Post your favourite poetry from any era.
Heres a personal fave from Romantic-era poet John Keats.
John Keats (1795-1821)
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Oh, boy! I had been thinking about doing a thread like this too! :) I luvs me some poetry! I imagine Sgt. Rock will be here soon too!
I love that quiet wistfuness of that Keats poem, Solitary Wanderer.
POETRY
And it was at that age... poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river
I don't know how or when,
no, they weren't voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of the night,
abruptly from all the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.
I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of one who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.
And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.
~ Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
translated by Alastair Reid
FLIGHT
Our love was not other than this:
it left, came back and brought us
a lowered eyelid in the far distance
a stony smile, lost
in the dawn grass
a strange shell our soul
insistently tried to explain.
Our love was not other than this: it groped
silently among the things around us
to explain why we don't want to die
so passionately.
And if we've held on by the loins, clasped
other necks as tightly as we could,
mingled our breath with the breath
of that person
if we've closed our eyes, it was not other than this:
simply that deep longing to hang on
in our flight.
~ George Seferis
translated by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard
Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
Charles Simic
Not Revelation — 'tis — that waits
But our unfurnished eyes —
~ Emily Dickinson
One of my very very favourites:
We say release, radiance, and roses,
and echo upon everything that's known;
and yet, behind the world our names enclose is
the nameless: our true archetype and home.
The sun seems male, and earth is like a woman,
the field is humble, and the forest proud;
but over everything we say, inhuman,
moves the forever-undetermined god.
We grow up; but the world remains a child.
Star and flower, in silence, watch us go.
And sometimes we appear to be the final
exam they must succeed on. And they do.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell
I posted James Merrill's "The Ring Cycle" in an opera thread the other day:
http://www.good-music-guide.com/community/index.php/topic,113.440.html
A favorite poem by Emily Dickinson:
Satisfaction -- is the Agent
Of Satiety --
Want -- a quiet Commissary
For Infinity.
To possess, is past the instant
We achieve the Joy --
Immortality contented
Were Anomaly.
John Berryman, my favorite poet, wrote a magnificent sonnet cycle (117 Petrarchan sonnets, a form difficult to write in English) about an adulterous love affair. I like the stark simplicity of the final poem, and its poignancy as the poet realizes the affair is over. The weather has indeed changed.
All we were going strong last night this time,
the mots were flying & the frozen daiquiris
were downing, supine on the floor lay Lise
listening to Schubert grievous & sublime,
my head was frantic with a following rime:
it was a good evening, an evening to please,
I kissed her in the kitchen--ecstasies--
among so much good we tamped down the crime.
The weather's changing. This morning was cold,
as I made for the grove, without expectation,
some hundred Sonnets in my pocket, old,
to read her if she came. Presently the sun
yellowed the pines & my lady came not
in blue jeans & a sweater. I sat down & wrote.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
--Philip Larkin
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
- Robert Frost
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.
Wonderful people!
An interesting cross selection so far of both humorous, thought provoking and, well, poetic prose :D
Heres one I read at a friends birthday a couple of years ago.
Leisure
William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Wallace Stevens
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
The Death Of A Soldier
Wallace Stevens
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
»
Quote from: bwv 1080 on February 26, 2008, 04:37:01 PM
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Wallace Stevens
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
The Death Of A Soldier
Wallace Stevens
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
»
I always thought that one was a little creepy,
Steve! Maybe because I first saw it in the Stephen King classic horror novel, "
Salem's Lot". But, this poem
is about death isn't it?
This one's a bit morbid also to me, but moving too:
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Emily Dickinson
For pure imagery:
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
W. Carlos Williams
The Centre of the Universe
by Paul Durcan
Pushing my trolley about in the supermarket;
I am the centre of the universe;
Up and down the aisles of beans and juices,
I am the centre of the universe;
It does not matter that I live alone;
It does not matter that I am a jilted lover;
It does not matter that I am a misfit in my job;
I am the centre of the universe.
But I'm always here, if you want me -
For I am the centre of the universe.
I enjoy being the centre of the universe.
It is not easy being the centre of the universe
But I enjoy it.
I take pleasure in,
I delight in,
Being the centre of the universe.
At six o'clock a.m. this morning I had a phone call;
It was from a friend, a man in Los Angeles;
"Paul, I don't know what time it is in Dublin
But I simply had to call you:
I cannot stand LA so I thought I'd call you."
I calmed him down as best I could.
But I'm always here, if you want me -
For I am the centre of the universe.
I had barely put the phone down when it rang again,
This time from a friend in Sao Paulo in Brazil:
"Paul - do you know what is the population of Sao Paulo?
I will tell you: it is twelve million skulls.
Twelve million pairs of feet in one footbath.
Twelve million pairs of eyes in one fishbowl.
It is unspeakable, I tell you, unspeakable."
I calmed him down.
But I'm always here, if you want me -
For I am the centre of the universe.
But then when the phone rang a third time and it was not yet 6.30 a.m.,
The petals of my own hysteria began to wake up and unfurl.
This time it was a woman I know in New York City:
"Paul - Ney York City is a Cage",
And she began to cry a little over the phone,
To sob over the phone,
And from five thousand miles away I mopped up her tears.
I dabbed each tear from her cheek
With just a word or two or three from my calm voice.
I'm always here, if you want me -
For I am the centre of the universe.
But now tonight it is myself;
Sitting at my aluminium double-glazed window in Dublin city;
Crying just a little bit into my black tee shirt.
If only there was just one human being out there
With whom I could make a home? Share a home?
Just one creature out there in the night-
Is there not just one creature out there in the night?
In Helsinki, perhaps? Or in Reykjavik?
Or in Chapelizod? or in Malahide?
So you see, I have to calm myself down also
If I am to remain the centre of the universe;
It's by no means an exclusively self-centred automatic thing
Being the centre of the universe.
I'm always here, if you want me -
For I am the centre of the universe.
Quote from: Haffner on February 26, 2008, 04:52:56 PM
I always thought that one was a little creepy, Steve! Maybe because I first saw it in the Stephen King classic horror novel, "Salem's Lot". But, this poem is about death isn't it?
It was Emperor of Ice Cream in Salem's Lot? Cool did not know that
Some really wonderful poems here! :)
I would like
to be born
in every country,
have a passport
for them all
to throw
all foreign offices
into panic,
be every fish
in every ocean
and every dog
in the streets of the world.
I don't want to bow down
before any idols
or play at being
an Orthodox church hippie,
but I would like to plunge
deep into Lake Baikal
and surface snorting
somewhere,
why not in the Mississippi?
In my damned beloved universe
I would like
to be a lonely weed,
but not a delicate Narcissus
kissing his own mug
in the mirror.
I would like to be
Any of God's creatures
Right down to the last mangy hyena—
But never a tyrant
Or even the cat of a tyrant.
I would like to be
reincarnated as a man
in any circumstance:
a victim of Paraguayan prison tortures,
a homeless child in the slums of Hong Kong,
a living skeleton in Bangladesh,
a holy beggar in Tibet,
a black in Cape Town,
but never
in the image of Rambo.
The only people whom I hate
are the hypocrites—
pickled hyenas
in heavy syrup.
I would like to lie
under the knives of all the surgeons in the world,
be hunchbacked, blind,
suffer all kinds of diseases,
wounds and scars,
be a victim of war,
or a sweeper of cigarette butts,
just so a filthy microbe of superiority
doesn't creep inside.
I would not like to be in the elite,
nor, of course,
in the cowardly herd,
nor be a guard dog of that herd,
nor a shepherd,
sheltered by that herd.
And I would like happiness,
but not at the expense of the unhappy,
and I would like freedom,
but not at the expense of the unfree.
I would like to love
all the women in the world,
and I would like to be a woman, too—
just once...
Men have been diminished
by Mother Nature.
Suppose she'd given motherhood
to men?
If an innocent child
stirred
below his heart,
man would probably
not be so cruel.
I would like to be man's daily bread—
say,
a cup of rice
for a Vietnamese woman in mourning,
cheap wine
in a Neapolitan workers' trattoria,
or a tiny tube of cheese
in orbit round the moon.
Let them eat me,
let them drink me,
only let my death
be of some use.
I would like to belong to all times,
shock all history so much
that it would be amazed
what a smart aleck I was.
I would like to bring Nefertiti
to Pushkin in a troika.
I would like to increase
the space of a moment
a hundredfold,
so that in the same moment
I could drink vodka with fishermen in Siberia
and sit together with Homer,
Dante,
Shakespeare,
and Tolstoy,
drinking anything,
except, of course,
Coca-Cola,
—dance to the tom-toms in the Congo,
—strike at Renault,
—chase a ball with Brazilian boys
at Copacabana Beach.
I would like to know every language,
the secret waters under the earth,
and do all kinds of work at once.
I would make sure
that one Yevtushenko was merely a poet,
the second—an underground fighter
somewhere,
I couldn't say where
for security reasons,
the third—a student at Berkley,
the fourth—a jolly Georgian drinker,
and the fifth—
maybe a teacher of Eskimo children in Alaska,
the sixth—
a young president,
somewhere, say even in Sierra Leone,
the seventh—
would still be shaking a rattle in his stroller,
and the tenth...
the hundredth...
the millionth...
For me it's not enough to be myself,
let me be everyone!
Every creature
usually has a double,
but God was stingy
with the carbon paper,
and in his Paradise Publishing Company
made a unique copy of me.
But I shall muddle up
all God's cards—
I shall confound God!
I shall be in a thousand copies to the end of my days,
so that the earth buzzes with me,
and computers go berserk
in the world census of me.
I would like to fight on all your barricades,
humanity,
dying each night
an exhausted moon,
and being resurrected each morning
like a newborn sun,
with an immortal soft spot
on my skull.
And when I die,
a smart-aleck Siberian François Villon,
do not lay me in the earth
of France
or Italy,
but in our Russian, Siberian earth,
on a still-green hill,
where I first felt
that I was
everyone.
~ Yevgeny Yevtushenko
translated by the author
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave out to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
~ W.S. Merwin
I love how this poem projects itself out in the distant future and space (which reminds me of that dizzying perspective in Dickinson's original version of "Safe in their alabaster chambers") but then whips the reader back into "here" in the present moment-- the contrast of an infinite future and infinite space contrasted with the finite present moment has the startling effect of a zen koan!
A few poems by Swiss poet Eugen Gomringer:
Silencio
(http://www.ubu.com/historical/gomringer/gomringer1.gif)
Ping-Pong
(http://www.ubu.com/historical/gomringer/gomringer2.gif)
Wind
(http://www.ubu.com/historical/gomringer/gomringer3.gif)
o
(http://www.ubu.com/historical/gomringer/gomringer4.gif)
Wallace Stevens (his creepiest poem, and one of my favourites):
Madame la Fleurie
Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of the end.
Seal him there. He looked in a glass of the earth and thought he lived in it.
Now, he brings all that he saw into the earth, to the waiting parent.
His crisp knowledge is devoured by her, beneath a dew.
Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the moon.
It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing he could be told.
It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know.
It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak.
The black fugatos are strumming the blackness of black...
The thick strings stutter the finial gutturals.
He does not lie there remembering the blue-jay, say the jay.
His grief is that his mother should feed on him, himself and what he saw,
In that distant chamber, a bearded queen, wicked in her dead light.
William Butler Yeats
When You are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
When we two parted
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
William Wordsworth
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89)
Spelt from Sibyl’s Leaves
EARNEST, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steedèd and páshed—qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.
Quote from: Florestan on February 27, 2008, 03:13:34 AM
William Butler Yeats
When You are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
One of the amazing thing about Yeats is that he is so
sonorous.
AND YET THE BOOKS And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of the fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
"We are," they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
~ Czeslaw Milosz
Quote from: Florestan on February 27, 2008, 03:20:07 AM
William Wordsworth
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
My grandmother used to recite this one to me. I love early Wordsworth, and The Prelude, but I have my limits and they are reached with this poem.
De Profundis
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts---
How sad this evening.
Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
Georg Trakl
Translated by Jurek Kirakowski
Charles Baudelaire
The Voyage
(translated by T. S. Eliot)
For the boy playing with his globe and stamps,
the world is equal to his appetite--
how grand the world in the blaze of the lamps,
how petty in tomorrow's small dry light!
One morning we lift anchor, full of brave
prejudices, prospects, ingenuity--
we swing with the velvet swell of the wave,
our infinite is rocked by the fixed sea.
Some wish to fly a cheapness they detest,
others, their cradles' terror -- others stand
with their binoculars on a woman's breast,
reptilian Circe with her junk and wand.
Not to be turned to reptiles, such men daze
themselves with spaces, light, the burning sky;
cold toughens them, they bronze in the sun's blaze
and dry the sores of their debauchery.
But the true voyagers are those who move
simply to move -- like lost balloons! Their heart
is some old motor thudding in one groove.
It says its single phrase, "Let us depart!"
They are like conscripts lusting for the guns;
our sciences have never learned to tag
their projects and designs -- enormous, vague
hopes grease the wheels of these automatons!
II
We imitate, oh horror! tops and bowls
in their eternal waltzing marathon;
even in sleep, our fever whips and rolls--
like a black angel flogging the brute sun.
Strange sport! where destination has no place
or name, and may be anywhere we choose--
where man, committed to his endless race,
runs like a madman diving for repose!
Our soul is a three-master seeking port;
a voice from starboard shouts, "We're at the dock!"
Another, more elated, cries from port,
"Here's dancing, gin and girls!" Balls! it's a rock!
The islands sighted by the lookout seem
the El Dorados promised us last night;
imagination wakes from its drugged dream,
sees only ledges in the morning light.
Poor lovers of exotic Indias,
shall we throw you in chains or in the sea?
Sailors discovering new Americas
who drown in a mirage of agony!
The worn-out sponge, who scuffles through our slums
sees whiskey, paradise and liberty
wherever oil-lamps shine in furnished rooms--
we see Blue Grottoes, Caesar and Capri.
III
Stunningly simple tourists, your pursuit
is written in the tear-drops in your eyes!
Spread out the packing cases of your loot,
your azure sapphires made of seas and skies!
We want to break the boredom of our jails
and cross the oceans without oars or steam--
give its visions to stretch our minds like sails,
the blue, exotic shoreline of your dream!
Tell us, what have you seen?
IV
"We've seen the stars,
a wave or two -- we've also seen some sand;
although we peer through telescopes and spars,
we're often deadly bored as you on land.
The shine of sunlight on the violet sea,
the roar of cities when the sun goes down:
these stir our hearts with restless energy;
we worship the Indian Ocean where we drown!
No old chateau or shrine besieged by crowds
of crippled pilgrims sets our soul on fire,
as these chance countries gathered from the clouds.
Our hearts are always anxious with desire.
(Desire, that great elm fertilized by lust,
gives its old body, when the heaven warms
its bark that winters and old age encrust;
green branches draw the sun into its arms.
Why are you always growing taller, Tree--
Oh longer-lived than cypress!) Yet we took
one or two sketches for your picture-book,
Brothers who sell your souls for novelty!
