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Poetry 2

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Poetry 2

  1. 1. <ul><li>POETRY </li></ul>
  2. 2. OUR BENCH <ul><li>I don’t know what meaning </li></ul><ul><li>Had for you </li></ul><ul><li>Our bench </li></ul><ul><li>We got there with such a white heart </li></ul><ul><li>As anyone who begins a blank diary </li></ul><ul><li>The clumsy game of knowing eachother </li></ul><ul><li>The sweet game of emotion through the tip of our fingers </li></ul><ul><li>Lengthening the space left in half an hour </li></ul><ul><li>Breathing that time as a second stolen to eternity </li></ul><ul><li>And every day </li></ul><ul><li>Taking from the present the intimacy of a second </li></ul>
  3. 3. <ul><li>Let me spy you for an instant longer </li></ul><ul><li>Recording the shinning hidden behind your look </li></ul><ul><li>Savour my wish </li></ul><ul><li>Stroke the fold of your smile with my glance </li></ul><ul><li>Feel your youth beating by my side </li></ul><ul><li>So, when you have left </li></ul><ul><li>I’ll keep your presence living </li></ul><ul><li>And your absence will tell me that you existed </li></ul><ul><li>Stuck to me </li></ul><ul><li>On this bench </li></ul><ul><li>Far away from this world. </li></ul>
  4. 4. POETRY <ul><li>Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum (muffled: sord, apagat) </li></ul><ul><li>Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, (crepe bows: llaços de crep) Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden </li></ul>
  5. 5. POETRY <ul><li>The Four Ages of Man </li></ul><ul><li>He with body waged a fight (començar a lluitar), </li></ul><ul><li>But body won; it walks upright. </li></ul><ul><li>Then he struggled with the heart; </li></ul><ul><li>Innocence and peace depart. </li></ul><ul><li>Then he struggled with the mind; </li></ul><ul><li>His proud heart he left behind. </li></ul><ul><li>Now his wars on God begin; </li></ul><ul><li>At stroke of midnight God shall win. </li></ul><ul><li>William Butler Yeats </li></ul>
  6. 6. POETRY <ul><li>'Splendour in the Grass' What though the radiance(resplandor) which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; </li></ul><ul><li>In the primal sympathy(compasió) </li></ul><ul><li>Which having been must ever be; In the soothing(tranquilitzants) thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind </li></ul><ul><li>William Wordsworth </li></ul>

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