Poesie in lingua straniera

Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
 Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal--the seal!
 In from the edge of the floe.

Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
 And the yelping dog-teams go;
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
 Back from the edge of the floe!

We tracked our seal to his secret place,
 We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
 Out on the edge of the floe.

We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
 We drove it downward--so!
And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
 Out on the edge of the floe.

Our gloves are glued with the frozen blood,
 Our eyes with the drifting snow;
But we come back to our wives again,
 Back from the edge of the floe!

Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
 And the loaded dog-teams go;
And the wives can hear their men come back,
 Back from the edge of the floe!
Vota la poesia: Commenta
    Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
    in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
    Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
    Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
    Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full --
    Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
     Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love --
      Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
            For the wind has come to say:
            "You must take me while you may,
         If you'd go to Mother Carey
         (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
      Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

    Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o' that!
    Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
    Port -- port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
    And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
     Well, ah, fare you well, for we've got to take her out again --
      Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
         And it's time to clear and quit
         When the hawser grips the bitt,
      So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

    Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
    Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
    Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
    Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
     Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,
      Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
         And it's blowing up for night,
         And she's dropping light on light,
      And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,

    Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.
    Sick she is and harbour-sick -- Oh, sick to clear the land!
    Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us --
    Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!
     Well, ah, fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us,
      Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
            Till the last, last flicker goes
            From the tumbling water-rows,
         And we're off to Mother Carey
         (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
      Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!
    Vota la poesia: Commenta
      Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
      in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)
      Twas not while England's sword unsheathed
      Put half a world to flight,
      Nor while their new-built cities breathed
      Secure behind her might;
      Not while she poured from Pole to Line
      Treasure and ships and men--
      These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
      They did not quit her then!

      Not till their foes were driven forth
      By England o'er the main--
      Not till the Frenchman from the North
      Had gone with shattered Spain;
      Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
      No hostile flag unrolled,
      Did they remember that they owed
      To Freedom--and were bold!


      The snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
      The ice on the Delaware,
      But the poor dead soldiers of King George
      They neither know nor care.

      Not though the earliest primrose break
      On the sunny side of the lane,
      And scuffling rookeries awake
      Their England's spring again.

      They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
      Or the ice melts out of the bay:
      And the men that served with Washington
      Lie all as still as they.

      They will not stir though the mayflower blows
      In the moist dark woods of pine,
      And every rock-strewn pasture shows
      Mullein and columbine.

      Each for his land, in a fair fight,
      Encountered strove, and died,
      And the kindly earth that knows no spite
      Covers them side by side.

      She is too busy to think of war;
      She has all the world to make gay;
      And, behold, the yearly flowers are
      Where they were in our fathers'day!

      Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
      When the columbine is dead,
      And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
      Bright as the blood they shed.
      Vota la poesia: Commenta
        Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
        in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

        An American

        If the Led Striker call it a strike,
         Or the papers call it a war,
        They know not much what I am like,
         Nor what he is, My Avatar.

        Through many roads, by me possessed,
         He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
        He is the Jester and the Jest,
         And he the Text himself applies.

        The Celt is in his heart and hand,
         The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
        Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
         He guards the Redskin's dry reserve

        His easy unswept hearth he lends
         From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
        Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
         He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

        Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
         Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
        Blatant he bids the world bow down,
         Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

        Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
         He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
        His hands are black with blood -- his heart
         Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

        But, through the shift of mood and mood,
         Mine ancient humour saves him whole --
        The cynic devil in his blood
         That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

        That bids him flout the Law he makes,
         That bids him make the Law he flouts,
        Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
         The drumming guns that -- have no doubts;

        That checks him foolish-hot and fond,
         That chuckles through his deepest ire,
        That gilds the slough of his despond
         But dims the goal of his desire;

        Inopportune, shrill-accented,
         The acrid Asiatic mirth
        That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
         The scandal of the elder earth.

        How shall he clear himself, how reach
         Your bar or weighed defence prefer --
        A brother hedged with alien speech

        Which knowledge vexes him a space;
         But, while Reproof around him rings,
        He turns a keen untroubled face
         Home, to the instant need of things.

        Enslaved, illogical, elate,
         He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
        To shake the iron hand of Fate
         Or match with Destiny for beers.

        Lo, imperturbable he rules,
         Unkempt, desreputable, vast --
        And, in the teeth of all the schools,
         I -- I shall save him at the last!
        Vota la poesia: Commenta
          Scritta da: Silvana Stremiz
          in Poesie (Poesie in lingua straniera)

          The Advertisement

          Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
          Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
          Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
          Faring with friends far among fields;
          There is none other equal in action,
          Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
          Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
          Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
          Certain to steer well between wains.
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