We have salaamed to pagan gods with horns,
entered shrines peopled by a galaxy
of Buddhas, Slavic saints, and unicorns,
so rich Rothschild must dream of bankruptcy!
Priests' robes that scattered solid golden flakes,
dancers with tattooed bellies and behinds,
charmers supported by braziers of snakes . . ."
V
Yes, and what else?
VI
Oh trivial, childish minds!
You've missed the more important things that we
were forced to learn against our will. We've been
from top to bottom of the ladder, and see
only the pageant of immortal sin :
there women, servile, peacock-tailed, and coarse,
marry for money, and love without disgust
horny, pot-bellied tyrants stuffed on lust,
slaves' slaves -- the sewer in which their gutter pours!
old maids who weep, playboys who live each hour,
state banquets loaded with hot sauces, blood and trash,
ministers sterilized by dreams of power,
workers who love their brutalizing lash;
and everywhere religions like our own
all storming heaven, propped by saints who reign
like sybarites on beds of nails and frown--
all searching for some orgiastic pain!
Many, self-drunk, are lying in the mud--
mad now, as they have always been, they roll
in torment screaming to the throne of God:
"My image and my Lord, I hate your soul!"
And others, dedicated without hope,
flee the dull herd -- each locked in his own world
hides in his ivory-tower of art and dope--
this is the daily news from the whole world!
VII
How sour the knowledge travellers bring away!
The world's monotonous and small; we see
ourselves today, tomorrow, yesterday,
an oasis of horror in sands of ennui!
Shall we move or rest? Rest, if you can rest;
move if you must. One runs, but others drop
and trick their vigilant antagonist.
Time is a runner who can never stop,
the Wandering Jew or Christ's Apostles. Yet
nothing's enough; no knife goes through the ribs
of this retarius throwing out its net;
others can kill and never leave their cribs.
And even when Time's heel is on our throat
we still can hope, still cry, "On, on, let's go!"
Just as we once took passage on the boat
for China, shivering as we felt the blow,
so we now set our sails for the Dead Sea,
light-hearted as the youngest voyager.
If you look seaward, Traveller, you will see
a spectre rise and hear it sing, "Stop, here,
and eat my lotus-flowers, here's where they're sold.
Here are the fabulous fruits; look, my boughs bend;
eat yourself sick on knowledge. Here we hold
time in our hands, it never has to end."
We know the accents of this ghost by heart;
our comrade spreads his arms across the seas;
"On, on, Orestes. Sail and feast your heart--
Here's Clytemnestra." Once we kissed her knees.
VIII
It's time. Old Captain, lift anchor, sink!
The land rots; we shall sail into the night;
if now the sky and sea are black as ink
our hearts, as you must know, are filled with light.
Only when we drink poison are we well--
we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue,
to drown in the abyss -- heaven or hell,
who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new.
Quote from: sidoze on February 27, 2008, 04:32:03 AM
My grandmother used to recite this one to me. I love early Wordsworth, and The Prelude, but I have my limits and they are reached with this poem.
De Profundis
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts---
How sad this evening.
Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
Georg Trakl
Translated by Jurek Kirakowski
Trakl is one of my all-time favourite poets. :)
After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run - as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears - in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players -
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across his little, startling muscled body -
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
~ Galway Kinnell
Poetry loses so much in translation that, I feel with some it is almost at the brink of being pointless :(
Here is a very favorite of mine from the Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet Ran, written during one of his many many imprisonments :-\ I hope the translation can at least reflect its essence.
ON LIVING (1947-1948)
1
Living is no laughing matter,
You have to live with great seriousness
just like a squirrel for example,
I mean, without looking for something outside and beyond living itself,
I mean, living must be your whole occupation.
You must take living seriously,
To such an extent that,
Say, your arms are tied behind your back,
Your back to the wall,
Or, say, wearing your big glasses,
And your white coat in a laboratory,
Dying for other people.
For those you have never seen even,
Even when no one has forced you to do so,
Even though you know living is the most beautiful, the most real thing there is.
I mean, you will take living so seriously that,
You will plant olive trees even when you are seventy.
And not for your children either,
Simply because you don't believe in death no matter how much you are afraid of it,
I mean just because living weighs heavier.
-1947-
2
Say, we are about to undergo a major surgery,
Which is to say, we might not be getting up from that white table.
Even if it is not possible not to feel sad about going a little too soon,
We will still laugh at the jokes being told,
We will peak out the window to see if there's rain,
Or, we will wait, with great anticipation, for the next round of evening news.
Say we are at the front, ready to fight for something worth fighting for,
It is possible to fall right there, on the first day, at the first round of fire.
This we will know with a curious anger,
But we will still be madly curious about the outcome of this,
This war, even if it lasts for years to come.
Say, we are in prison,
And we are close to, say, fifty,
And there are eighteen more years before those iron gates open for us.
We will still live as if we are outside,
Outside with all its men, women, animals, struggles and winds,
I mean live with the outside, outside these walls.
Which is to say, no matter how and where we are,
We will live as if we will never die.
-1948-
3
This earth will grow cold,
A star among stars, one of the tiniest out there, even.
I mean, this whole wide world is like a gilded mote on blue velvet.
This earth will go cold one day,
And not like a block of ice or a dead cloud either,
It will roll like an emptied walnut in pitch-black space.
This, you must grieve for right now
This sorrow, you have to feel today,
This is how much you must love this world,
Just to be able to say "I have lived".
Nazim Hikmet
February, 1948
ee cummings
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
Quote from: just josh on February 27, 2008, 07:19:18 AM
After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
~ Galway Kinnell
Kinnell writes so beautifully about the joys of marriage and monogamy. One of my favorites ends:
Isn't it worth missing whatever joy
you might have dreamed, to wake in the night and find
you and your beloved holding hands in your sleep?
--Galway Kinnell "Why Regret"
Quote from: orbital on February 27, 2008, 07:19:51 AM
Here is a very favorite of mine from the Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet Ran...
Wow! I don't think I've heard of him before (just looked at an entry on him on Wikipedia). I love that poem!!
This is a favourite poem of mine (which I have posted on my bulletin board right here next to my desk at work), which Ralph Vaughan Williams set to music. It reminds me so much of a very special day shared with someone very dear to me last year, an unforgettable day... (ok I'll stop now)
SILENT NOONYour hands lie open in the long fresh grass--
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:
So this winged hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on February 27, 2008, 07:28:29 AM
Kinnell writes so beautifully about the joys of marriage and monogamy. One of my favorites ends:
Isn't it worth missing whatever joy
you might have dreamed, to wake in the night and find
you and your beloved holding hands in your sleep?
--Galway Kinnell "Why Regret"
Yeah, Kinnell is really good, Sarge! The Book of Nightmares is my favourite (especially "Little Sleep's Head")
Here's a funny, surreal sort of poem by Mark Strand I get a kick out of:
Eating PoetryInk runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
~ Mark Strand
Quote from: orbital on February 27, 2008, 07:19:51 AM
Poetry loses so much in translation that, I feel with some it is almost at the brink of being pointless :(
Predosećanje Budućnosti
Njihove su noći surove i dolge
jao
gde su sada burlaci sa Volge
U Serbiji sebri
svuda
ista tuga
istorijo strašna
bolna i preduga
Proleće je opet!
Kiša poljubaca!
Ljubeći me ljubiš budućeg
mrtvaca.
O reci mi reci
Da li si u stanju
Da zamisliš moju
Glavu ko lobanju?
U pustome polju
Prazno
I duboko
I mrava što živi gde je
Bilo oko…
I poljskoga miša
Što potajno
Želi
Da istera mrava
Pa da se useli…
I pčelu!
Što sleti
Kada vetar duva
Na cvet što je niko
Iz bivšega uva!
Budućnosti strašna
Sudbo nevesela
Kad bih bar mogao
Da budem ta pčela...
Kad gori čovek
Ceo svet se
Greje -
Kad izgori
Čovek
Tad
Pepeo sve je.
~ Brana Petrović
Branko Miljković - Uzalud je budim (I wake her in vain) - Rade Serbedzija reading (with rather atrocious background music)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0N-iJgsPCM
Matija Bećković - Kad dodjes u bilo koji grad (When you arrive at any given city) - author reading (though poem is very long and his reading was better when he was younger)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bg12TGTD3cE
Vasko Popa - Vratite mi moje krpice (english translation by Charles Simic)
http://www.exilequarterly.com/authors/popa.html
And excerpt of the same poem in completely different translation ::) (can't recall whose)
Give me back my rags
My rags of pure dreaming
Of silk smiling
Of striped foreboding
Of my lacy cloth
My rags of spotted hope
Of shot desire
Of chequered looks
Of my face's skin
Give me back my rags
Give me when I ask you nicely
Oof. That Petrovic poem is depressing. More from our national school of glorified martyrdom. I like the Popa.
Quote from: orbital on February 27, 2008, 07:19:51 AM
Here is a very favorite of mine from the Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet Ran
I was given a book of wonderful poems by Orhan Veli Kanik. If that's anything to go by, Turkey seems as good a place as any to write sad lyrics.
QuoteOof. That Petrovic poem is depressing.
out of curiosity, how many languages do you understand? I wouldn't mind reading the Petrovic one somehow.
Quote from: sidoze on February 27, 2008, 09:05:47 AM
out of curiosity, how many languages do you understand?
Four.
Quote from: sidoze on February 27, 2008, 09:05:47 AM
I was given a book of wonderful poems by Orhan Veli Kanik. If that's anything to go by, Turkey seems as good a place as any to write sad lyrics.
Not always sad, but always with a bit of 'saudade' nevertheless.
Here's one from Nazim you might like: called The Tale of Tales. Norshteyn borrowed the title for his animated film.
THE TALE OF TALES
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I.
Our figures emerge in the water
the sycamore's and mine.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me.
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, and with us, a cat.
Our figures emerge in the water
the sycamore's and mine and the cat's.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore, me, and the cat.
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, the cat—and the sun.
Our figures emerge in the water
the sycamore's and mine, the cat's and the sun's.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me, the cat and the sun.
Here we are at the edge of the water,
the sycamore and I, the cat and the sun with all that we are.
Our figures emerge in the water
the sycamore's and mine, the cat's and the sun's with all that we are.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me, the cat and the sun and all that we are.
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, the cat and the sun with all that we are.
First the cat will go
and its figure will fade from the water.
I will go next
and my figure, too, will fade from the water.
Then the sycamore will go
and its figure will fade from the water as well.
Then the water will go
and the sun will be all that is left
but then it, too, will go.
Here we are at the edge of the water
the sycamore and I, the cat and the sun with all that we are.
The water is cool
the sycamore magnificent
I am writing poetry
the cat dozing.
The sun is warm—
how wonderful to be alive.
The water casts light back on us
the sycamore and me, the cat and the sun and all that we are.
----
Quote from: O Mensch on February 27, 2008, 08:28:50 AM
Oof. That Petrovic poem is depressing. More from our national school of glorified martyrdom.
??? The poem is bleak but where you see glorification I see just resignation, and concluding desire to be a bee is hardly martyrdom. Nihilism would be easier objection in my opinion.
"The Lay of the Pomegranate"- Andre Gide, The Fruits of the Earth
"The greatest joys of my senses
Have been thirsts I have quenched."
Quote from: Drasko on February 27, 2008, 09:46:52 AM
??? The poem is bleak but where you see glorification I see just resignation, and concluding desire to be a bee is hardly martyrdom. Nihilism would be easier objection in my opinion.
Sorry, you're right. I meant that it falls in a line with a lot of other stuff glorifying suffering, denying any effects of our own actions, since everything is hopeless.
Orbital, can your recommend a particular translation in English of his poems? I'd really like to check him out. :)
Apparently these are the only two English translations of Nazim Hikmet's poetry still in print:
http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Walls-Selected-Nazim-Hikmet/dp/0856463299/ref=pd_bbs_sr_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-3
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/412dXBWTVyL._AA240_.jpg)
http://www.amazon.com/Poems-Nazim-Hikmet-Revised-Expanded/dp/0892552743/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-1
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41EFVQF8RCL._AA240_.jpg)
Hm. Orbital, are you familiar with either one of these translations? Thanks!
Quote from: just josh on February 27, 2008, 10:54:30 AM
Apparently these are the only two English translations of Nazim Hikmet's poetry still in print:
http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Walls-Selected-Nazim-Hikmet/dp/0856463299/ref=pd_bbs_sr_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-3
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/412dXBWTVyL._AA240_.jpg)
http://www.amazon.com/Poems-Nazim-Hikmet-Revised-Expanded/dp/0892552743/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-1
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41EFVQF8RCL._AA240_.jpg)
Hm. Orbital, are you familiar with either one of these translations? Thanks!
Hey Josh,
Unfortunately no, I am not familiar with the translations. However, I am holding in my hand, a copy of Beyond the Walls right now (since we sell the book ourselves). And from the introduction and preface, this one seems to be quite a comprehensive collection. The only downside is that the poems in this book are those that were written during his multiple imprisonments and thus may give a somewhat limited reflection of his works. He has many other poems that he wrote both as a free man in Turkey and also when in exile in Russia, which this book does not seem to cover. Still, IMO, some of his best works were actually written under confinement (the verse letters to his wife and his friends).
I just went through a few pages of the book casually, and the translation seems to be fine, although a bit ornate and involuted perhaps, something I would not associate with his style of prose.
I do not know about the other book, but the reviews seem to be very favorable.
Quote from: orbital on February 27, 2008, 11:24:59 AM
Hey Josh,
Unfortunately no, I am not familiar with the translations. However, I am holding in my hand, a copy of Beyond the Walls right now (since we sell the book ourselves). And from the introduction and preface, this one seems to be quite a comprehensive collection. The only downside is that the poems in this book are those that were written during his multiple imprisonments and thus may give a somewhat limited reflection of his works. He has many other poems that he wrote both as a free man in Turkey and also when in exile in Russia, which this book does not seem to cover. Still, IMO, some of his best works were actually written under confinement (the verse letters to his wife and his friends).
I just went through a few pages of the book casually, and the translation seems to be fine, although a bit ornate and involuted perhaps, something I would not associate with his style of prose.
I do not know about the other book, but the reviews seem to be very favorable.
Hmmm decisions, decisions... I'll think about it more tonight & may break down & buy one or the other. Thank you,
Orbital!
Two by Wilfred Owen:
I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell,
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
~ Wilfred Owen
Quote from: O Mensch on February 27, 2008, 09:26:40 AM
Four.
sorry, I should have been blunt. How is it you can read the Petrovic poem?
Quote from: orbital on February 27, 2008, 09:38:32 AM
Here's one from Nazim you might like: called The Tale of Tales. Norshteyn borrowed the title for his animated film.
Thanks for that. I was only familiar with a short excerpt of it (the one on Wikipedia -- perhaps someone could copy the whole poem there?).
Thanks for those Wilfred Owen poems, just josh. Terribly powerful.
