"Still Another Day: XVII/Men" – 13471 rezultate
0.03 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
Grave stone
de Elif
I passed beyond Death one more time, I passed through the light, Another day that goes by, I have defeated Death once more... But I still haven\'t found you!!! I know my destiny, in its misery, I...
War Song
de Eugen
In a moonless night In alonely hour Starts another fight. Someone`s shot in the tower Someone`s lying here And someone`s lying there But there`s no time for tears `Cause death floats in the air. I...
The Wood-Pile
de Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day I paused and said, \'I will turn back from here. No, I will go on farther- and we shall see\'. The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot...
Nights in Melbourne
de Bianca
FADE IN EXT. RANDOM LANDSCAPE– DAY (BACKGROUND MUSIC: SAVAGE GARDEN- TRULY MADLY DEEPLY) The sun sets. The clouds are moving slowly, covering big parts of the sky. CHRISTIE V.O. Dear diary, I don’t...
Ghost
de Alin Niculae
\"...and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted Nevermore.\" on a sweet scented summer day with the ashes falling from the sky the ashes he once loved for they...
Sonnet VII
de William Shakespeare
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty; And having climb\'d the steep-up...
Oana’s not here
de Florin DeRoxas
Oana’s not here, Oana is gone, Oana’s my sweetheart for long time, and I don’t know what should be done, because she still hurts my heart; she’s one of us who never gives back no matter what we do....
Laura’s not here
de Florin DeRoxas
english version on Nek’s song “Laura non c’e” Laura’s not here, Laura is gone, Laura’s my sweetheart for long time, and I don’t know what should be done, because...
Haiku și tanka
de Marian Nicolae TOMI
* ceaiul dă în foc - the tea is boiling - cu ochii pierduți pe câmp the eyes lost on the field închizând geamul closing the window * privind un lemn uscat – looking at a dry log - înflorind fără...
Venus and Adonis
de William Shakespeare
\'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.\' To the Right Honourable Henry Wríothestly, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD. RIGHT HONOURABLE, I know not...