"still flies Icar after the melting of the wings" – 13475 rezultate
0.02 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
Umbră lucidă, de Ionuț Caragea
de Teodor Dume
Pe 12 aprilie scriitorul IONUÞ CARAGEA va împlini 41 de ani, dintre care jumătate i-a dedicat scrisului. Acum la ceas de sărbătoare mă bucur că am șansa de a-i spune un călduros și prietenesc "LA...
Forța destinului
de Nicolae Diaconescu
Forța destinului Nu judeca pe alții, îmi spunea mama când eram copil, să lăsăm asta în seama lui Dumnezeu. Și nici nu te mai lua la trântă cu fetele! Au trecut anii și am uitat de povețele ei. Vineri...
On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense
de Friedrich Nietzsche
On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense (1873) By Friedrich Nietzsche Once upon a time, in some out of the way corner of that universe which is dispersed into numberless twinkling solar systems, there...
Gerontion
de T.S. Eliot
Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both. HERE I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. I was neither at the hot gates Nor...
Sinucigasul
de Nikolai Erdman
Young man, do you think -- or I should say what do you think -- please don\'t interrupt me, just listen -- imagine that tomorrow at twelve noon you are going to take a revolver in your hand -- please...
The Afternoon of a Faun
de Stéphane Mallarmé
These nymphs I would perpetuate. So clear Their light carnation, that it floats in the air Heavy with tufted slumbers. Was it a dream I loved? My doubt, a heap of ancient night, is finishing In many...
Exercitiu de critica
de Sorin Voinescu
Am avut ocazia sa verific munca unor colegi. Un lucru relativ simplu. Invatasem procedurile in scoala si doar trebuia sa le aplic. Daca regaseam rezultatele lor totul era in ordine. A aprecia...
we are...
de Andrei Dumitrescu
The skies who fell apart, are the holes who started the beatings back in our heart... We\'re all children of the same death wretched desciples of the same faith fading and growing so great with our...
The Runaway
de Robert Frost
Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall, We stopped by a mountain pasture to say \'Whose colt?\' A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall, The other curled at his breast. He dipped...
THE GRIFFIN
de Alina Mihai
I took the path of silence and of black night The sunlit world was far behind me The grass swayed gently in the moonlight And trees were tall, and starry sky And yet all these I could not see. On...