I know this is a rather long-ish poem, but trust me, its a really terrific one by Stanley Kunitz! :)
THE WELLFLEET WHALE
A few summers ago, on Cape Cod, a whale foundered on the beach, a sixty-three foot finback whale. When the tide went out, I approached him. He was lying there, in monstrous desolation, making the most terrifying noises—rumbling—groaning. I put my hands on his flanks and could feel the life inside him. And while I was standing there, suddenly he opened his eye. It was a big, red, cold eye, and it was starting directly at me. A shudder of recognition passed between us. Then the eye closed forever. I've been thinking about whales ever since. —Journal entry
1
You have your language too,
an eerie medley of clicks
and hoots and trills,
location-notes and love calls,
whistles and grunts. Occasionally,
it's like furniture being smashed,
or the creaking of a mossy door,
sounds that all melt into a liquid
song with endless variations,
as if to compensate
for the vast loneliness of the sea.
Sometimes a disembodied voice
breaks in as if from distant reefs,
and it's as much as one can bear
to listen to its long mournful cry,
a sorrow without name, both more
and less than human. It drags
across the ear like a record
running down.
2
No wind. No waves. No clouds.
Only the whisper of the tide,
as it withdrew, stroking the shore,
a lazy drift of gulls overhead,
and tiny points of light
bubbling in the channel.
It was the tag-end of summer.
From the harbor's mouth
you coasted into sight,
flashing news of your advent,
the crescent of your dorsal fin
clipping the diamonded surface.
We cheered at the sign of your greatness
when the black barrel of your head
erupted, ramming the water,
and you flowered for us
in the jet of your spouting.
3
All afternoon you swam
tirelessly round the bay,
with such an easy motion,
the slightest downbeat of your tail,
an almost imperceptible
undulation of your flippers,
you seemed like something poured,
not driven; you seemed
to marry grace with power.
And when you bounded into air,
slapping your flukes,
we thrilled to look upon
pure energy incarnate
as nobility of form.
You seemed to as of us
Not sympathy, or love,
or understanding,
but awe and wonder.
That night we watched the you
swimming in the moon.
Your back was molten silver.
We guessed your silent passage
by the phosphorescence in your wake.
At dawn we found you stranded on the rocks.
4
There came a boy and a man
and yet other men running, and two
schoolgirls in yellow halters
and a housewife bedecked
with curlers, and whole families in beach
buggies with assorted yelping dogs.
The tide was almost out.
We could walk around you,
as you heaved deeper into the shoal,
crushed by your own weight,
collapsing into yourself,
your flippers and your flukes
quivering, your blowhole
spasmodically bubbling, roaring.
In the pit of your gaping mouth
you bared your fringework of baleen,
a thicket of horned bristles.
When the Curator of Mammals
arrived from Boston
to take samples of your blood
you were already oozing from below.
Somebody had carved his initials
in your flank. Hunters of souvenirs
had peeled off strips of your skin,
a membrane thin as paper.
You were blistered and cracked by the sun.
The gulls had been pecking at you.
The sound you made was a hoarse and fitful bleating.
What drew us, like a magnet, to your dying?
You made a bond between us,
the keepers of the nightfall watch,
who gathered in a ring around you,
boozing in the bonfire light.
Toward dawn we shared with you
your hour of desolation,
the huge lingering passion
of your unearthly outcry,
as you swung your blind head
toward us and laboriously opened
a bloodshot, glistening eye,
in which we swam with terror and recognition.
5
Voyager, chief of the pelagic world,
you brought with you the myth
of another country, dimly remembered,
where flying reptiles
lumbered over the steaming marshes
and trumpeting thunder lizards
wallowed in the reeds.
While empires rose and fell on land,
your nation breasted the open main,
rocked in the consoling rhythm
of the tides. Which ancestor first plunged
head-down thru zones of colored twilight
to scour the bottom of the dark?
You ranged the North Atlantic track
from Port-of-Spain to Baffin Bay,
edging between the ice-floes
through the fat of summer,
lob-tailing, breaching, sounding,
grazing in the pastures of the sea
on krill-rich orange plankton
crackling with life.
You prowled down the continental shelf,
guided by the sun and stars
and the taste of alluvial silt
on your way southward
to the warm lagoons,
the tropic of desire,
where lovers lie belly to belly
in the rub and nuzzle of their sporting;
and you turned, like a god in exile,
out of your wide primeval element,
delivered to the mercy of time.
Master of the whale-roads,
let the white wings of the gulls
spread out their cover.
You have become like us,
Disgraced and mortal.
~ Stanley Kunitz
I ended up getting this one instead:
http://www.amazon.com/Poems-Nazim-Hikmet-Revised-Expanded/dp/0892552743/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-1
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41EFVQF8RCL._AA240_.jpg)
It appears to cover a wider range. I hate it because neither of these books have a few pages to view, but I found a good handful of his poems (from this translation) on Poemhunter.com so I ordered this one, at least for starters. :)
Yusef Komunyakaa is a really good contemporary poet from the US. This is from his excellent collection of poems on his experiences in Vietnam, Dien Cai Dau:
Facing It
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
~ Yusef Komunyakaa
And another heartbreaking one by Komunyakaa:
My Father's Love Letters
On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams' "Polka Dots & Moonbeams"
Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter's apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure
Of my ballpoint: Love,
Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality
Of voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences . . .
The gleam of a five-pound wedge
On the concrete floor
Pulled a sunset
Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she laughed
& held them over a gas burner.
My father could only sign
His name, but he'd look at blueprints
& say how many bricks
Formed each wall. This man,
Who stole roses & hyacinth
For his yard, would stand there
With eyes closed & fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word, almost
Redeemed by what he tried to say.
~ Yusef Komunyakaa
Quote from: sidoze on February 27, 2008, 11:50:00 AM
sorry, I should have been blunt. How is it you can read the Petrovic poem?
By the coincidence of his language being one of the four. ;)
From Trurl's Electronic Bard
Love & Tensor Algebra
Come, let us hasten to a higher plane,
Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
Their indices bedecked from one to n,
Commingled in an endless Markov chain!
Come, every frustum longs to be a cone,
And every vector dreams of matrices.
Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
It whispers of a more ergodic zone.
In Riemann, Hilbert or in Banach space
Let superscripts and subscripts go their ways.
Our asymptotes no longer out of phase,
We shall encounter, counting, face to face.
I'll grant thee random access to my heart,
Thou'lt tell me all the constants of thy love;
And so we two shall all love's lemmas prove,
And in our bound partition never part.
For what did Cauchy know, or Christoffel,
Or Fourier, or any Boole or Euler,
Wielding their compasses, their pens and rulers,
Of thy supernal sinusoidal spell?
Cancel me not -- for what then shall remain?
Abscissas, some mantissas, modules, modes,
A root or two, a torus and a node:
The inverse of my verse, a null domain.
Ellipse of bliss, converse, O lips divine!
The product of our scalars is defined!
Cyberiad draws nigh, and the skew mind
cuts capers like a happy haversine.
I see the eigenvalue in thine eye,
I hear the tender tensor in thy sigh.
Bernoulli would have been content to die,
Had he but known such a squared cosine 2 phi!
Quote from: bwv 1080 on February 27, 2008, 06:53:45 PM
From Trurl's Electronic Bard
Love & Tensor Algebra
Come, let us hasten to a higher plane,
Where dyads tread the fairy fields of Venn,
Their indices bedecked from one to n,
Commingled in an endless Markov chain!
Come, every frustum longs to be a cone,
And every vector dreams of matrices.
Hark to the gentle gradient of the breeze:
It whispers of a more ergodic zone.
In Riemann, Hilbert or in Banach space
Let superscripts and subscripts go their ways.
Our asymptotes no longer out of phase,
We shall encounter, counting, face to face.
I'll grant thee random access to my heart,
Thou'lt tell me all the constants of thy love;
And so we two shall all love's lemmas prove,
And in our bound partition never part.
For what did Cauchy know, or Christoffel,
Or Fourier, or any Boole or Euler,
Wielding their compasses, their pens and rulers,
Of thy supernal sinusoidal spell?
Cancel me not -- for what then shall remain?
Abscissas, some mantissas, modules, modes,
A root or two, a torus and a node:
The inverse of my verse, a null domain.
Ellipse of bliss, converse, O lips divine!
The product of our scalars is defined!
Cyberiad draws nigh, and the skew mind
cuts capers like a happy haversine.
I see the eigenvalue in thine eye,
I hear the tender tensor in thy sigh.
Bernoulli would have been content to die,
Had he but known such a squared cosine 2 phi!
Excellent!
One from the greatest Romanian Romantic poet, Mihai Eminescu, the original and a very good translation
Şi dacă...
Şi dacă ramuri bat în geam
Şi se cutremur plopii,
E ca în minte să te am
Şi-ncet să te apropii.
Şi dacă stele bat în lac
Adâncu-i luminându-l,
E ca durerea mea s-o-mpac
Înseninându-mi gândul.
Şi dacă norii deşi se duc
De iese-n luciu luna,
E ca aminte să-mi aduc
De tine-ntotdeauna.
And If...
And if the branches tap my pane
And the poplars whisper nightly,
It is to make me dream again
I hold you to me tightly.
And if the stars shine on the pond
And light its sombre shoal,
It is to quench my mind's despond
And flood with peace my soul.
And if the clouds their tresses part
And does the moon outblaze,
It is but to remind my heart
I long for you always.
Once,
I heard him,
he was washing the world,
unseen, nightlong,
real.
One and infinite,
annihilated,
ied.
Light was. Salvation.
Paul Celan
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.
To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes –
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings –
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?
The sea, or Homer – all moves by love's glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.
Osip Mandelshtam
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
Quote from: sidoze on February 28, 2008, 01:29:38 AM
Paul Celan
Oh, yeah,
Sidoze! I love Celan's work (though a good chunk of it is very hard to understand, and what's worse for me is not being able to read him in German-- a LOT is lost in translation with him I understand). He is to poetry what Webern is to music I think. Terse, knotty and bleak.
This is my favourite Celan poem:
PSALMNoone kneads us again from earth and loam,
no one evokes our dust.
Noone.
Praised by you, noone.
Because of you we wish
to bloom.
Against
you.
A nothing
were we, are we, will
we be, blossoming:
the Nothing-, the
the nothing's-, the noonesrose.
With
its pistil soulbright,
its stamen heavencrazed,
its crown red
from the purpleword that we sang
over, o over
its thorn.
~ Paul Celan
Translated by Cid Corman
Quote from: Haffner on February 28, 2008, 02:35:31 AM
Do not go gentle into that good night...
-- Dylan Thomas
Haffner, I used to have a recording of Thomas reading this poem-- it was like-- WOW!! :o
Quote from: just josh on February 28, 2008, 04:02:59 AM
Haffner, I used to have a recording of Thomas reading this poem-- it was like-- WOW!! :o
Love to check
that one out!
Nichita Stãnescu , Romanian poet (1933-1983)
Sentimental story
Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.
(More from the same.)
Another kind of Mathematics
We know that one times one is one,
but an unicorn times a pear
have no idea what it is.
We know that five minus four is one
but a cloud minus a sailboat
have no idea what it is.
We know that eight
divided by eight is one,
but a mountain divided by a goat
have no idea what it is.
We know that one plus one is two,
but me and you, oh,
we have no idea what it is.
Oh, but a comforter
times a rabbit
is a red-headed one of course,
a cabbage divided by a flag
is a pig,
a horse minus a street-car
is an angel,
a cauliflower plus an egg
is an astragalus.
Only you and me
multiplied and divided
added and substracted
remain the same...
Vanish from my mind!
Come back in my heart!
I love Celan's poetry (I can read German). And Dylan Thomas has been with me for a very long time. I have cassettes of him reading his poetry (on the Caedmon label). I bought them in London, twenty years ago.
Quote from: Haffner on February 28, 2008, 04:05:49 AM
Love to check that one out!
Haffner, lookee what I found :)
Dylan Thomas: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDJJ-4oXiCg (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDJJ-4oXiCg)
Ignore the cheesy animation though...
Quote from: just josh on February 28, 2008, 04:49:52 AM
Haffner, lookee what I found :)
Dylan Thomas: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDJJ-4oXiCg (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDJJ-4oXiCg)
Ignore the cheesy animation though...
Very cool.
Quote from: Jezetha on February 28, 2008, 04:31:06 AM
I love Celan's poetry (I can read German).
Have you ever heard him recite? It sounds just like great piano playing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1Q70j8LHD0
Quote from: just josh on February 27, 2008, 04:00:31 PM
I ended up getting this one instead:
http://www.amazon.com/Poems-Nazim-Hikmet-Revised-Expanded/dp/0892552743/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204141704&sr=1-1
(http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41EFVQF8RCL._AA240_.jpg)
It appears to cover a wider range. I hate it because neither of these books have a few pages to view, but I found a good handful of his poems (from this translation) on Poemhunter.com so I ordered this one, at least for starters. :)
I am sure you'll enjoy him. He has some epic poems which are too long for me ;D but they would not be included in these anthologies in full anyway.
Quote from: sidoze on February 28, 2008, 09:08:49 AM
Have you ever heard him recite? It sounds just like great piano playing
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1Q70j8LHD0
I only know his recitation of the famous 'Todesfuge'. Very compelling.
I'll watch the YouTube video tomorrow - when I am in the mood for Celan...
Quote from: Jezetha on February 28, 2008, 02:03:15 PM
I only know his recitation of the famous 'Todesfuge'. Very compelling.
I'll watch the YouTube video tomorrow - when I am in the mood for Celan...
I love Celan, but yeah, he's definitely one to take in small doses!
Quote from: Jezetha on February 28, 2008, 02:03:15 PM
I only know his recitation of the famous 'Todesfuge'. Very compelling.
I'll watch the YouTube video tomorrow - when I am in the mood for Celan...
it's not a video -- just audio of Celan reciting Todesfuge. There are 4 or 5 other poems on there too.
Quote
I love Celan, but yeah, he's definitely one to take in small doses!
No, not small doses, but a big dose one time.
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on February 27, 2008, 07:28:29 AM
Kinnell writes so beautifully about the joys of marriage and monogamy. One of my favorites ends:
Isn't it worth missing whatever joy
you might have dreamed, to wake in the night and find
you and your beloved holding hands in your sleep?
--Galway Kinnell "Why Regret"
Sergeant,
Thank you for that beautiful post. I have sent it to both of my married daughters.
One of my favourite Lucille Clifton poems:
THE LAST DAY
we will find ourselves surrounded
by our kind all of them now
wearing the eyes they had
only imagined possible
and they will reproach us
with those eyes
in a language more actual
than speech
asking why we allowed this
to happen asking why
for the love of God
we did this to ourselves
and we will answer
in our feeble voices because
because because
~ Lucille Clifton
"Home" by Edgar Guest
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used—they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories
O' her that was an' is no more—ye can't escape from these.
Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.
I really love the Beats. Here's a favorite, quite funny, number 9 from Lawrence Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island of the Mind:
See
it was like this when
we waltz into this place
a couple of Papish cats
is doing the Aztec two-step
And I says
Dad let's cut
but then this dame
comes up behind me see
and says
You and me could really exist
Wow I says
Only the next day
she has bad teeth
and really hates
poetry
Quote from: shive1 on March 08, 2008, 06:57:11 PM
"Home" by Edgar Guest
....It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.
