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He said, 'Dance for me' and he said, 'You are too beautiful for the wind to pick at, or the sun to burn." He said, 'I'm a poor tattered thing, but not unkind to the sad dancer and the dancing dead.'
Sidney Keyes, Four Postures of Death
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You don’t set out to read a biography of Sidney Keyes for one poem but somehow you end up there
We are no cowards, we are pictures Of ordinary people, as you once were. Blame not nor pity us; we are the people Who laugh in dreams before the ramping boar Appears, before the loved one's death. We are your hope.
Neutrality by Sidney Keyes
John Heath-Stubbs, The Divided Ways (In memory of Sidney Keyes) (1945)
He said, "Dance for me" and he said, "You are too beautiful for the wind To pick at, or the sun to burn." He said, "I'm a poor tattered thing, but not unkind To the sad dancer and the dancing dead."
Sidney Keyes, Four Postures of Death
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
DIDO LAMENTA A ENEAS
No amó jamás el frenesí del sol ni la claridad del mar. Vino con brazos de héroe, ojos de buey, sin temer más que a sus sañosos dioses. Jamás amó la cuenca y resonante playa, nunca le acomodó un lecho labrado.
Se avienta el humo en los batientes, la pira aguarda. Su mente era horro muro que torna ecos, ni de lejos sutil cual vortiginosas llamas. No amó jamás mis ojos fieros, ni las palomas que moran en mis atrios.
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DIDO'S LAMENT FOR AENEAS
He never loved the frenzy of the sun Nor the clear seas. He came with hero’s arms and bullock’s eyes Afraid of nothing but his nagging gods. He never loved the hollow-sounding beaches Nor rested easily in carven beds.
The smoke blows over the breakers, the high pyre waits. His mind was a blank wall throwing echoes, Not half so subtle as the coiling flames. He never loved my wild eyes nor the pigeons Inhabiting my gates.
Sidney Keyes
di-versión©ochoislas
PRIMAVERA TEMPRANA
Ahora que los brotes empenacha el poniente... cada uno lumbre, mártir, ciervo de San Julián... y cual quintos las sombras cruzan los adoquines crujiendo zanquivanas, con aceradas manos tentando los balaustres y punteando estelas de qué gastadas tumbas, que yacen recostadas: la tierra es una fresca, el Tiempo un león manso, y el dolor como un gato vendrá a subirse al lecho.
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EARLY SPRING
Now that the young buds are tipped with a falling sun— Each twig a candle, a martyr, St. Julian’s branched stag— And the shadows are walking the cobbled square like soldiers With their long legs creaking and their pointed hands Reaching the railings and fingering the stones Of what expended, unprojected graves: The soil’s a flirt, the lion Time is tamed, And pain like a cat will come home to share your room.
Sidney Keyes
di-versión©ochoislas
IMÁGENES DE ANGUSTIA
El viejo maltrecho en mitad del páramo, el mozo que se mofa en corte extraña, modos de amor y muerte nos enseñan... recto pensar nos hurtan sus imágenes.
Lilas soñando en un jardín de amante, tomillo que ralea entre adoquines, son parejas imágenes de angustia... huesos de amante sus raíces tientan.
Gavias que chillan en ventosa playa, faz de muchacha que el verano ateza, callan las piedras que en mis sienes chocan, mas de todo solaz siempre me apartan.
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IMAGES OF DISTRESS
The old man ruinous upon the heath; The young man mocking at a foreign court; Instruct us in the ways of love and death— Their images usurp our proper thought.
The lilac dreaming in the lover's garden; The wild thyme splayed against the paving-stones Are equal images of man's distress— Their roots grope blindly for the lover's bones.
The wild gulls crying on the windy shore; The dark-haired girl with summer in her face; Silence the knocking stones inside my head, Yet drive me out from every resting-place.
Sidney Keyes
di-versión©ochoislas
