top best `1000 poetry in english

top best `1000 poetry in english

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody nobody. 
No one sleeps. 
The creatures of the moon smell and roam their cabins. 
Iguanas will come alive to bite the men who do not dream  and fleeing heartbroken find the corners  to the incredible crocodile still under the tender protest of the stars. 

No one sleeps for the world. Nobody nobody.
No one sleeps. 
There is a dead man in the furthest cemetery 
who complains three years 
because he has a dry landscape on his knee; 
and the boy they buried this morning cried so much 
that there was a need to call the dogs to shut up. 

Life is not a dream. Alert! Alert! Alert! 
We fall down the stairs to eat the wet earth 
or climb the edge of the snow with the chorus of dead dahlias. 
But there is no forgetting, no dream: 
living flesh. The kisses tie the mouths 
in a tangle of recent veins 
and the one who hurts his pain will hurt painlessly 
and the one who fears death will carry it on his shoulders. 

One day 
the horses will live in the taverns 
and the furious ants 
will attack the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of the cows. 

Another day 
we will see the resurrection of the dissected butterflies 
and still walking through a landscape of gray sponges and mute ships 
we will see our ring shine and roses flow from our tongue. 
Alert! Alert! Alert! 
To those who still keep traces of claw and downpour, 
to that boy who cries because he does not know the invention of the bridge 
or to that dead man who has no more than the head and a shoe, they 
must be taken to the wall where iguanas and serpents wait, 
where wait for the teeth of the bear, 
where the mummified hand of the child awaits 
and the skin of the camel bristles with a violent blue chill. 

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody nobody. 
No one sleeps. 
But if someone closes their eyes, 
whip it, my children, whip it! 

There is a panorama of open eyes 
and bitter sores on. 

No one sleeps for the world. Nobody nobody. 
I said it already. 

No one sleeps. 
But if someone has excess moss at night at the temples, 
open the hatches to see under the moon 
the fake glasses, the poison and the skull of the theaters.

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is to sleep. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins. The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars. Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry countryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this morning cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.















Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

At midnight, in the month of June, I 
stand under the mystical moon. 
A vapor of opium, like dew, faint, 
emerges from its golden halo, 
and, slowly flowing, drop by drop, 
on the top of the quiet mountain, 
glides drowsily and musically 
to the universal valley. 
Rosemary heads over the grave; 
the lilac leans on the wave; 
hugging the fog in his chest 
the ruins go to sleep. 
Similar to Leteo, look !, the lake 
seems to give itself to a conscious dream 
and would not wake up for anything in the world. 
All beauty sleeps! And look where
Irene rests  , with her destinies! 
Oh, illustrious lady! How can
this window open at night be fine  ? 
The mischievous air, from the top of the trees, 
passes laughing through the fence. 
Incorporeal airs, unruly sorcerer, 
enter and leave your room fluttering, 
and move the canopy of the curtains 
so capriciously - so recklessly - 
above the nearby and shrouded cover 
under which your sleeping soul lies hidden, 
which, on the ground and Through the walls below, 
as ghosts the shadows rise and fall! 
Oh dear lady! Aren't you afraid? 
Why and what are you dreaming about here? 
Surely you come from far away seas, 
attracted by this garden! 
Strange is your paleness! I miss your dress! 
Strange, above all, the length of your braid, 
all that solemn silence! 
The lady sleeps! Oh, may his sleeping sleep 
remain, be so deep 
that heaven has it under his sacred protection! 
This room was prepared for a more holy one, 
this bed for a more melancholic one. 
I pray to God to rest 
with my eyes closed forever, 
while the pale shrouded ghosts pass by! 
My love sleeps! Oh, may she sleep, 
as deeply as your dream is long! 
Let the worms slide towards her gently! 
Deep in the forest, dark and old 
some high chest may appear for her, 
some chest that frequently opens 
its black lid like wings, 
triumphant, on the pinnacles of the pallia, 
of the great funerals of her family - 
some sepulcher, remote, lonely, 
against whose lid she has thrown 
many distracted stones in his childhood. 
Some tomb whose squeaky door 
she can never force an echo again, 
trembling at the thought, poor girl of sin !, 
who were the dead who groaned inside

At midnight in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain top. 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley. 
The rosemary nods upon the grave; 
The lily lolls upon the wave; 
Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
The ruin moulders into rest; 
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take, 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All Beauty sleeps! - and lo! where lies 
(Her easement open to the skies) 
Irene, with her Destinies! 
Oh lady bright! can it be right - 
This window open to the night? 
The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
Laughingly through the lattice drop - 
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 
Flit through thy chamber in and out, 
And wave the curtain canopy 
So fitfully - so fearfully - 
Above the closed and fringed lid 
'Neath which thy slumb'ring sould lies hid, 
That o'er the floor and down the wall, 
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! 
Oh, lady dear, hast thor no fear? 
Why and what art thou dreaming here? 
Sure thou art come p'er far-off seas, 
A wonder to these garden trees! 
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! 
Strange, above all, thy length of tress, 
And this all solemn silentness! 
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep! 
This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 
I pray to God that she may lie 
Forever with unopened eye, 
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by! 
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 
As it is lasting, so be deep! 
Soft may the worms about her creep! 
Far in the forest, dim and old, 
For her may some tall vault unfold - 
Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
And winged panels fluttering back, 
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, 
Of her grand family funerals -
Some sepulcher  , remote, alone, 
Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
In childhood, many an idle stone - 
Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
She ne'er shall force an echo more, 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! 
It was the dead who groaned within.

The shadow of the wing

What do you think I don't believe

when we argued both,

you can't imagine my wish

my thirst, my hunger for God;

You haven't heard my scream

desperate, that people

the entrails of darkness

invoking the Infinite;

you don't see my thought

who determined to produce

ideal, usually suffer

birth torture.

Yes my infertile spirit

your fertility had,

forged already a heaven would have

To complete your world.

But say, what effort fits

in a soul without a flag

leading everywhere

your torturer who knows ?;

who lives fast of faith

and, with stubborn heroism,

he goes to each chasm

and every night a why?

Of all luck, shield me

my thirst for research,

my longing for God, deep and mute;

and there is more love in my doubt

than in your warm affirmation.

You who think I don't believe

when we two feud

do not imagine my desire,

my thirst, my hunger for God;

nor have you heard my desolate

cry that echoes through

the inner place of shadow,

calling on the infinite;

nor do you see my thought

laboring in ideal genesis,

frequently in distress

with throes of light.

If my sterile spirit

could own your power of birth,

by now - I would have columned heaven

to perfect your earth.

But tell me, what power stows

within a flagless soul

to carry anywhere at all

its torturer - who knows? -

that keeps a fast from faith,

and with valiant integrity

goes on asking every depth

and every darkness, why?

Notwithstanding, I am shielded

by my thirst for inquiry -

my pangs for God, cavernous and unheard;

and there is more love in my unsated

doubt than in your tepid certainty.