Wow...it must be forty years or more since I last read that. Thanks for posting it.
Sarge
A poem by the Big Bukowski:
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ass.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ass
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia
Charles Bukowski, "Melancholia"
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on March 10, 2008, 06:13:18 AM
I really love the Beats. Here's a favorite, quite funny, number 9 from Lawrence Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island of the Mind:
See
it was like this when
we waltz into this place
a couple of Papish cats
is doing the Aztec two-step
And I says
Dad let's cut
but then this dame
comes up behind me see
and says
You and me could really exist
Wow I says
Only the next day
she has bad teeth
and really hates
poetry
LOL I used to have a recording of Ferlinghetti reading this! I can still hear him reading it: "You and me could
really exist! WOW I says..." :D
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on March 10, 2008, 06:14:45 AM
Wow...it must be forty years or more since I last read that. Thanks for posting it.
Sarge
You're welcome! I'm quite a fan of Guest's poetry. You can still find his books easily, and they're very worthwhile.
Маленький мальчик гранату нашёл.
"Что это,папа?"-к отцу подашёл.
"Дёрни калечко",-папа сказал,
а сам потехоньку в овраг отползал.
Маленький мальчик был не дурак:
дёрнул колечко и бросил в овраг...
Взрыв прогремел,полетели калоши-
Мальчик в восторге захлопал в ладоши.
here's my translation of this poem:
A little boy found a grenade
"What is this, daddy?" he went to his dad.
"Pull out the ring here, my dear sonny",
Dad said as he crawled into a gully.
Son followed instructions, he was no dummy:
He hurled the grenade into the gully.
An explosion followed, dad shat his pants--
The boy was excitedly clapping his hands.
This is from Octavio Paz' book-length run-on sentence poem, Sunstone-- some ten years ago I read this aloud to myself & it was like a revelation! (since then I think all poems *should* be read aloud if possible):
—when was life ever truly ours?
when are we ever what we are?
we are ill-reputed, nothing more
than vertigo and emptiness, a frown in the mirror,
horror and vomit, life is never
truly ours, it always belongs to the others,
life is no one's, we all are life—
bread of the sun for the others,
the others that we all are—
when I am I am another, my acts
are more mine when they are the acts
of others, in order to be I must be another,
leave myself, search for myself
in the others, the others that don't exist
if I don't exist, the others that give me
total existence, I am not,
there is no I, we are always us,
life is other, always there,
further off, beyond you and
beyond me, always on the horizon,
life which unlives us and makes us strangers,
that invents our face and wears it away,
hunger for being, oh death, our bread...
FOR A COMING EXTINCTION
Gray whale
Now that we are sinding you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing
I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day
The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours
When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices
Join your work to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important
~ W.S. Merwin
I've just been thumbing through a collection of Japanese death poems I haven't read in a good while (ed. by Yoel Hoffmann-- a very good book):
I thought to live
two centuries, or three--
yet here comes death
to me, a child
of just eighty-five years.
~ Hanabusa Ikkei
The hunchback in the park
The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That let the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark
Eating bread from a newspaper
Drinking water from the chained cup
That the children filled with gravel
In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship
Slept at night in a dog kennel
But nobody chained him up.
Like the park birds he came early
Like the water he sat down
And Mister they called Hey mister
The truant boys from the town
Running when he had heard them clearly
On out of sound
Past lake and rockery
Laughing when he shook his paper
Through the loud zoo of the willow groves
Hunchbacked in mockery
Dodging the park-keeper
With his stick that picked up leaves.
And the old dog sleeper
Alone between nurses and swans
While the boys among willows
Made the tigers jump out of their eyes
To roar on the rockery stones
And the groves were blue with sailors
Made all day until bell-time
A woman's figure without fault
Straight as a young elm
Straight and tall from his crooked bones
That she might stand in the night
After the locks and the chains
All night in the unmade park
After the railings and shrubberies
The birds the grass the trees and the lake
And the wild boys innocent as strawberries
Had followed the hunchback
To his kennel in the dark.
http://www.undermilkwood.net/poetry_thehunchback.html (http://www.undermilkwood.net/poetry_thehunchback.html)
I thought I'd posted this here before, but apparently not. One of my favourite poems, not that I am by any means a connoisseur:
He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven.
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats (1899)
Another poem, this one humourous/horror. I remember studying it at school.
He left her lying in the nude
That sultry night in May.
The neighbors thought it rather rude;
He liked her best that way.
He left a rose beside her head,
A meat axe in her brain.
A note upon the bureau read:
"I won't be back again."
Raymond Chandler
Quote from: маразм1 on March 17, 2008, 07:07:34 AM
Маленький мальчик гранату нашёл.
"Что это,папа?"-к отцу подашёл.
"Дёрни калечко",-папа сказал,
а сам потехоньку в овраг отползал.
Маленький мальчик был не дурак:
дёрнул колечко и бросил в овраг...
Взрыв прогремел,полетели калоши-
Мальчик в восторге захлопал в ладоши.
here's my translation of this poem:
A little boy found a grenade
"What is this, daddy?" he went to his dad.
"Pull out the ring here, my dear sonny",
Dad said as he crawled into a gully.
Son followed instructions, he was no dummy:
He hurled the grenade into the gully.
An explosion followed, dad shat his pants--
The boy was excitedly clapping his hands.
You call this a Poem?
This one is a bit different for Robinson Jeffers (brace yourself-- this one is a real tear-jerker!):
THE HOUSE-DOG'S GRAVE
(Haig, an English bulldog)
I've changed my ways a little: I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream: and you, if yu dream a moment,
You see me there.
So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking pan.
I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Nor at the foot of your bed: no, all the nights through
I lie alone.
But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read-- and I fear often grieving for me--
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.
You, man and woman, live so long it is hard
To think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired living so long.
I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for
As I have been,
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided....
But to me you were true.
You were never my masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
~ Robinson Jeffers
BECAUSE
They'll go to the moon
and beyond,
to places even telescopes can't see.
But when will no one go hungry
on earth
or fear others
or push them around,
shun them
or steal their hope?
Because I responded to this question
I'm called a communist.
~ Nazim Hikmet
Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its furthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
(tr. Stephen Mitchell)
I felt like having a thread with poetry -- and I discovered there already was one. So here are my contributions, and I hope some people would like to keep this going again. I really enjoyed many of the poems already posted.
Fernando Pessoa
Crown me with roses,
Crown me truly
With roses --
Roses that fade
On a soon fading
Face.
Crown me with roses
And brief-lived leaves.
And that is enough.
Fernando Pessoa
The Gazette
Of the Lloyd Georges of Babylon
History says nothing.
Of the Briands of Assyria or Egypt,
Of the Trotskys of some Greek or Roman
Colony long past,
The name is dead, though still written.
Only a fool of a poet, or
A philosophizing madman,
Survives that such great little
That lies back there in the dark
And that not even history records!
Oh great men of the Moment!
Oh great simmering glories
From whom obscurity flees!
Enjoy without thought!
Occupy yourselves with fame and spoils,
Because tomorrow belongs to today's madmen!
my own translation from Portuguese
A wry one on a rainy day:
Happy Birthday
Even after a person
is gone from this world,
people often tend
to remember birthdays.
They say: today is
the birthday of someone
who would have been
so many years old.
So just in case you're
not around next year:
happy birthday.
-Thomas Ligotti (from DEATH POEMS)
The Waking by Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
I remember this was the first poem I "heard" at university, as one of our American Studies profs delighted in reciting it over and over and over in the course of his American Poems I lecture series. Later, I grew quite fond of it.
Thomas
The General
"Good-morning, good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
. . .
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
(Siegfried Sassoon 1917)
I sent my Soul through the invisible,
Some Letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (FitzGerald trans.)
RL Stevenson's Requiem.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longs to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Quote from: Chosen Barley on August 18, 2008, 03:13:53 PM
RL Stevenson's Requiem.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longs to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Great poem. Thanks. I love Stevenson's work, especially Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde 0:)/ >:D
ps Welcome to the Forum!
Before Leonard Cohen was a musician, he was a poet. And he has continued writing poetry. The lyrics to his songs are often excellent poems.
Here's one of the oldies:
Suzanne, by Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to
her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body
with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body
with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body
with her mind.
For Anne
With Annie gone,
Whose eyes to compare with the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
But I do compare now that she's gone.
--Leonard Cohen
From Beautiful Losers
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is alive, magic is afoot
God is afoot, magic is alive
Alive is afoot, magic never died
God never sickened
Many poor men lied
Many sick men lied
Magic never weakened
Magic never hid
Magic always ruled
God is afoot, God never died
God was ruler
Though his funeral lengthened
Though his mourners thickened
Magic never fled
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
Though his words were twisted
The naked magic thrived
Though his death was published
Round and round the world
The heart did not believe
Many hurt men wondered
Many struck men bled
Magic never faltered
Magic always lead
Many stones were rolled
But God would not lie down
Many wild men lied
Many fat men listened
Though they offered stones
Magic still was fed
Though they locked their coffers
God was always served
Magic is afoot, God is alive
Alive is afoot
Alive is in command
Many weak men hungered
Many strong men thrived
Though they boast of solitude
God was at their side
Nor the dreamer in his cell
Nor the captain on the hill
Magic is alive
Though his death was pardoned
Round and round the world
The heart would not believe
Though laws were carved in marble
They could not shelter men
Though altars built in parliaments
They could not order men
Police arrested magic and magic went with them
Mmmmm.... for magic loves the hungry
But magic would not tarry
It moves from arm to arm
It would not stay with them
Magic is afoot
It cannot come to harm
It rests in an empty palm
It spawns in an empty mind
But magic is no instrument
Magic is the end
Many men drove magic
But magic stayed behind
Many strong men lied
They only passed through magic
And out the other side
Many weak men lied
They came to God in secret
And though they left Him nourished
They would not tell who healed
Though mountains danced before them
They said that God was dead
Though his shrouds were hoisted
The naked God did live
This I mean to whisper to my mind
This I mean to laugh within my mind
This I mean my mind to serve
Til' service is but magic
Moving through the world
And mind itself is magic
Coursing through the flesh
And flesh itself is magic
Dancing on a clock
And time itself
The magic length of God
--Leonard Cohen
Can anyone help me out here? I like this but have not a friggin' clue as to what he's talking about.....
It's by Frank O'hara
ANIMALS
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days
Yes, Alan--
It's about the loss of innocence, and it's a wonderful poem. Who is Frank O'Hara? I'm not familiar with his work, but this is terrific, resonating both on the personal level (i.e. relating to youth) and on the cosmic (i.e. our species' youth, as in the "Garden of Eden," before we cut ourselves off from God and became fully self-conscious tillers of soil).
Terrific poem--thanks for sharing!
P.S. I think it's interesting that you claim not to understand it, yet offer it shortly after I reprinted Leonard Cohen's For Anne, which addresses a similar loss in a similar way--though O'Hara's pond and ripples are wider and deeper.
I've recently discovered the joy of William Blake's wonderful poetry. Here is one I particularly like:
Eternity
He who binds himself to a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
Quote from: DavidRoss on August 19, 2008, 05:58:20 AM
Yes, Alan--
It's about the loss of innocence, and it's a wonderful poem. Who is Frank O'Hara?
Poet associated both with the Beats and the New York School (Ashberry, Koch, Schuyler etc). Educated at Harvard and U of Michigan, he lived and worked in New York City until his accidental death on Fire Island. (1926-1966).
In this photo he's on the right (Ginsberg in the middle):
(http://photos.imageevent.com/sgtrock/julygmg/fwm-oharaginsbergtalking.jpg)
I agree with you, David: a fantastic poem. Thanks Allan.
Sarge
THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
=Gwendolyn Brooks=
PS - you can hear it from the poet's own voice here:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433
Thanks, Vandermolen. I first heard the last line "...and the hunter home from the hill" as a child in some film or other, and I never forgot it. Pretty atmospheric, the last 2 lines.
I am not sure I like that poem about the boy, his father and the grenade. :-\ I was able to read the Russian version even tho I am not fluent. Quite a few of the poems here revolve around death one way or the other. The poem by R.L.S., however, is satisfied & contented. The Animals verse, too, speaks to me.
This (used...)to be a classic in schools .
Guido Gezelle was perhaps the most important Flemish poet of the nineteenth century. He was priest, schoolteacher, poet and linguist, and translator of Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha into Dutch (1886).
Born in Brugge in 1830, trained for the priesthood at Roeseleare. His poetry expresses his deep love of God in nature. His poetry was originally written in the West-Flemish dialect, but is mainly read nowadays in standard Dutch. Sound, rhythm, onomatopoeia and alliteration are just some of the verse techniques that characterize his work.
The swifts
'See, see, see,
see! see! see!
see!! see!! see!!
see!!!
scream the
swifts,
twice, three times
three,
sweeping and
screeching and
'We, we'll no
be
beat and no
tail be shown!
Whee, whee! whee!!
whee!!!'
Peeping and
cheeping and
sleek and quick-
limbed;
twirling and
whirling as
fleet as the
wind;
wheeling and
keeling as
keen as a
dirk,
swooping and
looping in
rings round the
kirk.
Lower now
floating, then
flashing their
flights;
higher now
stretching their
wings to the
heights;
scarcely now
audible,
hard now to
see,
ceaselessly
singing a
'We??? we?? we?
we...'
trans. Harry Lake, c.1985
'Zie,zie,zie,
zie!zie!zie!
zie!!zie!!zie!!
zie!!!'
tieren de,
zwaluwen,
twee-driemaal
drie,
zwierende en
gierende:
'Niemand,die...
die
bieden de
stiet ons zal!
Wie,wie?wie??
wie???'
Piepende en
kriepende
zwak en ge-
zwind;
haaiende en
draaiende,
rap als de
wind;
wiegende en
vliegende,
vlug op de
vlerk,
spoeien en
roeien ze
ringsom de
kerk.
Lege nu
zweven ze,en
geven ze
burcht;
hoge nu
hemelt hun'
vlerke,in de
lucht:
amper nog
hore ik...en,
die 'k niet en
zie,
lijvelijk
zingen ze:
'Wie???wie??wie?
wie...'
Quote from: orbital on August 19, 2008, 07:35:14 AM
THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
=Gwendolyn Brooks=
PS - you can hear it from the poet's own voice here:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433
Too many great poems appearing here to comment on all of them, but this one particularly fascinates me. Loved hearing Brooks read it (and her intro is pretty amusing, too, including her description of June and comments on the word "jazz"), which echoes how the poem actually
looks on the printed page.
--Bruce
And Szymborska ,of course!
Some like poetry
Some--
that means not all.
Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting the schools, where one must,
and the poets themselves, there will be perhaps two in a thousand.
Like--
but one also likes chicken noodle soup,
one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf,
one likes to prove one's point,
one likes to pet a dog.
Poetry--
but what sort of thing is poetry?
