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Слушать(AI)Gunner
Did they send me away from my cat and my
To a doctor who poked me and counted my teeth,
To a line on a plain, to a stove in a tent?
Did I nod in the flies of the schools?
And the fighters rolled into the tracer like rabbits,
The blood froze over my splints like a scab —Did I snore, all still and grey in the turret,
Till the palms rose out of the sea with my death?
And the world ends here, in the sand of a grave,
All my wars over?
How easy it was to die!
Has my wife a pension of so many mice?
Did the medals go home to my cat?
Randall Jarrell
Randall Jarrell (May 6, 1914 – October 14, 1965) was an American poet, literary critic, children's author, essayist, and novelist. He was the 11
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Mail Call
The letters always just evade the One skates like a stone into a beam, falls like a bird Surely the past from which the letters Is waiting in the future, past the graves
The Refugees
In the shabby train no seat is vacant The child in the ripped Sprawls undisturbed in the Of the smashed compartment
Losses
It was not dying: everybody died It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes— and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks, And the rates rose, all because of us We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
The Player Piano
I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake Run by a lady my age She was gay When I told her that I came from
