An ongoing anthology of modern and classic poems in English and in other languages (in original with English translation).
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Была жара. Леса горели. Нудно Тянулось время. На соседней даче Кричал петух. Я вышел за калитку. Там, прислонясь к забору, на скамейке Дремал бродячий серб, худой и черный. Серебряный тяжелый крест висел На груди полуголой. Капли пота По ней катились....
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant...
Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde. Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn: die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale. Im Spiegel ist Sonntag, im Traum wird geschlafen, der Mund...
All night a door floated down the river. It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure from its former life, like the time the lovers leaned against it kissing for hours and whispering those famous words. Later, there were harsh...
A man leaves the world and the streets he lived on grow a little shorter. One more window dark in this city, the figs on his branches will soften for birds. If we stand quietly enough evenings there grows a...
The likelihood of ever finding is small. It's like being accosted by a woman And asked to help her look for a pearl She lost right here in the street. She could be making it all up, Even her tears,...
A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever reeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. And you...
Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight. She made of the motions of her wrist The grandiose gestures Of her thought. The rumpling of the plumes Of this creature of the evening Came to be sleights...
(original Italian below) Listen: the laureled poets stroll only among shrubs with learned names: ligustrum, acanthus, box. What I like are streets that end in grassy ditches where boys snatch a few famished eels from drying puddles: paths that struggle...
The sun sets in the cold without friends Without reproaches after all it has done for us It goes down believing in nothing When it is gone I hear the stream running after it It has brought its fllute it...
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