More than one shaky answer
has been given to this question.
But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it,
as to a saving bannister.
Paul Van Ostayen (1896 - 1928)
YOUNG LANDSCAPE (1928)
So the two stand almost motionless in the meadow
the girl who hangs straight down on a rope from heaven
puts her long hand on the long straight line of the goat
that bears the earth on its tiny feet inversely
Against her white-and-black checked smock
the girl — in the whimsy of
my solitude I call het Ursula —
holds a poppy high
There are no words as graceful
as the rings in the zebu horns
as tanned by time as a zebu hide -—
shock inside of you their value bare
Such words I'd like to garner to a sheaf
for the girl with the goat
Across the edges of my hands
my hands
feel for my hands
incessantly
Melopee (1926)
Onder de maan schuift de lange rivier
Over de lange rivier schuift moede de maan
Onder de maan op de lange rivier schuift de kano naar zee
Langs het hoogriet
langs de laagwei
schuift de kano naar zee
schuift met de schuivende maan de kano naar zee
Zo zijn ze gezellen naar zee de kano de maan en de man
Waarom schuiven de maan en de man getweeën gedwee naar de zee
Melopeia
Under the moon the long river slides by
Above the long river the moon mournfully slides
Under the moon on the long river the canoe slides to the sea
By tall reedbeds
by low meadows
the canoe slides to the sea
with the sliding moon the canoe slides to the sea
Companions then to the sea the canoe the moon and the man
Why do the moon and the man two together slide submissively to the sea
Poets should know
The meanings of their words,
Not just how they look on the page
Or sound in the wind:
None < some ≤ all.
Quote from: DavidRoss on August 19, 2008, 05:58:20 AM
Yes, Alan--
It's about the loss of innocence, and it's a wonderful poem. Who is Frank O'Hara? I'm not familiar with his work, but this is terrific, resonating both on the personal level (i.e. relating to youth) and on the cosmic (i.e. our species' youth, as in the "Garden of Eden," before we cut ourselves off from God and became fully self-conscious tillers of soil).
Terrific poem--thanks for sharing!
P.S. I think it's interesting that you claim not to understand it, yet offer it shortly after I reprinted Leonard Cohen's For Anne, which addresses a similar loss in a similar way--though O'Hara's pond and ripples are wider and deeper.
Thanks David,
This poem is also my first encounter with O'Hara. A friend of mine forwarded this to me thinking I'd enjoy it. I did understand it on a singular level but somehow I couldn't get passed that to see that it also relates to our species. That really helps me out and brings the words into sharper focus for me. Posting after the Cohen is just coincidence.
Again thanks,
Allan
Quote from: Corey on August 19, 2008, 06:07:33 AM
I've recently discovered the joy of William Blake's wonderful poetry. Here is one I particularly like:
Eternity
He who binds himself to a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
Blake! I love Blake. Alas, a very apt poem I'd have wanted to quote for this thread is currently en route to the British Isles (in the printed form of it that I own), and I am hard-pressed to quote it from memory... It'll have to wait.
Incidentally,
Sarge's new signature made me remember how much I also love
Bukowski (presently in my own signature as well).
Therefore, here it is in full, one of my very favourite poems of his, but maybe not for the more obvious among possible reasons:
so you want to be a writer?if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
(No, I did not quote this from memory either, but I don't own the collection it comes from to begin with; madness perhaps, but still... ;))
Quote from: mozartsneighbor on August 19, 2008, 03:38:12 AM
Before Leonard Cohen was a musician, he was a poet. And he has continued writing poetry. The lyrics to his songs are often excellent poems.
Here's one of the oldies:
Suzanne, by Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to
her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body
with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body
with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body
with her mind.
Thanks, I enjoyed revisiting that one :)
On a very early date with my wife, about 13 years ago, she recited
Suzanne to me by candlelight.
Quote from: pjme on August 19, 2008, 11:14:35 AM
This (used...)to be a classic in schools .
Guido Gezelle was perhaps the most important Flemish poet of the nineteenth century. He was priest, schoolteacher, poet and linguist, and translator of Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha into Dutch (1886).
Born in Brugge in 1830, trained for the priesthood at Roeseleare. His poetry expresses his deep love of God in nature. His poetry was originally written in the West-Flemish dialect, but is mainly read nowadays in standard Dutch. Sound, rhythm, onomatopoeia and alliteration are just some of the verse techniques that characterize his work.
I have always connected Gezelle with Gerard Manley Hopkins - both adventurous poet-priests, and contemporaries (though unbeknownst to each other). The poem you quote is one of my wife's favourites. And - we
live 'in de Guido Gezellelaan'...
The problem I have with a lot of poetry, well represented in this thread, is that it is too close to prose, too close to a lazy talking style laid out literally with few or no images. AFAIC it might as well be written as prose if it's going to be put down without images and without an elusive narrative and without a song.
A few from the Columbus of new poetic continents, Velimir Khlebnikov.
We share a single destiny. That yoke
on us lies easy, like our middle names.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The smell of night, inhaling stars
into my frenzied nostrils,
water broken on a bed
of nails, babbling into foam.
A figure passes, you, and on your head
a green turban of dried grass--
I recognise my teacher, your face
burned bonfire black.
And another approaches,
exhausted as all Asia. See?
He holds in his hand
a small red flower.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When horses die, they breathe
When grasses die, they wither,
When suns die, they go out,
When people die, they sing songs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A fist in the face,
that's how I kiss.
Red,
redder
than the rough rowan-berry,
splashing splashes,
a shaft of red,
cherry blossom bough--
split lips.
And the air all howl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Neva knows the look in those Last Supper eyes.
Here, the blood of saviours
commingled yesterday
with the body of the North
in stale black bread.
Love lies like ashes upon the river,
workingmen's love, a writer's love.
The Neva knows the look
in those Last Supper eyes--
in her cast-iron horses,
the austere stonework
of her Stroganov Palace.
The beds of dried seas
rise as the river's banks.
Cobwebs entangle
the graves of the tsars.
When the triple lamps burn
on the bridges at evening,
the stream runs red.
A kiss on the mouth.
http://belgium.poetryinternationalweb.org
For those who are interested in Belgian poetry, check this website . All poems have an English translation.
The selection of writers focuses mainly on the 20th century - from Karel Van de Woestijne's baroque pessimism, to the cool, "urban-chic" of Stefan Hertmans ...
P.
Quote from: ezodisy on August 20, 2008, 12:07:38 AM
The problem I have with a lot of poetry, well represented in this thread, is that it is too close to prose, too close to a lazy talking style laid out literally with few or no images. AFAIC it might as well be written as prose if it's going to be put down without images and without an elusive narrative and without a song.
But for poetry like Bukowski's (and for me), this adds to the allure of the (non-)verse. It's "formally evocative" to begin with. :)
However, let me note that both my favourite poems in general, Poe's "The Raven", and even more so Shakespeare's Sonnet 30 ("When to the sessions of sweet silent thought"), are highly metric. Not to mention my weakness for Coleridge, or Yeats.
So if I were to have a bias, it would likely be
for the "song-like" style, rather than against it.
Quote from: ezodisy on August 20, 2008, 12:07:38 AM
The smell of night, inhaling stars
into my frenzied nostrils,
water broken on a bed
of nails, babbling into foam.
This is nice. I wonder how else one might translate the word rendered here as "frenzied?"
Quote from: bhodges on August 19, 2008, 11:20:50 AM
Too many great poems appearing here to comment on all of them, but this one particularly fascinates me. Loved hearing Brooks read it (and her intro is pretty amusing, too, including her description of June and comments on the word "jazz"), which echoes how the poem actually looks on the printed page.
--Bruce
There are many more poems on that website which are presented in the voices of their authors. There are a few by Ginsberg as well, but he is not the best reciter of his poems >:D
The Heart
In the midst of words your wordless image
Marches through the precincts of my night
And all the structures of my language lie undone:
The bright cathedrals clatter, and the moon-
Topped spires break their stalks.
Sprawled before that raid, I watch the towns
Go under. And in the waiting dark, I loose
Like marbles spinning from a child
The crazed and hooded creatures of the heart.
--Harvey Shapiro
So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart by still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
Byron
Love Poem
My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing
Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.
Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars—
Misfit in any space. And never on time.
A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.
Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.
Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses—
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.
--John Frederick Nims
Thanks for Love Poem, DR. It is very nice. Never even heard of Nims before (I'm not highly educated.)
Du Fu
TO MY RETIRED FRIEND WEI
It is almost as hard for friends to meet
As for the morning and evening stars.
Tonight then is a rare event,
Joining, in the candlelight,
Two men who were young not long ago
But now are turning grey at the temples.
...To find that half our friends are dead
Shocks us, burns our hearts with grief.
We little guessed it would be twenty years
Before I could visit you again.
When I went away, you were still unmarried;
But now these boys and girls in a row
Are very kind to their father's old friend.
They ask me where I have been on my journey;
And then, when we have talked awhile,
They bring and show me wines and dishes,
Spring chives cut in the night-rain
And brown rice cooked freshly a special way.
...My host proclaims it a festival,
He urges me to drink ten cups --
But what ten cups could make me as drunk
As I always am with your love in my heart?
...Tomorrow the mountains will separate us;
After tomorrow-who can say?
This is by Kharm who was a Russian poet. I discovered him recently.
I thought long and hard about eagles,
And I came to understand a lot:
Eagles fly among the clouds,
They fly without bothering anyone.
I came to understand that eagles live on cliffs and on mountains,
And that they're friends with the water spirits.
I thought long and hard about eagles,
But it seems that I confused them with flies.
March 15, 1939
Daniil. I have a bunch of his children's poems from when I was studying Russian, ones like Очень-очень вкусный пирог (http://wikilivres.info/wiki/%D0%9E%D1%87%D0%B5%D0%BD%D1%8C-%D0%BE%D1%87%D0%B5%D0%BD%D1%8C_%D0%B2%D0%BA%D1%83%D1%81%D0%BD%D1%8B%D0%B9_%D0%BF%D0%B8%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B3_(%D0%A5%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%BC%D1%81))
I think poems and children's stories are the best way to learn and are easy to memorise. My two favourite ones were:
http://www.litera.ru/stixiya/authors/axmatova/ya-pyu-za.html
and
http://www.stihi-rus.ru/1/Blok/57.htm
I have been thinking about starting again. I think I will after Christmas when I can concentrate better.
Me
Wheee!
- Muhammad Ali
ezodisy, Here is Agnia Barto in Russian
Мячик (TheBall)
Наша Таня громко плачет:
Уронила в речку мячик.
- Тише, Танечка, не плачь:
Не утонет в речке мяч.
Зайку бросила хозяйка -
Под дождем остался зайка.
Со скамейки слезть не мог,
Весь до ниточки промок.
Teddy. Teddy
On the floor lies tiny Teddy
Half a paw is gone already.
He is tattered, torn, and lame.
Yet I love him just the same.
Bunny. Bunny
Once a little scatter-brain
Left poor Bunny in the rain.
What could little Bunny do?
He got wet just through and through.
Once a little scatter-brain
Left poor Bunny in the rain.
What could little Bunny do?
He got wet just through and through.
The Wooden Bull Calf. The Wooden Bull Calf.
The Bull-Calf walks with shaking knees.
The funny thing's so small
The board is ending soon, he sees.
And he's afraid to fall.
My Horse. My Horse.
How I love my little horse!
I will brush him very well, of course,
I will comb his tail and mane,
And go riding out again.
Teddy. Teddy
On the floor lies tiny Teddy
Half a paw is gone already.
He is tattered, torn, and lame.
Yet I love him just the same.
Here is Mayakoavsky's poem.
I heard on Russian television debate about Mayakovsky. Many people think that he poetry doesn't worth much because of his communist (bolshevic) idiology. However, many disagree. He was crucified twice. First he was persecuted while he was alive, then he was made an official poet and people did not like him.
Now he is absolete. There is one of the poems I found on the net.
Some words.
Heavy as a blow.
"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's- to God what is God's."
And one
such as I,
where shall I squeeze in?
Where is my den?
If only I were
small
as the great Pacific -
I'd stand up on the waves' tiptoes
and caress the moon with my tides.
Where am I to find a beloved
equal to myself?
Such a woman has no place in the tiny heavens!
If only I were poor!
As a billionaire!
What's money to the soul?
There's an insatiable thief in mine.
All the gold in California couldn't feed
the unbridled horde of my desires.
If I could only be as tongue-tied
as Dante
or Petrarch!
Turn my soul's fire on one woman!
Make it smolder out in verse!
My words
and my love-
are a triumphal arch:
the beloveds of all ages
would pass through it gloriously,
without a trace.
If only I were
quiet
as thunder-
I would whimper
and, trembling, embrace earth's decrepit cloister.
If I outroar in an enormous voice
with all the power of thunder-
comets will wring their burning hands,
and fling themselves down in despair.
I would crack open nights with my eye's ray,
if only I were
dim as the sun!
I so need
to slake with my shining
the sunken bosom of the earth!
I will pass by,
dragging my giant-love.
In what
delirious
feverish night,
by what Goliaths was I conceived-
so big
and so useless?
1916
Thank you. I have heard that before somewhere. There's a lot out there.
It is the 400th anniversary of John Milton's birth (9 December, to be precise), one of my great heroes. I celebrate this fact by a randomly-chosen passage from Paradise Lost, which is surprisingly fitting for both this board and the miracle that a poet long dead (1674) should still be alive today:
No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all
The multitude of Angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled
The eternal regions: Lowly reverent
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast
Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold;
Immortal amarant, a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream;
With these that never fade the Spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams;
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high;
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven.
(Paradise Lost, Book III 344-371)
Magnificent :)
December 13th is Saint Lucy's Day, and here is a fine poem by John Donne:
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/nocturnal.htm
A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY,
BEING THE SHORTEST DAY.
by John Donne
'TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring ;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness ;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know ; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.
But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night's festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's and the day's deep midnight is.
Great poem.
Nightingales
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
Robert Seymour Bridges
Here is a poem I read recently that is related to classical music, so I thought I'd share it. Plus, this thread has been dormant for too long. :)
The Composer's Winter Dream
by Norman Dubie
for my father
Vivid and heavy, he strolls through dark brick kitchens
Within the great house of Esterhazy:
A deaf servant's candle
Is tipped toward bakers who are quarreling about
The green kindling! The wassail is
Being made by pouring beer and sherry from dusty bottles
Over thirty baked apples in a large bowl: into
The wassail, young girls empty their aprons of
Cinnamon, ground mace, and allspice berries. A cook adds
Egg whites and brandy. The giant glass snifters
On a silver tray are taken from the kitchen by two maids.
The anxious pianist eats the edges of a fig
Stuffed with Devonshire cream. In the sinks the gallbladders
Of geese are soaking in cold salted water.
Walking in the storm, this evening, he passed
Children in rags, singing carols; they were roped together
In the drifting snow outside the palace gate.
He knew he would remember those boys' faces. . .
