board77

The Last Homely Site on the Web

Favorite poems

Post Reply   Page 3 of 3  [ 56 posts ]
Jump to page « 1 2 3
Author Message
Nin
Post subject:
Posted: Thu 31 Mar , 2005 12:28 pm
Per aspera ad astra
Offline
 
Posts: 3388
Joined: Thu 28 Oct , 2004 6:53 am
Location: Zu Hause
 
Semprini - et pourquoi pas en français??? I am not the only one who reads French in here...

After the comments I read here, I skipped through my entire poetry thread on TORC - but no comment by T.E.D.... so what does that mean: that they were bad beyond hope or that they escaped your eagle eye?

_________________

Nichts Schöneres unter der Sonne als unter der Sonne zu sein.
(Ingeborg Bachmann)


Top
Profile Quote
eborr
Post subject:
Posted: Thu 31 Mar , 2005 12:59 pm
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 1105
Joined: Mon 28 Feb , 2005 7:07 pm
Location: Member barely active
 
My favourite Pied Beauty has already gone, of the War poets, Sassoon, Owen and Robert Graves, I prefer Owne, I could have chosen one of a number, I like this one because of the way it ends, it just reads so dam well.

Wilfred Owen
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 our 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 disappointed shells that dropped 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 floundering 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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.


Top
Profile Quote
Impenitent
Post subject:
Posted: Thu 31 Mar , 2005 1:46 pm
Try to stay perky
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 2677
Joined: Wed 29 Dec , 2004 10:54 am
 
By sheer accident, as I opened this thread my mouse hit the scroll bar and I saw Ethel's post first of all - Auden's Funeral Blues.

:Q

Precisely the poem I intended to posted here. It has been echoing in my head and my heart these last 4 months.

There are a couple of others but I'm sure I don't have the words entirely straight - I will have to check before I post them.

_________________

[ img ]

"Believe me, every heart has its secret sorrows, which the world knows not;
and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad." ~Robert C. Savage


Top
Profile Quote
Semprini
Post subject:
Posted: Fri 01 Apr , 2005 10:26 am
Offline
 
Posts: 156
Joined: Wed 23 Feb , 2005 4:54 pm
 
OK, for those who read French, here's Baudelaire's Le Voyage in French (I love in particular the last part):

I


Pour l'enfant, amoureux de cartes et d'estampes,
L'univers est égal à son vaste appétit.
Ah ! que le monde est grand à la clarté des lampes !
Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit !

Un matin nous partons, le cerveau plein de flamme,
Le coeur gros de rancune et de désirs amers,
Et nous allons, suivant le rythme de la lame,
Berçant notre infini sur le fini des mers :

Les uns, joyeux de fuir une patrie infâme ;
D'autres, l'horreur de leurs berceaux, et quelques-uns,
Astrologues noyés dans les yeux d'une femme,
La Circé tyrannique aux dangereux parfums.

Pour n'être pas changés en bêtes, ils s'enivrent
D'espace et de lumière et de cieux embrasés ;
La glace qui les mord, les soleils qui les cuivrent,
Effacent lentement la marque des baisers.

Mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-là seuls qui partent
Pour partir ; coeurs légers, semblables aux ballons,
De leur fatalité jamais ils ne s'écartent,
Et sans savoir pourquoi, disent toujours : Allons !

Ceux-là, dont les désirs ont la forme des nues,
Et qui rêvent, ainsi qu'un conscrit le canon,
De vastes voluptés, changeantes, inconnues,
Et dont l'esprit humain n'a jamais su le nom !

II


Nous imitons, horreur ! la toupie et la boule
Dans leur valse et leurs bonds ; même dans nos sommeils
La Curiosité nous tourmente et nous roule,
Comme un Ange cruel qui fouette des soleils.

Singulière fortune où le but se déplace,
Et, n'étant nulle part, peut être n'importe où !
Où l'Homme, dont jamais l'espérance n'est lasse,
Pour trouver le repos court toujours comme un fou !

Notre âme est un trois-mâts cherchant son Icarie ;
Une voix retentit sur le pont : « Ouvre l'oeil ! »
Une voix de la hune, ardente et folle, crie :
« Amour... gloire... bonheur ! » Enfer ! c'est un écueil !

Chaque îlot signalé par l'homme de vigie
Est un Eldorado promis par le Destin ;
L'Imagination qui dresse son orgie
Ne trouve qu'un récif aux clartés du matin.

Ô le pauvre amoureux des pays chimériques !
Faut-il le mettre aux fers, le jeter à la mer,
Ce matelot ivrogne, inventeur d'Amériques
Dont le mirage rend le gouffre plus amer ?

Tel le vieux vagabond, piétinant dans la boue,
Rêve, le nez en l'air, de brillants paradis ;
Son oeil ensorcelé découvre une Capoue
Partout où la chandelle illumine un taudis.

III


Étonnants voyageurs ! quelles nobles histoires
Nous lisons dans vos yeux profonds comme les mers !
Montrez-nous les écrins de vos riches mémoires,
Ces bijoux merveilleux, faits d'astres et d'éthers.

