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You can enjoy this alone or share this with your loved ones, too! Our first poem is from Victor Hugo, one of the best-known French writers. Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Saddened, and the day will be like night for me.

I will neither see the golden glow of the falling evening,. Le Pont Mirabeau talks about lost love by likening it to the flow of the river Seine under the Mirabeau bridge in Paris. Today, you can see a plaque containing the first part of the poem on a wall in Le Pont Mirabeau in Paris, overlooking the Louis Bleriot quay.

This poem has been turned into a song many times over, with different artists adding their own brand of music into the poem. One of those songs is this version by Marc Lavoine which you can also listen to in this link. This next poem is from one of the works of Arthur Rimbaud. This poem is rather thin in appearance but quite profound in meaning. Puisque de vous seules,. And thus you fly.

Since from you alone,. Les Roses de Saadi is one of the most known works of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore and was published posthumously in Short, sweet, and somewhat nostalgic, it is up to the reader to decide if it is a love poem or not, or if should be taken for its obvious interpretation or to look for hidden meanings. Desbordes-Valmore, however, is known for her straightforward poems laced with melancholy and sorrowful mourning.

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Our final poem is another one that expresses sorrow. Au Tout qui nous est clos inexorablement. Always the same comedy,. And then we make lovely golden dandelions blossom.

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I thought it was a disaster. And it had disappeared. Why did the editing take so long? Because John Bradburne is the most prolific poet the English language has ever had. Wordsworth wrote about 50, lines; Shakespeare 80, Bradburne wrote nearly , lines — well over 5, poems — an achievement accepted last year by Guinness World Records.

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The John Bradburne Memorial Society celebrates it as one side of the work of this remarkable man, who refused to leave the lepers he cared for in the middle of the Rhodesian civil war, and was abducted and killed by one of the factions. Mtemwa has since become a place of pilgrimage, and every September 5 — the anniversary of his death — the settlement, and the nearby hill where John often prayed, is filled with thousands of visitors. Signs of sanctity have steadily grown, faithfully recorded by the society in its newsletters, and a movement for his canonisation is gaining increasing recognition.

A lot is happening. This year, an English translation is being completed. The Memorial Society continues to fund-raise to support the Mtemwa settlement. And there is increasing interest abroad. More and more people had been going to the poetry website as a consequence. And suddenly it was down. I got in touch with Canada Goose, but they could do nothing. Security was a matter for individual site owners, it seems.

So it was my problem.


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I sent an urgent email to the brilliant team that had designed the original site, back in Could the database be retrieved, from behind the hack? I had a nervous 24 hours before the answer came back: yes. I go where he goes. I have to. And often he flies into a rage at me, me, the poor soul.

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The Demon! He is a demon, you know, he is not a man. Rimbaud and Verlaine met one last time, in , when Rimbaud was living in Germany. This passage offers some examples of how Ashbery sometimes squeezes too hard. Among its more uncanny features is the way it often seems to look ahead to the twentieth century. With a singular taste for enormity, they have reproduced all the classical marvels of architecture. There is much more—not least, a description, delicate as rice paper, of what may or may not be ideal love.

The friend. He has known us all and loved us all.

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Let us, on this winter night, from cape to cape, from the tumultuous pole to the castle, from the crowd to the beach, from glance to glance, our strengths and feelings numb, learn to hail him and see him, and send him back, and under the tides and at the summit of snowy deserts, follow his seeing, his breathing, his body, his day. He was twenty years old. More important, Duffy persuasively penetrates the layers of myth and produces characters who suggest the real people they once were.

Duffy has the marvellous idea of making Vitalie the real seer in the family: she hears voices and has prophetic dreams.

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The notion that Rimbaud somehow owed his visionary poetics to his difficult parent has a nice psychological irony. The central emotional drama of the novel is, in fact, the ongoing war of attrition between the son and the mother, resolved—in the only way possible for these two implacable characters—in the final, very moving lines of the book. More problematic, inevitably, is the representation of Rimbaud himself.

But Duffy gets one thing absolutely right. A dead volcano. Shot his wad. The apparently irreconcilable extremes of his thought and behavior are easier to account for when you remember that Rimbaud the poet never reached adulthood: violent oscillations between yearning and contempt, sentimentality and viciousness, are not unheard of in adolescents.