There's a procession into the kitchens: larger boys, each
With a heavy shoe of coal. The pianist sits and looks
Hard at a long black sausage. He will not eat
Before playing the new sonata. Beside him
The table sags with hams, kidney pies, and two shoulders
Of lamb. A hand rings a bell in the parlor!
No longer able to hide, he walks
Straight into the large room that blinds him with light.
He sits before the piano still thinking of hulled berries. . .
The simple sonata which
He is playing has little
To do with what he's feeling: something larger
Where a viola builds, in air, an infinite staircase.
An oboe joins the viola, they struggle
For a more florid harmony.
But the silent violins now emerge
And, like the big wing of a bird, smother everything
In a darkness from which only a single horn escapes—
That feels effaced by the composer's dream. . .
But he is not dreaming,
The composer is finishing two performances simultaneously!
He is back in the dark kitchens, sulking and counting
His few florins—they have paid him
With a snuffbox that was pressed
With two diamonds, in Holland!
This century discovers quinine.
And the sketchbooks of a mad, sad musician
Who threw a lantern at his landlord who was standing beside
A critic. He screamed: Here, take the snuffbox, I've filled
It with the dander of dragons! He apologizes
The next morning, instructing the landlord to take
This stuff (Da Ist Der Wisch) to a publisher,
And sell it! You'll have your velvet garters, Pig!
The composer is deaf, loud, and feverish. . . he went
To the countryside in a wet sedan chair.
He said to himself: for the piper, seventy ducats! He'd curse
While running his fingers through his tousled hair, he made
The poor viola climb the stairs.
He desired loquats, loquats with small pears!
Ludwig, there are Spring bears under the pepper trees!
The picnic by the stone house. . . the minnows
Could have been sunlight striking fissures
In the stream; Ludwig, where your feet are
In the cold stream
Everything is horizontal like the land and living.
The stream saying, "In the beginning was the word
And without the word
Was not anything made that was made. . .
But let us believe in the word, Ludwig,
For it is like the sea grasses
Off which with giant snails eat, at twilight!" But then
The dream turns to autumn; the tinctures he
Swallows are doing nothing for him, and he shows
The physicians his spoon which has dissolved
In the mixtures the chemist has given him!
After the sonata was heard: the standing for applause
Over, he walked out where it was snowing.
It had been dark early that evening. It's here that the
Dream becomes shocking: he sees a doctor
In white sleeves
Who is sawing at the temporal bones of his ears. There is
A bag of dampened plaster for the death mask. And
Though he is dead, a pool of urine runs to the
Middle of the sickroom. A brass urinal is on the floor, it is
The shape of his ears rusting on gauze. The doctors
Drink stale wassail. They frown over the dead Beethoven. Outside,
The same March storm that swept through Vienna an hour before
Has turned in its tracks like the black, caged panther
On exhibit in the Esterhazys' candlelit ballroom. The storm crosses
Over Vienna once more: lightning strikes the Opera House, its eaves
And awnings filled with hailstones,
Flames leaping to the adjacent stables! Someone had known,
As thunder dropped flower boxes off windowsills,
Someone must have known
That, at this moment, the violins would emerge
In a struggle with the loud, combatant horns.
I liked this poem a lot. Thanks for the introduction to Norman Dubie, Keemun. I am considering music-related poems to post, but this is a tough act to follow.
I like this poem, too, tho it's rather prose-like, in my books. And I hate the aristocracy more than ever. :D
"Poetry: the best words in the best order" --Coleridge.
Here's a poem for everyone who ever suffered the sweaty-palmed agonies of the dreaded piano recital as a young child.
Recital
by Lisa Russ Spaar
In the teacher's kitchen, we fidgeted
and were told to hush among the gladioli
presiding over trays of tri-tiered sandwiches
and the punchbowl of sherbet ice floes
swimming in ginger ale for afterwards.
If only it were afterwards,
and not the agony of before,
the memorized staves crisscrossing
our brains like fences gored
with all the notes that could--
and probably would--go wrong.
I blame those first recitals
for setting up a sham of perfection
beyond the limits of my body
and my ability: the mortification
of hurtling through what should instead be
music--flawed and surprising--
before an audience of shamefully
smiling instigators, as fearful as we,
suddenly, that their lives would be exposed
in one misstruck key, or two, or three. . .
It seems hard to believe that just a few short weeks ago the Washington DC area, where I live, was buried under three feet of snow. Now the daffodils and tulips are in bloom and the flowering trees are beginning to show their stuff and, well, it's a different world! Which makes me think of some of my favorite spring poems.
Here are two I love by the American poet e. e. cummings. The first, I think, is a child's view of spring, with its breathless rhythms, the sights and sounds of a child's games outdoors, and the joyous physicality of a world that is "mud-luscious".
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
The second, far more reflective and less exuberant, is a more mature view of the season, expressing a quietly awed respect for the transformative power of that unseen hand that is observed to be "changing everything carefully . . . without breaking anything."
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
What are your favorite poems of the season?
The poem by Lisa Spaar reminded me that these terrifying situations for children :'( are really not what music is about.
I love poems that evoke images of scenes and seasons. Here is one I particularly like.
Late September
by Charles Simic
The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.
This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.
La Primavera
(Allegro)
Giunt' è la primavera e festosetti
La salutan gl' augei con lieto canto,
E i fonti allo spirar de'zeffiretti
Con dolce mormorio scorrono intanto:
Vengon' coprendo l' aer di nero amanto
E lampi, e tuoni ad annuntiarla eletti
Indi tacendo questi, gl' augelletti;
Tornan' di nuovo al lor canoro incanto:
(Largo)
E quindi sul fiorito ameno prato
Al caro mormorio di fronde e piante
Dorme 'l caprar col fido can' à lato.
(Allegro)
Di pastoral zampogna al suon festante
Danzan ninfe e pastor nel tetto amato
Di primavera all' apparir brillante.
8)
Florestan, I'd say "that's Greek to me" except that it's probably Italian. . . Keemun, I liked the Simic September poem (even out of season). There are some great images in it--the bored seagull who lifts a leg and forgets to put it down, for example. And Chosen Barley, I try to keep that Spaar poem in mind whenever I enter one of my self-pitying phases where I think of how different my life would be if only I had had piano lessons as a child! ;)
Dylan Thomas reading his own "And Death shall have no Dominion".
http://rapidshare.com/files/369507816/thomas_under_milk_wood__1954__return_journey_to_swansea_se_1_poems_20_and_death_shall_have_no_dom.mp.html (http://rapidshare.com/files/369507816/thomas_under_milk_wood__1954__return_journey_to_swansea_se_1_poems_20_and_death_shall_have_no_dom.mp.html)
Goodbye Christ by Langston Hughes
yea,... no,...I'm kidding
Maybe Florestan will like this. I sure do; I happened upon it while looking for instructions on starting flower seed (didiscus aka 'blue lace flower'). :)
"The smell of violets, hidden in the green
Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame
The times when I remembered to have
been Joyful and free from blame."
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Quote from: secondwind on March 26, 2010, 09:11:41 PM
Florestan, I'd say "that's Greek to me" except that it's probably Italian. . .
Yes, and supposedly written by one Antonio Vivaldi no less. It's the sonnet accompanying
The Spring's score. Full translation here (http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Four_Seasons_Sonnets).
Quote from: Chosen Barley on April 06, 2010, 03:11:39 PM
Maybe Florestan will like this. I sure do; I happened upon it while looking for instructions on starting flower seed (didiscus aka 'blue lace flower'). :)
"The smell of violets, hidden in the green
Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame
The times when I remembered to have
been Joyful and free from blame."
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Superb. Which poem is it extracted from?
Those lovely lines are from A Dream of Fair Women. ;D
I hope you have an actual book of poems that you can hold in your hands if you wish to read the whole thing.
Quote from: Chosen Barley on April 07, 2010, 08:22:35 AM
Those lovely lines are from A Dream of Fair Women. ;D
I hope you have an actual book of poems that you can hold in your hands if you wish to read the whole thing.
Unfortunately I haven't, but the Internet is the next best solution. :)
Quote from: John on March 29, 2010, 03:26:36 AM
Dylan Thomas reading his own "And Death shall have no Dominion".
One of my favorites for a long time: reminds me of this:
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life--that in me has rest,
As I--undying Life--have power in thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The stedfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou--THOU art Being and Breath,
And what THOU art may never be destroyed.
Emily BrontëIt would be quite a challenge to set either of these poems to music!
Well, their time is already gone for this year, so like Wordsworth, I just have to remember them now--daffodils, banks of them, hundreds of them, waving in the early spring breeze. . .
The Daffodils
by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Quote from: secondwind on April 10, 2010, 07:24:43 PM
The Daffodils
by William Wordsworth
One of the greatest poems ever written.
I must admit that I'm a fan of some of the darker poets. This one seems to capture the moods I feel on late night walks. It isn't as horrifying as some of her other late works.
Sylvia Plath - The Moon And The Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence
The Memoirs of Jesse James
I remember all those thousands of hours
that I spent in grade school watching the clock,
waiting for recess or lunch or to go home.
Waiting: for anything but school.
My teachers could easily have ridden with Jesse James
for all the time they stole from me.
- Richard Brautigan
Ahhh...poor Richard Brautigan. Tough enough to be schizophrenic, or depressive, or alcoholic, without being all three. A friend of mine from the old days got to witness him trying to drink himself to death in a seedy room in San Francisco, before he finished the job quick with a bullet to the brain. Still, there's a legacy of lovely writing left by this terribly troubled soul.
This morning a friend introduced me to a lovely haiku by Luanne Rice, from her novel, The Geometry of Sisters:
Light splits the dark cloud
Silver pours down from the sky.
Rain stops for today.
I love the image of sunlight pouring down like silver through a gap in the clouds after it rains.
A fun thing to make from poems is a "wordle" or tag cloud-- you can do this at www.wordle.net.
Not sure if this link will work, but here is Poe's The Bells:
http://www.wordle.net/show/wrdl/1896132/Poe%27s_the_Bells (http://www.wordle.net/show/wrdl/1896132/Poe%27s_the_Bells)
It's always dangerous to submit one's own poetry to the world (as John Berryman said, Whenever you show someone your scribblings, you run the risk of making a fool of yourself). But I'm a bit nostalgic today and I feel, again like John Berryman, that some of my deepest feelings are for what has past: "accomodating idealistic regrets more readily than present joys." And anyway, this is one of my favorite poems ;)
AUBADE FOR MISS KIM
(Yobo is a Korean term of affection between lovers)
I stood beside you in the chill October
morn and you so warm, Kim Kil Cha, cocooned nude
in the fat, garish quilt, your flesh like fire
hidden. Yobo, you wake? Come back to bed...
Come... I think on these things as I read her
old letters of pressed clover and flower,
once letters of luck, the stationary of spring.
But twenty-eight autumns crumble like leaves
in my hand, dusty and dried to a sullen
yellow, a terminal gangrene.
Raked by the years, I see you standing
where the sadness ran so deep that morning,
in the doorway, a stricken Butterfly
in the dawn, the servant at your side, smiling,
dustrag in hand, waving goodbye, goodbye...
But you, Kil Cha, you my love, my yobo,
said nothing, moved not in the morning chill.
Your final word, your last goodbye, a soundless O
but I heard what you felt, I felt you cry, No!
It doth make me still...
Sarge
Thanks, Sarge - reminds me of our "Miss Kim": a female Labrador mix. Great dog, now lying underneath an asphalt parking lot.
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on April 14, 2010, 04:14:00 AM
It's always dangerous to submit one's own poetry to the world (as John Berryman said, Whenever you show someone your scribblings, you run the risk of making a fool of yourself). But I'm a bit nostalgic today and I feel, again like John Berryman, that some of my deepest feelings are for what has past: "accomodating idealistic regrets more readily than present joys." And anyway, this is one of my favorite poems ;)
AUBADE FOR MISS KIM
(Yobo is a Korean term of affection between lovers)
I stood beside you in the chill October
morn and you so warm, Kim Kil Cha, cocooned nude
in the fat, garish quilt, your flesh like fire
hidden. Yobo, you wake? Come back to bed...
Come... I think on these things as I read her
old letters of pressed clover and flower,
once letters of luck, the stationary of spring.
But twenty-eight autumns crumble like leaves
in my hand, dusty and dried to a sullen
yellow, a terminal gangrene.
Raked by the years, I see you standing
where the sadness ran so deep that morning,
in the doorway, a stricken Butterfly
in the dawn, the servant at your side, smiling,
dustrag in hand, waving goodbye, goodbye...
But you, Kil Cha, you my love, my yobo,
said nothing, moved not in the morning chill.
Your final word, your last goodbye, a soundless O
but I heard what you felt, I felt you cry, No!
It doth make me still...
Sarge
It is a beautiful, if painful, read, Sarge. It evokes a loss that is not so much remembered as continually re-experienced, not a simple absence but a festering wound, "terminal gangrene". Thanks for sharing it.
Quote from: secondwind on April 14, 2010, 09:00:26 PM
It is a beautiful, if painful, read, Sarge. It evokes a loss that is not so much remembered as continually re-experienced, not a simple absence but a festering wound, "terminal gangrene".
Perceptive. Yes, that parting, that moment 40 years ago, is still as fresh in my mind as the day it happened. Still haunts me. Thank you for your comments.
Sarge
Nice, Sarge. Whodathunk yahadit inya?
LIGHT
Light, my light, the world-filling light,
the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life;
the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love;
the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light.
Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling,
and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,
and gladness without measure.
The heavens' river has drowned its banks
and the flood of joy is abroad.
~Rabindranath Tagore
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on April 19, 2010, 04:01:40 AM
. . . Yes, that parting, that moment 40 years ago, is still as fresh in my mind as the day it happened. Still haunts me. . . .
Sarge
And now it haunts me, too. I guess that even though writing may not exorcise our demons, it does let us name them, recognize them, share them.
The Tagore poem is lovely, David. It is amazing that words on a page (or a collection of sounds, or splotches of paint on canvas, or particular shapings of marble or clay) can express the deepest feelings of the human heart and soul, but somehow they do.
Here's another that I like:
The Neighbor
Strange violin, are you following me?
In how many towns when I am alone
your lonely night has called to mine?
Do hundreds play you, or only one?
Are there in all great cities ever
those who without you would have lost
themselves already in the river?
Will your music pick on me to the last?
Why must I always have as neighbor
him who makes you fearfully sing
and say that life is heavier
than the heaviness of all things?
Rainer Maria Rilketranslated by C. F. MacIntyre
Quote from: secondwind on April 19, 2010, 09:51:33 PM
And now it haunts me, too. I guess that even though writing may not exorcise our demons, it does let us name them, recognize them, share them.
I've written over 200 poems and most could be said to have been attempts to exorcise the pain, the losses, the regrets of my first quarter century. Writing them hasn't helped me much but yes, it has helped explain
me to people I care about. (Explain things like why I quit college during the Vietnam War and enlisted in the army: a seemingly rash and potentionally fatal decision that baffled my family and friends in 1968.)
The relationships that did the most damage are well documented now in poetry. My high school girlfriend "inspired" over 50 poems, including this sonnet written in 1999 in which, after 44 previous attempts, I finally accept defeat and admit she's always going to be haunting my life.
