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Table of contents
- By Walt Whitman
- Günter Grass obituary | Books | The Guardian
- John Irving
- 10 German books you have to read before you die
Once Paumanok, When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this seashore in some briers, Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
Pour down your warmth, great sun. Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together. Till of a sudden, May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest, Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appear'd again. And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, The solitary guest from Alabama.
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. Yes, when the stars glisten'd, All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon, it rose late, It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. O night! What is that little black thing I see there in the white?
Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love. Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? O it is the shape, the shape of my mate. O land! O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. O throat! O trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth, Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.
Shake out carols!
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Solitary here, the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love!
By Walt Whitman
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! They do not know how immortal, but I know. Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,. For me those that have been boys and that love women,.
Günter Grass obituary | Books | The Guardian
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,. For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,. For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,. For me children and the begetters of children. I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,.
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,.
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders,. The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,. The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls,.
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,. The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd,. The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,. What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes,. Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,. I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart. The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,.
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,. The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,. I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,. I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,. Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,. In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud,.
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.
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The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,. You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl,. Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,. On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand,.
The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,.
John Irving
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,. Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak,.
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,. And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,.
10 German books you have to read before you die
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;. Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;. Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome. She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,. She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.