a longing; is it here or is it far?
an embarrassment, a harassment; is it me or is it them?
this feeling wobbling like a wave, reminiscent of what saudade gave
the feeling of soaring
A picture pushes you
Aside Your coat trails
In the wind You pick
Yourself up out of a
Bunch of snaps and
Move along Traffic
Is thick Day dry
The tune sounds like
It's coming from a
Lot of places in the
Room That's a funny
Tune You are on
One of the waves
Opening the water
How to understand things you have names for?
Shot at on the beaches of Rhode Island.
Sounds upstairs, Ron's radio, door half open,
the woman in a window walking back and forth,
noise of the fireplace. Flies in the center of the
room, bare trees, houses on which earlier a man
in yellow slicker fixed an antenna, strong wind
and waves, a single pole in the bay.
Traces of heaven, lines of the earth.
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last Put out the Light was spoken.
Oh, you who go hurrying, worrying by
With never a cry or a call,
Saw you a lad who was standing here
On the crest of the old sea wall?
I saw him last night in the twilight
As the long low breakers rolled,
And across the bay in the chapel
An evening bell was tolled.
And we looked at each other a moment
And then from each other we turned,
But I read in his eyes of a longing
That a merciless world had spurned.
Oh, have you no answer to make me,
All you who go hastening past,
And though I am late will none tell me
Where he was standing last?