JEAN FORTY-FIVE/SONNET TWENTYYou are my text, my reason to write. Not
a day has died since sixty-six, the Fall,
when you haven't appeared, disrupting thought
and dashing expectations like the "wrong"
notes in a sixteenth century madrigal
by Gesualdo that startle but enthrall
and weave us moody into dissonant
textures. You clash with my life; like a gong,
shatter my peaceful consonance in the light
of 9 p.m., walking down hillside vines;
the clashing note I use to fashion lines,
a song, as evening darkens into night,
broods into West where, still, a pale light shines,
where my text resides, my reason to write.
Quote from: DavidRoss on April 19, 2010, 12:25:16 PM
Nice, Sarge. Whodathunk yahadit inya?
I got a million of 'em, David...at some points in my life I scribbled incessantly.
Sarge
secondwind--thanks for the Rilke poem. It makes me think of the fiddle in Mahler's 4th.
Sarge--thanks for the gifts of yourself. Here's one of mine:
Between Harvests
Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.
Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.
Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.
And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.
Quote from: DavidRoss on April 20, 2010, 07:20:01 AM
Between Harvests
Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.
Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.
Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.
And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.
Lovely impressionistic piece, David. I like it...especially the soldier simile :)
Sarge
Just basking here. Carry on!
I usually don't like poety, but this one impressed me. I'm not sure where I found out about it, maybe here
The last stanze of "On Living" by Nazim Hikmet
This earth will grow cold, a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet -
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day.
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space.
You must grieve for this right now
- you have to feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived"...
Scarpia, that last stanza from
On Livig really packs a wallop:
QuoteYou must grieve for this right now
- you have to feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived"...
David, I found
Between Harvests very evocative. I can feel the dry heat, feel the heft of those drooping sunflower heads, smell the dust and smoke. And there is so much movement in it--everything is in motion, nothing is fully still. For some reason, that matters.
Ithaca
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)
That is lovely, A.M. Both the poem and the poet are new to me, and I thank you for the introduction. I confess I'll have to look up the Lestrygonians, but evidently they're bad guys (along with Cyclops and angry Poseiden). How true that you will not encounter them unless you carry them within your soul! And a great ending. Has it ever been set as a song?
Quote from: secondwind on April 29, 2010, 01:36:20 PM
That is lovely, A.M. Both the poem and the poet are new to me, and I thank you for the introduction. I confess I'll have to look up the Lestrygonians, but evidently they're bad guys (along with Cyclops and angry Poseiden). How true that you will not encounter them unless you carry them within your soul! And a great ending. Has it ever been set as a song?
Hi,
secondwind. Kavafis (the preferred spelling is different in English) is one of my favorite poets. I know his work since 2003 when a notable Chilean professor of Greek named Miguel Castillo Didier published his translations of the complete Kavafis' poems. One of the most remarkable features of Kavafis is how he is able to convey intimate feelings using some mythic or historical accounts.
(http://www.cyberhumanitatis.uchile.cl/AlasbimnImages/ch25kavafis.gif)
Here another beautiful poem:
TrojansOur efforts are those of the unfortunate;
our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
Somewhat we succeed; somewhat
we regain confidence; and we start
to have courage and high hopes.
But something always happens and stops us.
Achilles in the trench before us
emerges and with loud cries terrifies us.--
Our efforts are like those of the Trojans.
We believe that with resolution and daring
we will alter the blows of destiny,
and we stand outside to do battle.
But when the great crisis comes,
our daring and our resolution vanish;
our soul is agitated, paralyzed;
and we run around the walls
seeking to save ourselves in flight.
Nevertheless, our fall is certain. Above,
on the walls, the mourning has already begun.
The memories and the sentiments of our days weep.
Bitterly Priam and Hecuba weep for us.
Constantine P. Cavafy (1905)
Although I have always read Kavafis in Spanish, I think this page provides nice translations: http://users.hol.gr/~barbanis/cavafy/. I would especially recommend to you the reading of poems like "Supplication" (1898) or "The god forsakes Antony" (1911).
:)
Thanks. I liked Trojans too, and I'm looking forward to reading more.
I've always like the Book of Hanging Gardens. Too bad I can't find them online.
For awhile now I've used as my forum signature the first stanza of Charles Bukowski's poem "Mahler" (from one of his posthumous volumes, What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire, published in 2002). Here is the complete poem.
the phone rings and somebody says,
"hey, they made a movie about
Mahler. you oughta go see it.
he was as fucked up as you are."
the phone rings again. it's
somebody else: "you ought to see
that Mahler movie. when you get high
you always talk about Mahler's music."
it's true. I like the way
Mahler wandered about in his
music and still retained his
passion.
he must have looked like an
earthquake walking down the street.
he was a gambler and he shot
the works
but I'd feel foolish
walking into a movie house.
I make my own
movies.
I am the best kind of German:
in love with the music
of a great Jew.
I really like the Mahler poem, Sarge. I'd seen your forum signature and wondered about it, but I had never tried to look it up. Thanks for posting the poem. I love the last stanza!
Quote from: DavidRoss on April 20, 2010, 07:20:01 AM
Between Harvests
Dust devils spin across the drying fields,
Raising plumes toward the heavens--
Prayers from the parched earth.
Fat, lazy bees stumble drunkenly
Through the searing air.
Man-high sunflowers heavy with seed
Droop like weary soldiers on parade,
Wilting in the mid-day sun.
And smoke from summer fires
Stacks up against the hills.
I love this poem.
Monet's Waterlilies
Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene great picture that I love.
Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.
O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.
Robert Hayden, 1970
I love this poem because it so closely echoes my own response to Monet's waterlilies when I first visited them in New York. When I went into the room that was there for the waterlilies alone (waterlilies all around, just a bench in the middle of the room) I experienced a couple of things for the first time. For the first time, I knew what it was to want to own a work of art, to possess it and control it, to the exclusion of others. I wanted that room, I wanted the only key to it, I wanted to be able to go there whenever I wanted, and to allow in only those I wished to allow in, or no one, forever. And for the first time, I experienced the ability of a visual art to transform my experience in ways that hitherto (and usually) only music could accomplish. In the presence of those paintings, I was transported not to Giverny, nor even to Monet's mind's view of Giverny, but to some supremely peaceful inner sanctum of my own soul that I had no awareness of having visited before.
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
Emily Dickinson
Quote from: secondwind on May 14, 2010, 09:31:24 AM
When I went into the room that was there for the waterlilies alone (waterlilies all around, just a bench in the middle of the room)....I wanted that room...
I understand. I want it too...better than a zen garden! I saw the Waterlilies at the Orangerie in 1972. I don't know how we lucked out but my wife and I had the room to ourselves for several minutes--the summer Parisian crowds just magically disappeared and we possessed that great art for a moment.
The poem really takes me back...1970. I was stationed on the DMZ in Korea, listening to Communist propaganda and music broadcast across the barrier from the North, always expecting cross border raids and ambushes; reading the news of home (northeastern Ohio), the Kent State shootings; and contemplating my next assignment: Vietnam. I needed that room then.
Sarge
Quote from: secondwind on May 11, 2010, 08:05:48 PM
I really like the Mahler poem, Sarge...I love the last stanza!
So do I--you do know he was born in Germany? His name at birth was Heinrich Karl Bukowski.
My favorite line is "he must have looked like an earthquake walking down the street."
Sarge
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on May 16, 2010, 04:22:07 AM
So do I--you do know he was born in Germany? His name at birth was Heinrich Karl Bukowski.
My favorite line is "he must have looked like an earthquake walking down the street."
Sarge
That is a great line! I didn't know he was born in Germany. Now you're making me wonder about his childhood, possible cultural disruptions, etc. I feel a Wikipedia feeding frenzy coming on. . .
Quote from: Ugh on May 15, 2010, 11:18:57 PM
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
Emily Dickinson
I love Emily Dickinson. Somehow, I had never seen this poem before. "a Loaded Gun" -- was she ever!
It must be a common psychological ploy when faced with the painful end of a relationship to rationalize why it went wrong, to find any excuse not to blame ourselves but in the end to simply conclude, well, we never really loved them anyway. I'd quite happily done that when my first marriage ended after five years. And then along came poet Hugo Williams to shoot a hole in my carefully constructed emotional barrier ;D
First his poem--then my counter argument.
IN THE BLINDFOLD HOURS by Hugo Williams
In the blindfold hours,
in the memory wars,
don't fool yourself it never happened,
that you never loved her.
Don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
Go to the window. Listen to the trees.
It's only air we live in.
There is nothing to be frightened of.
A CONVERSATION WITH HUGO WILLIAMS by Sergeant Rock
In the blindfold hours,
in the memory wars,
don't fool yourself it never happened,
that you never loved her... But Hugo,
if you don't, the pain confronts:
the realization that you weren't really the one,
the sensitive one to ride her amative moods,
soothing her fears, forcing her nature gently,
and accepting, accepting, her resistance with patience
while awaiting the inevitable leap,
the bloom beyond childhood legacy
into the woman you always wanted,
the woman you craved...the woman you lost.
In the fading light, through the dank late autumn leaves,
to enter the comfort of her room
--a cluttered room, where the ashes
still glow warm with memory, five roses persist,
gold droplets of Piesporter mature in crystal
and a collage, echoic, of Mahler, Marieke,
Bluebird Wine and Le Meteque is heard;
where the waft of Charlie still lingers
sensuously in the cobwebbed rafters
and The Education of Don Juan lies
on the mantle in the dust
bookmarked at that certain page--is to come
face to face with loss,
the horror of regret...if I did love her.
Better to browse with feigned disinterest,
seeking no lost treasures: no easy
laughter nor cat eyes crinkled, seducing; no summer
body, all blonde and bronzed; no unique
and feminine source, welling the sea; no chansons.
Ignore the heat, the musky scent.
Then congratulate yourself on how little you find,
how little you feel.
Afterall, you only need chilled air to breathe.
Open a window:
listen to the leaves tumbling in the wind,
feel the hint of frost, inhale the musty scent.
Sarge
Interesting dialogue of poems, Sarge. But the harder you work to argue against Hugo Williams' admonition, or against your own history of love, the more you prove them right. Love, I am convinced, is like energy--it may change form, but it cannot ever not be, it can't change from being to not being. I don't belabor the point with my husband, but every man I ever loved, I love still. And live with the pain, brokenness, and loss that you write of so well.
Yeats, 1899
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Reminds me.
When You are Old
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W. B. Yeats
Guido, Florestan. . .thanks! Those are two of my favorites!
Borges and I
The other one, Borges, is the one to whom things happen. I wander through Buenos Aires, and pause, perhaps mechanically nowadays, to gaze at an entrance archway and its metal gate; I hear about Borges via the mail, and read his name on a list of professors or in some biographical dictionary. I enjoy hourglasses, maps, eighteenth century typography, etymology, the savour of coffee and Stevenson's prose: the other shares my preferences but in a vain way that transforms them to an actor's props. It would be an exaggeration to say that our relationship is hostile; I live, I keep on living, so that Borges can weave his literature, and that literature justifies me. It's no pain to confess that certain of his pages are valid, but those pages can't save me, perhaps because good writing belongs to no one, not even the other, but only to language and tradition. For the rest, I am destined to vanish, definitively, and only some aspect of me can survive in the other. Little by little, I will yield all to him, even though his perverse habit of falsifying and exaggerating is clear to me. Spinoza understood that all things want to go on being themselves; the stone eternally wishes to be stone, and the tiger a tiger. I am forced to survive as Borges, not myself (if I am a self), yet I recognise myself less in his books than in many others, less too than in the studious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him, and passed from suburban mythologies to games of time and infinity, but now those are Borges' games and I will have to think of something new. Thus my life is a flight and I will lose all and all will belong to oblivion, or to that other.
I do not know which of us is writing this page.
By Jorge Luis Borges
Quote from: secondwind on May 18, 2010, 05:01:18 PM
Interesting dialogue of poems, Sarge. But the harder you work to argue against Hugo Williams' admonition, or against your own history of love, the more you prove them right.
You're right, of course. My poem--while seeming to disagree with Williams--actually proves him right. To lie to yourself puts you in a cold, emotionless wasteland,
perhaps less painful than accepting, and living with, the regret of lost love but wthout the consolation of memory and truth. I don't know how successful I was in suggesting that I really didn't believe my own argument: that the comfort of her abandoned but still warm room
is preferable to chilly air and frost.
Sarge
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on May 21, 2010, 03:07:31 AM
You're right, of course. My poem--while seeming to disagree with Williams--actually proves him right. To lie to yourself puts you in a cold, emotionless wasteland, perhaps less painful than accepting, and living with, the regret of lost love but wthout the consolation of memory and truth. I don't know how successful I was in suggesting that I really didn't believe my own argument: that the comfort of her abandoned but still warm room is preferable to chilly air and frost.
Sarge
Pretty successful, for me at least. The items in the cluttered room and the lost treasures are so lovingly described that it is clear that even the pain they bring is preferable to the cold numbness of emotional anesthesia.
Here's another entry in the lost love category:
An old book on the poisons
of madness, a map
of forest monasteries,
a chronicle brought across
the sea in Sanskrit slokas.
I hold all these
but you have become
a ghost for me.
I hold only your shadow
since those days I drove
your nature away.
A falcon who became a coward.
I hold you the way astronomers
draw constellations for each other
in the markets of wisdom
placing shells
on a dark blanket
saying "these
are the heavens"
calculating the movement
of the great stars Michael Ondaatje
Quote from: Sergeant Rock on May 21, 2010, 03:07:31 AM
that the comfort of her abandoned but still warm room is preferable to chilly air and frost.
I prefer the chilly air and frost- the world is much bigger out there and there is much more stuff to explore than some little room. :D
Quote from: Greg on May 21, 2010, 08:22:46 AM
I prefer the chilly air and frost- the world is much bigger out there and there is much more stuff to explore than some little room. :D
Well, when you put it that way... ;D
Sarge
Quote from: Greg on May 21, 2010, 08:22:46 AM
I prefer the chilly air and frost- the world is much bigger out there and there is much more stuff to explore than some little room. :D
Ha! Spoken like one who has not yet loved and lost! (That's okay, I think you're still young, right?) Either that or you're the most disgustingly mentally health person I've ever met!
Quote from: secondwind on May 21, 2010, 09:40:20 AM
Ha! Spoken like one who has not yet loved and lost! (That's okay, I think you're still young, right?) Either that or you're the most disgustingly mentally health person I've ever met!
Young and none of the above, I guess?... :D
This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high treetop she clung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to--
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
Browning: From "Misconceptions"
Translation from French of the Song :
Et si tu n existais pas - And if you didn't exist
http://www.youtube.com/v/abfQQ1hzN9M&feature=related
And if you didn't exist,
tell me why I would exist.
Dragging myself through a world without you,
without hope and without regret.
And if you didn't exist,
i would attempt to invent love,
like a painter who sees under his fingers
the colors of the day come to life
and who can't quite believe it.
