De l'immortalité de la poésie.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qaar6cZGFMg


William Blake


TIGER


Tiger, tiger, burning bright
in the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes ?
On what wing dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire ?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ?
And when thy heart began to beat
What dread hand and what dread feet ?

What the hammer ? What the chain ?
In what furnace was thy brain ?
What the anvil ? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see ?
Did He who made the lamb make thee ?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
in the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ?

(1794)




 

Dust if you must

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.

Rose Milligan

“if i should die before you do

When
you wake up
from death,
you will find yourself
in my arms,
and
I will be
kissing you,
and
I
will be crying”

Richard Brautigan

Ivo Fleischmann (Né à Prague en 1921. Poète, diplomate, professeur)

_Quelques feuilles et la rivière_

Une rafale de vent...
Et avant même d'avoir pu extraire de nos yeux
le grain de poussière
deux feuilles_ deux feuilles couvertes de vers
s'envolèrent dans les vagues
L'eau était teintée de gris
on aurait dit un poisson au ventre nu
innocent terrible

J'ai cru le poète anéanti
accablé, désespéré par cette perte
Mais non
il plongea ses mains dans l'eau vive
et les retira pleines de sang
paumes rougies
qu'il porta à sa bouche
et le sang se mit à parler...