"...still wondering" – 13476 rezultate
0.01 secundeMeilisearchlara sam
Still thinking of coming back
2 poezii, 0 proze
GKGabriel J. Khazini
Broken glass still echoes in his heart as broken mirrors, Heart that once danced love and fear... And thus all puppets sing the song that hurt the puppeteer
2 poezii, 0 proze
ionutz
born....10.03.1900-toamna.............still breathing.....
7 poezii, 0 proze
OIOvidiu Mihai Ionel
Born again. Still alive. Painter, dancer, writer.
88 poezii, 0 proze
SNSara Nagy
mi-au expirat cei 19 ani de acasa. datele mele personale still pending ( schimbarea domiciliului unitate de invatamant)
36 poezii, 0 proze
ANandra n
"it looks i've reached the crossroad.. remains of what i am still still waiting on the sidewalk to fill this peaceful day the burden of a choice my past dissolved..erased would you belive my world?"
1 poezii, 0 proze
CFCarmen Fenesan
"Well. I'll tell you somethin' about your famous future. Every day I wake up, it's still the present. The same grimy, boring present. I don't think this future thing exists." (Titan AE)
19 poezii, 0 proze
James Joyce
Joyce was born in Dublin, where his father was a rates collector. He was educated at a Jesuit school and University College, Dublin where he studied philosophy and language. When he was still an undergraduate, in 1900, his long review of Ibsen’s last play was published in the Fortnightly Review. At this time he also began writing his poems which were later collected in Chamber Music, published in 1907. In 1902 Joyce left Dublin for Paris, but returned the following year as his mother was dying. From 1904 he lived with Nora Barnacle, whom he married in 1931 (the year his father died), a son was born in 1905, and a daughter in 1918. Their home from 1905 to 1915 was Trieste, where Joyce taught English at the Berlitz school. In 1909 and 1912 he made his final trips to Ireland, attempting to arrange the publication of his first book Dubliners, which finally appeared in England in 1914. It was during this time that he was contacted by Ezra Pound, a leading champion of modernist writers who...
0 poezii, 0 proze
JAJohn Ashbery
John Ashbery (born July 28, 1927) is an American poet. He has won nearly every major American award for poetry and is recognized as one of America's most important, though still controversial, poets. In an article on Elizabeth Bishop in his Selected Prose, he characterizes himself as having been described as "a harebrained, homegrown surrealist whose poetry defies even the rules and logic of Surrealism." "No figure looms so large in American poetry over the past 50 years as John Ashbery", Langdon Hammer, chairman of the English Department at Yale University, wrote in 2008. American poet has had a larger, more diverse vocabulary, not Whitman, not Pound". Stephen Burt, a poet and Harvard professor of English has compared Ashbery to T. S. Eliot, the "last figure whom half the English-language poets alive thought a great model, and the other half thought incomprehensible" Ashbery was born in Rochester, New York, and raised on a farm near Lake Ontario; his brother died when they were...
4 poezii, 0 proze
Radu Contes
The beginning of my childhood was profoundly marked by one of my grandfather’s passions – literature. For him reading, living, the writings of so many did not seem to be enough, so he began writing his own stories that still echo in my memory and in my heart. I remember that one day I went to him and asked “What are you writing about?”. Looking at me for only a second and returning his eyes at the ink stained notebook he answered: “My life”. Regretful, I confess that that was the last dialogue we had. After that I began reading, reading everything he was writing. Two years after his death, I had met someone who changed everything. I stopped reading and began writing myself. It was such a new feeling. It seemed to be never ending. It still feels. Since the first time, you may think I am exaggerating, but it really was the first time I saw her when I felt this sudden urge of writing. Words like “Thank you” seem meaningless compared to the things that you have done for me.
2 poezii, 0 proze
Look Here Mr. Beefy
de Ohm
A poem for all the ones who ever typed A/S/L I look up in the corner, and a message up has arrived, a private message from a stranger who thinks I have no pride, who thinks the three little words...
PARADISE LOST -- Book X
de John Milton
Book X Mean while the heinous and despiteful act Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve, Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit, Was known in Heaven; for what...
Goblin Market
de Christina Rossetti
MORNING and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: \"Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpecked cherries- Melons and raspberries,...
I always say
de Lia Miruna Dumitrache
So there we were, in hell. Burning programme’s nine to four – the perpetual thing is bogus cause there’s too many of us and they have to have shifts and besides they gotta cool the place down at...
PARADISE LOST -- Book V
de John Milton
Book V Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate...
EMSHA
de Olariu Fabian
Acum taci. Încearca sa scrii mai departe Ignora-ti constiinta. Gândeste aparte... Usor usor totul...dispare din fata ta Si, – uite! – lumina. Caldura. Tradarea. Dulcea tradare. Încet, încet dispare...
Cyber Lesson Learned
de Ohm
A letter is being written for you. 10/26 Written in draft form, why? Because I know not what else to do? It is as cold here, in draft, as it is in my heart. My body chilled, by your absence. My mind...
PARADISE LOST -- Book VII
de John Milton
Book VII Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine Following, above the Olympian hill I soar, Above the flight of Pegasean wing! The meaning, not the...
Still...
de Crisan Iulian
Blood and mists Just silence… Eternal struggle between graves of time My lips are frozen My eyes, made of crystal I am made of nothing… I hear, but not your voice I see, but not your essence I feel,...
still
de elis ioan
un refugiu tramvaiele luminează puțin tu știi foarte bine care e drumul când totul se prăbușește câteodată cred că orașul meu e de lavă bucăți de asfalt aruncate aiurea eu trebuie să fac salturi alte...