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ФИО автора	Краткая информация об авторе	Стихотворение
Blake William (1757 – 1827)	Blake was an English poet, painter, and printmaker. Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. What he called his prophetic works were said by 20th-century critic Northrop Frye to form " what is in proportion to its merits the least read body of poetry in the English language". His visual artistry led 21st-century critic Jonathan Jones to proclaim him " far and away the greatest artist Britain has ever produced". In 2002, Blake was placed at number 38 in the BBC's poll of the 100 Greatest Britons.	London I wander thro' each charter'd street. Near where the charter'd Thames does flow And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
Boland Eavan (born 1944)	Boland is an Irish poet, author, professor, and activist who has been active since the 1960s. She is currently a professor at Stanford University, where she has taught since 1996. Her work deals with the Irish national identity, and the role of women in Irish history. A number of poems from Boland's poetry career are studied by Irish students who take the Leaving Certificate. Her other awards include a Lannan Foundation Award in Poetry and an American Ireland Fund Literary Award. She also received the Corrington Medal for Literary Excellence Centenary College 2002, the Bucknell Medal of Distinction 2000 Bucknell University, and the John Frederick Nims Award from Poetry Magazine 2002.	Atlantis—A Lost Sonnet How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder that a whole city - arches, pillars, colonnades, not to mention vehicles and animals - had all one fine day gone under? I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then. Surely a great city must have been missed? I miss our old city - white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe what really happened is this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word to convey that what is gone is gone forever and never found it. And so, in the best traditions of where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name and drowned it.
Browning Elizabeth Barrett (1806-1861)	Elizabeth Barrett Browning was an English poet of the Victorian era, popular in Britain and the United States during her lifetime. Born in County Durham, the eldest of 12 children, Elizabeth Barrett wrote poetry from about the age of six. In the 1830s Elizabeth was introduced to literary society through her cousin, John Kenyon. Her first adult collection of poems was published in 1838 and she wrote prolifically between 1841 and 1844, producing poetry, translation and prose. Her prolific output made her a rival to Tennyson as a candidate for poet laureate on the death of Wordsworth. Elizabeth's work had a major influence on prominent writers of the day, including the American poets Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. She is remembered for such poems as " How Do I Love Thee? " (Sonnet 43, 1845) and Aurora Leigh (1856).	How Do I Love Thee? How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Collins William James (born 1941)	William James Collins, known as Billy Collins, is an American poet, appointed as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. He has served as a Professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York and is the Senior Distinguished Fellow of the Winter Park Institute, Florida. Collins was considered as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library (1992) and selected as the New York State Poet for 2004 through 2006. As of 2015, he is a teacher in the MFA program at Stony Brook Southampton. As U. S. Poet Laureate, Collins read his poem The Names at a special joint session of the United States Congress on September 6, 2002, held to remember the victims of the 9/11 attacks. The poem also appeared in the New York Times, September 6, 2002. As Poet Laureate, Collins instituted the program Poetry 180 for high schools. Collins chose 180 poems for the program and the accompanying book, Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry - one for each day of the school year. Collins edited a second anthology, 180 More Extraordinary Poems for Every Day to refresh the supply of available poems. The program is online, and poems are available there for no charge.	Litany You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air. It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse. It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof. I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table. I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and – somehow – the wine.
Frost Robert (1874-1963)	Robert Lee Frost was an American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in America. Known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. Frost frequently wrote about settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes. Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime, receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. He became one of America's rare " public literary figures, almost an artistic institution. " He was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal in 1960 for his poetic works. On July 22, 1961, Frost was named poet laureate of Vermont.	The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Frost Robert (1874-1963)	Frost was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature 31 times.	Acquainted With The Night I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.
Frost Robert (1874-1963)	His poem " Fire and Ice" influenced the title and other aspects of George R. R. Martin's fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire.	Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Gaiman Neil (born 1960)	Neil Richard MacKinnon Gaiman is an English author of short fiction, novels, comic books, graphic novels, audio theatre, and films. His notable works include the comic book series The Sandman and novels Stardust, American Gods, Coraline, and The Graveyard Book. He has won numerous awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker awards, as well as the Newbery and Carnegie medals. He is the first author to win both the Newbery and the Carnegie medals for the same work, The Graveyard Book (2008). In 2013, The Ocean at the End of the Lane was voted Book of the Year in the British National Book Awards.	House Sometimes I think it’s like I live in a big giant head on a hilltop made of papier mache, a big giant head of my own head. I polish the eyes which would be windows, or mow the lawn, I mean this is my house we’re talking about here even if it is a big giant papier mache head that looks just like mine. And people who go past in cars or buses or see the house the head on the hill from trains they think the house is me. I’ll be sleeping there, or polishing the eyes, or weeding the lawn, but no-one will see me, no-one would look. And no-one would ever come. And if I waved no-one even knows it was me waving. They’d all be looking in the wrong place, at the head on the hill. I can see your house from here.
