Carol Ann Duffy

Carol Ann Duffy

37 карма
Dame Carol Ann Duffy (born 23 December 1955) is a British poet and playwright. She is a professor of contemporary poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University, and was appointed Poet Laureate in May 2009, resigning in 2019. She is the first woman, the first Scottish-born poet and the first known LGBT poet to hold the position.
Все работыПоиск

от·
In the end,
it was nothing more
than the toy boat of a boy
on the local park’s lake,
Читать дальше

от·
Now only words in a rhyme,
no more than a name
on a stone,
and that well overgrown –
Читать дальше

от·
The heron’s the look of the river.
The moon’s the look of the night.
The sky’s the look of forever.
Snow is the look of white.
Читать дальше

от·
If I was dead,
and my bones adrift
like dropped oars
in the deep, turning earth;
Читать дальше

от·
Every summer, I visit the Scottish Prince
at his castle high on a hill outside Crieff.
We dine on haggis and tatties and neeps –
I drink water with mine and the Prince sips
Читать дальше

от·
One with a broken heart
to weep sad buckets.
Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sea.
Читать дальше

от·
You like safe sounds:
the dogs lapping at their bowls;
the pop of a cork on a bottle of plonk
as your mother cooks;
Читать дальше

от·
A clip of thinder ever the reeftips
sends like a bimb going iff!
My hurt thimps in my chist.
It’s dirk. The clods are block with reen.
Читать дальше

от·
Beloved sweetheart bastard. Not a day since then
I haven’t wished him dead. Prayed for it
so hard I’ve dark green pebbles for eyes,
ropes on the back of my hands I could strangle with.
Читать дальше

от·
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
Читать дальше

от·
We came from our own country in a red room
which fell through the fields, our mother singing
our father’s name to the turn of the wheels.
My brothers cried, one of them bawling, Home,
Читать дальше

от·
It was late September. I’d just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
Читать дальше

от·
‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…’
(from Shakespeare’s will)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas
Читать дальше

от·
In his dark room he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
Читать дальше

от·
If you think of the dark
as a black park
and the moon as a bounced ball,
then there’s nothing to be frightened of
Читать дальше

от·
You could travel up the Blue Nile
with your finger, tracing the route
while Mrs Tilscher chanted the scenery.
Tana. Ethiopia. Khartoum. Aswân.
Читать дальше
Показать больше