Üdvözletem a megújult verses blogban
Nemrég úgy döntöttem, hogy kicsit változtatok az idekerült versek alapvető kiválasztási módján. Ahelyett, hogy azt várnám, hogy random versek és dalszövegek elgondolkodtatják a közönséget (ami néha megtörtént, de általában nem), inkább egy kis bemutatót tartok különböző 20. és 21. századi költők és dalszövegírók műveiből.
Mostantól fel fogok keresni mai nem ismert vagy kevésbé ismert irókat, és megkérem őket, hogy ide publikálhassam a műveiket. Egy ilyen anoním író már van is a versek közt.
A régi bemutatkozó szöveget itt találod.
Let Me Die A Youngman's Death
by Roger McGough
Let me die a youngman's death not a clean and inbetween the sheets holywater death not a famous-last-words peaceful out of breath death When I'm 73 and in constant good tumour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an allnight party Or when I'm 91 with silver hair and sitting in a barber's chair may rival gangsters with hamfisted tommyguns burst in and give me a short back and insides Or when I'm 104 and banned from the Cavern may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one Let me die a youngman's death not a free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning death not a curtains drawn by angels borne 'what a nice way to go' death
by Roger McGough
Chaos ruled OK in the classroom as bravely the teacher walked in the nooligans ignored him hid voice was lost in the din "The theme for today is violence and homework will be set I'm going to teach you a lesson one that you'll never forget" He picked on a boy who was shouting and throttled him then and there then garrotted the girl behind him (the one with grotty hair) Then sword in hand he hacked his way between the chattering rows "First come, first severed" he declared "fingers, feet or toes" He threw the sword at a latecomer it struck with deadly aim then pulling out a shotgun he continued with his game The first blast cleared the backrow (where those who skive hang out) they collapsed like rubber dinghies when the plug's pulled out "Please may I leave the room sir?" a trembling vandal enquired "Of course you may" said teacher put the gun to his temple and fired The Head popped a head round the doorway to see why a din was being made nodded understandingly then tossed in a grenade And when the ammo was well spent with blood on every chair Silence shuffled forward with its hands up in the air The teacher surveyed the carnage the dying and the dead He waggled a finger severely "Now let that be a lesson" he said
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary E. Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.
Gyakran jár itt: Ulmar