By Elli Paionidou
Αγωνίζεσαι, σαν ηϱωιϰός δϱομέας,
να ϰϱατήσεις τη σϰυτάλη της αξιοπϱέπειας.
Στις γυμνές ανηϕοϱιές σοϕός…
να ϰϱατήσεις τη σϰυτάλη της αξιοπϱέπειας.
Στις γυμνές ανηϕοϱιές σοϕός…
Explore Poems: Landscapes & Pastorals
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- By Shann Rayi . sorrow
is the curved ribcage of a beautiful death,
the elk’s arched bones visible in the morning… - By Elli PaionidouYou strive to cling on to the baton
of integrity, like some heroic runner.
On the barren hill your sage… - By Anne HalseyAt her aunt’s house
in Portchester roaming
the Jersey meadows
after flowers, she felt
something pulling
at… - By Reed TurchiDeltaic deposits deepen hues—
not green, but that green,
not blue, but that blue—
In the small museum,
a… - By Aase BergBacklit horses
Tropical nights
Pink dusk over the woods
Widestretching fields
Far away quails yell
into the… - By Aase BergHästar i motljus
Tropiska nätter
Rosa skymning över skog
Vidsträckta fält
Långt borta hojtar vaktlarna… - By Li JianjunOne morning in summer
I came upon a valley
With a school of horses
Sheep, larks, and ninety-nine apricot… - By Li Jianjun这是夏天的某一个上午
我得到了一条山谷
以及山谷里的马匹
羊群、百灵鸟和九十九棵山杏树
然而我不能告诉你这条山谷的名字
这是我对神做出的承诺 - By Hershman JohnLast Easter, I gave my mother-in-law a large, brown, simple ceramic
Navajo water pot, shiny with pine… - By Chris HoshnicDá’ák’eh ahooł’níi niłch’i doo naadą́ą́.
Naadą́ niłch’i
Doo Sodizin.
Niłchi adiin goo
Sodizin bee ’adoolnii… - By Doug Gonzalezonly I stood in the rain with wet skin. I could taste the dew though it had not yet found my lips. …
- By James JoyceI heard their young hearts crying
Loveward above the glancing oar
And heard the prairie grasses sighing… - By Meredith Strickerin the DMZ ravines north of the Kaesong wastes edging
south of the perfect ruler’s pink and prisoned… - By Carolyn ForchéThese are your stones, assembled in matchbox and tin,
collected from roadside, culvert, and viaduct,
battlefield… - By Timothy DonnellyAnd though we had fed long and well at the table
the talk always turned to whether to go on
regardless… - By Andrew FrisardiPRIMEAt dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fog
Were fingers pointing up from graves, as if what's born… - By Kristi Stoutthere is a woman in love with my husband. she buried a lamb this morning i didn’t. ahead of myself. …
- By James JoyceHe travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they … - By Peter O’LearyThe great spastic glass of the Sun
in winter's going glare. :: Wind's antic helicoid
winding upward through…