Hardy Thomas (1840-1928)	Thomas Hardy was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, especially William Wordsworth. He was highly critical of much in Victorian society, especially on the declining status of rural people in Britain, such as those from his native South West England. While Hardy wrote poetry throughout his life and regarded himself primarily as a poet, his first collection was not published until 1898. Initially, therefore, he gained fame as the author of such novels as Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), and other novels. During his lifetime, Hardy's poetry was acclaimed by younger poets (particularly the Georgians) who viewed him as a mentor. After his death his poems were lauded by Ezra Pound, W. H. Auden and Philip Larkin.	The Division Rain on the windows, creaking doors, With blasts that besom the green, And I am here, and you are there, And a hundred miles between! O were it but the weather, Dear, O were it but the miles That summed up all our severance, There might be room for smiles. But that thwart thing betwixt us twain, Which nothing cleaves or clears, Is more than distance, Dear, or rain, And longer than the years!
Henley William Ernest (1849-1903)	William Ernest Henley was an English poet, critic and editor of the late-Victorian era in England who is spoken of as having as central a role in his time as Samuel Johnson had in the eighteenth century. He is remembered most often for his 1875 poem " Invictus", a piece which recurs in popular awareness (e. g., see the 2009 Clint Eastwood film, Invictus). It is one of his hospital poems from early battles with tuberculosis and is said to have developed the artistic motif of poet as a patient, and to have anticipated modern poetry in form and subject matter.	Invictus Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
Longfellow Wadsworth (1807-1882)	Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was an American poet and educator whose works include " Paul Revere's Ride", The Song of Hiawatha, and Evangeline. He was also the first American to translate Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, and was one of the five Fireside Poets from New England. Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, which was then still part of Massachusetts. He studied at Bowdoin College. After spending time in Europe, he became a professor at Bowdoin and, later, at Harvard College. His first major poetry collections were Voices of the Night (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems (1841). Longfellow wrote many lyric poems known for their musicality and often presenting stories of mythology and legend. He became the most popular American poet of his day and also had success overseas. He has been criticized, however, for imitating European styles and writing specifically for the masses.	The Arrow And The Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
Mole John (born 1941)	John Mole is an English poet for adults and children. Mole has won several prizes for his poetry, including an Eric Gregory Award, the Cholmondeley Award, and the Signal Award for children's poetry. He is writer in residence at Magdalene College, Cambridge and poet in residence to the Poets Society in the City of London. He is also poet in residence for the Poet in the City charity scheme. He is also a jazz clarinetist.	The Smile It began with a whisper But grew and grew Until I felt certain The source must be you. Why did you smile While I listened and then Turn away as their faces Fell silent again? Nothing much could have happened For by the next day We were laughing, talking, And managed to stay (Well, after a fashion) Good friends for a while But with always between us The ghost of that smile.
Rossetti Christina Georgina (1830-1894)	Christina Georgina Rossetti was an English poetess who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is famous for writing Goblin Market and " Remember. " Although Rossetti's popularity during her lifetime did not approach that of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, her standing remained strong after her death. In the early 20th century Rossetti's popularity faded in the wake of Modernism. Feminists held her as symbol of constrained female genius, placed as a leader of 19th-century poets. Her work strongly influenced the work of such writers as Ford Madox Ford, Virginia Woolf, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Elizabeth Jennings, and Philip Larkin. Critic Basil de Selincourt stated that she was " all but our greatest woman poet … incomparably our greatest craftswoman … probably in the first twelve of the masters of English verse".	Three Seasons 'A cup for hope! ' she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red. 'A cup for love! ' how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow. 'A cup for memory! ' Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea. Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening grey And solitary dove.