And if you didn't exist,
tell me for whom would I exist.
The passers-by asleep in my arms,
that I will never love.
And if you didn't exist,
I wouldn't be more than a speck
in the world that comes and goes,
I would feel lost,
I would need you.
And if you didn't exist,
tell me how I would exist.
I could pretend to be me,
but I would not be true to myself.
And if you didn't exist
I think that I would have found
the secret of life, the why
simply to create you
and to look at you.
Excerpt from Ryuichi Tamura's "Every Morning After Killing Thousands of Angels"
(...)
3.
But the boy can see the angels' faces.
4.
What do you do
after you kill them?
I go out walking.
Where?
To a river with a very big bridge over it.
Every morning?
Every morning
while my hands are still bloody.
(...)
Oboe
Your lips move moist around
my double reed, and I feel
the sad wind rising
through your throat. Some child
of yours is lost. If I were your
psychiatrist, I'd listen,
nod, prescribe. Instead,
I take your breath, shape it, let it find
a passage down this wooden
shaft, curl out around the ankles
of the clarinet. The horns
have forged a monumental
fountain on the stage and now
the strings supply the water,
surging up, looping, falling in
great sobs. The audience is weeping,
but you and I have doubts.
We wind our fiber through
the latticework of their grand art,
hoping someone may hear
the muscled twist
of grief that's seasoned
in a narrow tube, the hollow
music of a long-held breath.
Conrad Hilberry
Quote from: secondwind on June 20, 2010, 06:43:36 PM
Oboe
Your lips move moist around... Conrad Hilberry
The oboe personified 8) I love it..and love this:
"The horns
have forged a monumental
fountain on the stage and now
the strings supply the water,
surging up, looping, falling in
great sobs...."
I wonder if jochanaan has read the poem.
Sarge
Glad you liked it, Sarge! Con Hilberry was one of my professors, my first year in college. He brought a lot of terrific poets to read at the college and participate in a class in contemporary poetry that I took that year. It took me awhile to discover that he was at least equal to any of the luminaries he hosted. The collection that Oboe is from is a set of poems all from the voice of some object (or in the case of Negative Space, non-object). I was delighted to see that he is still writing, at least as of 2005, the date of this collection, The Fingernail of Luck. One of the best is written from the voice of one of those electric dog collars that train dogs not to go out of the yard. (Beg me and I'll type it out and post it!) I remember him with equal parts fondness, gratitude, and respect. When a campus critic wannabe savaged my poetry in the campus newspaper after a reading I participated in, I confessed to Hilberry that I fantasized castrating the guy. His laconic response was that, although he understood my desire, he was afraid I would never be able to fulfill it because of a certain lack of that which I wished to remove. Needless to say, I've loved him ever since. Here's another music-themed poem of his, this one from the collection Player Piano, from 1999. I like it because it speaks to the peculiar magic that bonds performer to audience member and audience members to one another in an effective live performance.
Mstislav Rostropovich
Row J, Top Balcony, Hill Auditorium, Ann Arbor
Far below us, the curved walls converge
to a tiny circle of light. In it, a bald
man sits, holding a cello between his knees
as a father might hold a child.
He bows the strings simply, telling a story
we all have heard before. We did not know
each other, but everyone on the steep bank
leans together to follow
the words, the working out of the old plot.
It is as we remember it, but clearer,
everything told just as it must have happened--
the knocking on the door,
the gift of a shirt, the flowers, the dark road.
He catches the lift or falter of each voice
and lets a simile unfold like wood
smoke. The action goes
as we know it must, tangled in jealously, the bird
lost, the lovers misunderstanding. The story
pauses and plummets like water over a rock.
Silence. The cellist reaches for
a handful of high notes--ourselves in the top
balcony. He finds us right where he left us
and plays us pure and sweet as a bunch of onions
hanging from the rafters.
Conrad Hilberry
Quote from: secondwind on June 25, 2010, 07:49:29 PM
Glad you liked it, Sarge! Con Hilberry was one of my professors, my first year in college.
Kalamazoo College, I assume. I'd never heard of Conrad Hilberry. The two poems you posted are the first of his I've read. Love 'em. I found his page at the K College website. It includes a short video in which he describes the Muse handing out Green Stamps ;D
http://www.kzoo.edu/is/movies/hilberry/hilberrymov.htm
I love that metaphor. I know how hard it is to write a good poem, how much time, how much mental and emotional effort is spent agonizing over words. But every once in a while a poem just flows out of me with absolutely no effort...yes, like cashing in stamps for a free gift. My longest poem--my magnum opus ;) --came to me that way: in a three hour gush, fueled by an anniversary, good Irish whiskey and John Berryman's
Love & Fame.
QuoteI was delighted to see that he is still writing, at least as of 2005, the date of this collection, The Fingernail of Luck.
That's one of the few books still available. I'll have to order it. (Just clicked on buy at Amazon...the last copy!)
QuoteOne of the best is written from the voice of one of those electric dog collars that train dogs not to go out of the yard. (Beg me and I'll type it out and post it!)
I'm begging, I'm begging! My best friends have a German Shepherd named Mistel (German for Mistletoe) but more often called by her nickname Miststück ("bitch" in the derogatory sense, and literally "piece of crap" or manure) because she's a very willful dog who likes to get her way. My friends installed an invisible fence and Mistel always wears her electronic collar. I'm sure they'd like to read the poem too.
QuoteI remember him with equal parts fondness, gratitude, and respect. When a campus critic wannabe savaged my poetry in the campus newspaper after a reading I participated in, I confessed to Hilberry that I fantasized castrating the guy. His laconic response was that, although he understood my desire, he was afraid I would never be able to fulfill it because of a certain lack of that which I wished to remove.
;D :D ;D Great story!
Are we ever going to see some of your poetry here?
Sarge
My favourite Dutch poet is Rutger Kopland.
Here's my fave poem by him:
Zoals de pagina's van een krant
in het gras langzaam om
slaan in de wind, en het is de wind
niet, die dit doet,
zoals wanneer een deken in de avond,
buiten, ligt alsof hij ligt
te slapen, en het is de deken
niet, zo
niets is het, niets dan de verdrietige
beweging van een hand, de weerloze
houding van een lichaam,
en er is geen hand, er is
geen lichaam, terwijl ik toch
zo dichtbij ben.
Translation by James Brockway:
Like the pages of a newspaper
flapping slowly to and fro in the grass
and it is not the wind
that is doing this,
as when of an evening, a blanket,
left outdoors, lies as though it lay
asleep, and it is not the blanket,
so near it is
to being nothing, nothing but the grieving
gesture of a hand, the vulnerable
attitude of a body,
and there is no hand, there is
no body, while I, after all,
am so close.
Taken from the collection: Rutger Kopland, Memories of the Unknown. London, Harvill Press, 2001.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memories-Rutger-Kopland/dp/1860468950
Okay, Sarge, since you begged, here it is!
Electric Collar
I'm the cop you've hired
to enforce your petty ordinance.
Whenever Jessie races
toward the street beyond
the planted wire, I have to shoot
these bolts of fire
to her throat. But I love
that six-month hound. All day, I rub
the soft hairs of her neck
and she murmurs news
of everything under the leaves
and on the wind. These shocks--
as if someone made you whip
your daughter for roller-skating
in the park. I have a plan.
Tonight I'll burnish up my brass,
unwrap my arms from Jessie's neck,
and snake my way into your
jewelry box. While you're considering
an item to set off your blouse,
I'll curl my languid leather
underneath your hand.
You'll take me to your throat
a Gucci touch, discreetly
punk. Then we'll step out--
high fashion, night air cool and moist,
and the streetlight, waiting.
Conrad Hilberry
Just a little sinister, huh?
Thanks for posting the link to his webpage. I didn't even know it existed, and it was great to watch the little video clip of him talking about the green stamps, and listen to him reading Tongue--man, that hurts just to read it! Hilberry has a one-of-a-kind voice, and it was good to hear it again.
As to my poetry, well, I'm still gun-shy from the last time I trotted some of it out in public, some 37 years ago or so. We'll see. :-\
Marc, thanks for the Kopland poem, and thanks especially for the translation! I was struggling along, line by line, combining my college German and my year and a half of living in the Hague, and almost making sense of it, when I scrolled down to see the last stanza and found -- the translation! Which helped a lot. I've never read anything by Rutger Kopland. Come to think of it, I probably haven't read anything by any Dutch poet.
Quote from: secondwind on July 05, 2010, 07:52:24 PM
Okay, Sarge, since you begged, here it is!
Electric Collar...
That was
not what I expected: a collar sympathetic to the dog ;D But maybe there's psychological truth there. When we get close to someone, we tend to empathize with them. And what could be closer than a dog and his collar?
QuoteJust a little sinister, huh?
No kidding :D I don't think my friends are going to like this. They haven't replied yet but I'm pretty sure they won't see the humor...black as it is.
QuoteThanks for posting the link to his webpage. I didn't even know it existed, and it was great to watch the little video clip of him talking about the green stamps, and listen to him reading Tongue--man, that hurts just to read it! Hilberry has a one-of-a-kind voice, and it was good to hear it again.
I'm glad now I went looking for him. Isn't the web wonderful? For almost forty years I hadn't seen or heard from my best friend at university. Her trail just disappeared. Two years ago I found her biography on the web, indicating she was a character on a long-running TV show. I saw her again that day on youtube 8)
QuoteAs to my poetry, well, I'm still gun-shy from the last time I trotted some of it out in public, some 37 years ago or so. We'll see. :-\
I understand. Poetry is so personal it takes an enormous amount of courage (and not a little ego, and a pinch of self-delusion ;D ) to make it public. Hey, Emily Dickinson couldn't even do it. Whenever I feel the urge to share (thankfully, it doesn't happen often), I remember something John Berryman said:"Whenever you write anything you run the risk of making a fool of yourself." Revealing it to the public is an even greater risk.
There, I've just made it easier for you :D
Sarge
Quote from: secondwind on July 05, 2010, 07:52:24 PM
Okay, Sarge, since you begged, here it is!
Electric Collar
I received email from my friends, commenting on the poem. He wrote: "Cute poem, but not really accurate" and he preceded to give me a lecture on how the dog is trained to accept the boundaries of the invisible fence, saying the shocks are not so bad (how would he know? ;D ).
She wrote: "My immediate reaction was that it's not my style but then it kinda fascinated me. It reminds me of Die Aerzte Lied, and my sick sense of black humor likes this one!"
Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe ein, die Nacht,
die schaut zum Fenster rein.
Der runde Mond, der hat dich gerne, und es leuchten Dir die Sterne.
Schlaf mein Kleines, träume es, bald bist Du im Paradies!
Denn gleich öffnet sich die Tür, und ein Monster kommt zu dir!
Mit seinen elf Augen schaut es dich an,
und schleicht sich an dein Bettchen ran!
Du liegst still da, bewegst dich nicht,
das Monster zerkratzt dir dein Gesicht!
Seine Finger sind lang und dünn,
wehr dich nicht,s hat keinen Sinn!
Und es kichert wie verckt, als es deinen Hals zudrückt! -
Du schreist, doch Du bist allein zu Haus,
das Monster sticht dir die Augen aus!
Dann bist du still und das ist gut!
Es beit Dir in den Hals und trinkt dein Blut!
Ohne Blut bist du bleich wie Kreide,
dann frit es deine Eingeweide!
Dein kleines Bettchen, vom Blut ganz rot,
die Sonne geht auf und du bist tot!
Schlaf,mein Kindchen, schlafe jetzt ein,
am Himmel stehn die Sternelein!
Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe schnell
dein Bettchen ist ein Karussell!
Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlaf jetzt ein,
sonst kann das Monster nicht hinein!
Sarge
I enjoyed the Aerzte Lied. I remember almost enough German to appreicate how sick it is.
Visiting my mother in Florida always results in some interesting book acquisitions. At the book resale shelves of her local Cultural Center a couple of days ago, 25 cents got me a copy of the Selected Poems of Galway Kinnell. I've been wallowing in it, so here's an appropriate selection:
Saint Francis and the Sow
by Galway Kinnell
The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
Which poetry books would you recommend to me? Thanks in advance.
Anna Akhmatova
William Carlos Williams collected poetry
Quote from: MN Dave on July 24, 2012, 05:07:37 AM
Which poetry books would you recommend to me? Thanks in advance.
Robert Browning Dramatic Idylls, especially
Ivan IvanovichSee:
http://books.google.com/books?id=qiMAAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA131&lpg=PA131&dq=Robert+Browning+Ivan+Ivanovich&source=bl&ots=p9zgezWxim&sig=tFjpceMExceNH67JcJJCEdOZ8hM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=vJ8OULGBKbKN6AH0_IFg&ved=0CEAQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Robert%20Browning%20Ivan%20Ivanovich&f=false (http://books.google.com/books?id=qiMAAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA131&lpg=PA131&dq=Robert+Browning+Ivan+Ivanovich&source=bl&ots=p9zgezWxim&sig=tFjpceMExceNH67JcJJCEdOZ8hM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=vJ8OULGBKbKN6AH0_IFg&ved=0CEAQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Robert%20Browning%20Ivan%20Ivanovich&f=false)
Here are a couple of my favorites:
Mutability by Percy Bysshe Shelley
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.--A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.--One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
When I heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman
When I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
Well, and I'm a sucker for Leaves of Grass, too!
Today I downloaded a free poetry app to my iPhone and who should pop up but Walter Carlos Williams.
I like this one.
The Night City by W. S. Graham 1918–1986
Unmet at Euston in a dream
Of London under Turner's steam
Misting the iron gantries, I
Found myself running away
From Scotland into the golden city.
I ran down Gray's Inn Road and ran
Till I was under a black bridge.
This was me at nineteen
Late at night arriving between
The buildings of the City of London.
And the I (O I have fallen down)
Fell in my dream beside the Bank
Of England's wall to be, me
With my money belt of Northern ice.
I found Eliot and he said yes
And sprang into a Holmes cab.
Boswell passed me in the fog
Going to visit Whistler who
Was with John Donne who had just seen
Paul Potts shouting on Soho Green.
Midnight. I hear the moon
Light chiming on St Paul's.
The City is empty. Night
Watchmen are drinking their tea,
The Fire had burnt out.
The Plague's pits had closed
And gone into literature.
Between the big buildings
I sat like a flea crouched
In the stopped works of a watch.
Quote from: Marc on 03-07-2010, 15:21:32 (http://www.good-music-guide.com/community/index.php?topic=6213.msg425860#msg425860)
Taken from the collection: Rutger Kopland,
Memories of the Unknown. London, Harvill Press, 2001.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memories-Rutger-Kopland/dp/1860468950 (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memories-Rutger-Kopland/dp/1860468950)
My friend Willem Groenewegen is a pupil of James Brockway's and has been Kopland's translator ever since James Brockway died. Willem is still recovering from Kopland's death, three weeks ago.
Here's I reading Gregory Corso's "Feelings on Getting Older"
http://caughtinthegaze.tumblr.com/post/28808625098/gregory-corsos-feelings-on-getting-older