Saborio Pablo (born 1982)	Pablo Saborio is a modern artist and poet who writes in English. Born and raised in Costa Rica but have traveled quite a bit round the globe. He has lived in the United States, Sweden, (berlin) Germany and currently reside in (Copenhagen) Denmark. He is currently a permanent member of the “SPACE Art Collective” in Copenhagen.	How to Write a Poem The trick is to close the eyes. To look for the thing crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids. Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness. You’re looking for a boom. It starts with a swirl of symbols curling around each other in wild experiments of mutation. You’re looking for a spark, an isolated hazardous word that will scale up the fence of perception, to consume the whole plantation of thoughts. Venture into this plague of accidents, advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash. Soon the darkness begins to burn bright, you are a sun leaping into a single atom witnessing a birth to the naked eye.
Saborio Pablo Born (1982)	This is what he says of himself: “I have refused from an early age any form of formal education, and resist the idea of having a ‘brilliant career’. I prefer for the moment to embrace the vicissitudes of being. Because ultimately we are: Unknown currents inside a vast, incomprehensible ocean. ”	Any Wall I am a man that learnt at an early age that I cannot hold in my hands the entire world like a little lovely thing. I could have had that thought anywhere in the world, but it came to me while I stand here against a random wall in Berlin, any wall. I am a man that not long ago considered Thales the first theoretician, but fundamentally wrong as I saw everything behaving as smoke. After a while things seem sad fading like a cloud the world is like a ghost covered in mud and all our words are pointing at it like guns and we’re watching waiting for the ethereal blood.
Saborio Pablo (born 1982)	Born 1982 in San José, Costa Rica and since lived in several countries including the US, Germany, Sweden and currently in Denmark. During my mid-twenties I went backpacking for a 2 ½ year period in over 25 countries. After this journey I settled in Europe. My explorations in art and literature began 15 years ago. I initially set out as philosopher, but slowly my interests broadened to include poetry and visual arts. I joined the collective SPACE in Copenhagen in 2013, where 24 members share a basement in pursuit of various creative enterprises. As a poet I have been published in a few online and printed literary magazines. My early art and poetry can be found at beyondlanguagepoetry. com	Barely Begun Poem I have a street and no metaphor a layer of moonlight but no tremulous.. This is a street and not a metaphor not a shivering slate of moonlight I’ve seen my street bare without metap.. The street is cold without metaphor drenched in the shudder of moonlight This street is devoid of metaphor a meaningless stretch of cold trembling moonlight I have a street but without metaphor even tho I’ve left a ripple on its moonlight A street sleeps without metaphor moonlight awake floating away like a trembling mist these streets are meaningless without metaphor the light of the moon is afraid but isn’t visibly shaking A street has no meaning and cannot be a metaphor because it’s drowning in the yellow of its moonlight I walk upon a street and find no metaphor half of its moonlight has been wasted on rats This street has an absence of metaphor because moonlight is nothing but the light of the moon Upon a street I walk without a metaphor all the while thinking that the moonlight is the simile of a smile The street is empty; empty of metaphor only a light is seen and it’s not from the moon A street is a place where nobody cares for metaphors and the moonlight is a spot you leap over Somehow this street lost its metaphor but I found the moonlight tattooed on my skin A street is no metaphor and a poem is not moonlight
Sherman Alexie (born 1966)	Sherman Joseph Alexie, Jr. is a Spokane-Coeur d'Alene-American novelist, short story writer, poet, and filmmaker. Much of his writing draws on his experiences as an Indigenous American with ancestry from several tribes. He grew up on the Spokane Indian Reservation and now lives in Seattle, Washington. One of his best-known books is The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (1993), a collection of short stories. It was adapted as the film Smoke Signals (1998), for which he also wrote the screenplay. His first novel Reservation Blues received one of the fifteen 1996 American Book Awards. His 2009 collection of short stories and poems, War Dances, won the 2010 PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction. Alexie is the guest editor of the 2015 Best American Poetry.	Facebook Sonnet Welcome to the endless high-school Reunion. Welcome to past friends And lovers, however kind or cruel. Let’s undervalue and unmend The present. Why can’t we pretend Every stage of life is the same? Let’s exhume, resume, and extend Childhood. Let’s all play the games That occupy the young. Let fame And shame intertwine. Let one’s search For God become public domain. Let church. com become our church. Let’s sign up, sign in, and confess Here at the altar of loneliness.

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