Nous voulons voyager sans vapeur et sans voile !
Faites, pour égayer l'ennui de nos prisons,
Passer sur nos esprits, tendus comme une toile,
Vos souvenirs avec leurs cadres d'horizons.

Dites, qu'avez-vous vu ?


IV


« Nous avons vu des astres
Et des flots ; nous avons vu des sables aussi ;
Et, malgré bien des chocs et d'imprévus désastres,
Nous nous sommes souvent ennuyés, comme ici.

La gloire du soleil sur la mer violette,
La gloire des cités dans le soleil couchant,
Allumaient dans nos coeurs une ardeur inquiète
De plonger dans un ciel au reflet alléchant.

Les plus riches cités, les plus beaux paysages,
Jamais ne contenaient l'attrait mystérieux
De ceux que le hasard fait avec les nuages.
Et toujours le désir nous rendait soucieux !

- La jouissance ajoute au désir de la force.
Désir, vieil arbre à qui le plaisir sert d'engrais,
Cependant que grossit et durcit ton écorce,
Tes branches veulent voir le soleil de plus près !

Grandiras-tu toujours, grand arbre plus vivace
Que le cyprès ? - Pourtant nous avons, avec soin,
Cueilli quelques croquis pour votre album vorace,
Frères qui trouvez beau tout ce qui vient de loin !

Nous avons salué des idoles à trompe ;
Des trônes constellés de joyaux lumineux ;
Des palais ouvragés dont la féerique pompe
Serait pour vos banquiers un rêve ruineux ;

Des costumes qui sont pour les yeux une ivresse ;
Des femmes dont les dents et les ongles sont teints,
Et des jongleurs savants que le serpent caresse. »

V


Et puis, et puis encore ?


VI


« Ô cerveaux enfantins !


Pour ne pas oublier la chose capitale,
Nous avons vu partout, et sans l'avoir cherché,
Du haut jusques en bas de l'échelle fatale,
Le spectacle ennuyeux de l'immortel péché :

La femme, esclave vile, orgueilleuse et stupide,
Sans rire s'adorant et s'aimant sans dégoût ;
L'homme, tyran goulu, paillard, dur et cupide,
Esclave de l'esclave et ruisseau dans l'égout ;

Le bourreau qui jouit, le martyr qui sanglote ;
La fête qu'assaisonne et parfume le sang ;
Le poison du pouvoir énervant le despote,
Et le peuple amoureux du fouet abrutissant ;

Plusieurs religions semblables à la nôtre,
Toutes escaladant le ciel ; la Sainteté,
Comme en un lit de plume un délicat se vautre,
Dans les clous et le crin cherchant la volupté ;

L'Humanité bavarde, ivre de son génie,
Et, folle maintenant comme elle était jadis,
Criant à Dieu, dans sa furibonde agonie :
"Ô mon semblable, ô mon maître, je te maudis !"

Et les moins sots, hardis amants de la Démence,
Fuyant le grand troupeau parqué par le Destin,
Et se réfugiant dans l'opium immense !
- Tel est du globe entier l'éternel bulletin. »

VII


Amer savoir, celui qu'on tire du voyage !
Le monde, monotone et petit, aujourd'hui,
Hier, demain, toujours, nous fait voir notre image :
Une oasis d'horreur dans un désert d'ennui !

Faut-il partir ? rester ? Si tu peux rester, reste ;
Pars, s'il le faut. L'un court, et l'autre se tapit
Pour tromper l'ennemi vigilant et funeste,
Le Temps ! Il est, hélas ! des coureurs sans répit,

Comme le Juif errant et comme les apôtres,
À qui rien ne suffit, ni wagon ni vaisseau,
Pour fuir ce rétiaire infâme : il en est d'autres
Qui savent le tuer sans quitter leur berceau.

Lorsque enfin il mettra le pied sur notre échine,
Nous pourrons espérer et crier : En avant !
De même qu'autrefois nous partions pour la Chine,
Les yeux fixés au large et les cheveux au vent,

Nous nous embarquerons sur la mer des Ténèbres
Avec le coeur joyeux d'un jeune passager.
Entendez-vous ces voix, charmantes et funèbres,
Qui chantent : « Par ici ! vous qui voulez manger

Le Lotus parfumé ! c'est ici qu'on vendange
Les fruits miraculeux dont votre coeur a faim ;
Venez vous enivrer de la douceur étrange
De cette après-midi qui n'a jamais de fin ! »

À l'accent familier nous devinons le spectre ;
Nos Pylades là-bas tendent leurs bras vers nous.
« Pour rafraîchir ton coeur nage vers ton Électre ! »
Dit celle dont jadis nous baisions les genoux.

VIII


Ô Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps ! levons l'ancre !
Ce pays nous ennuie, ô Mort ! Appareillons !
Si le ciel et la mer sont noirs comme de l'encre,
Nos coeurs que tu connais sont remplis de rayons !

Verse-nous ton poison pour qu'il nous réconforte !
Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau,
Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe ?
Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau !


Top
Profile Quote
Queen_Beruthiel
Post subject:
Posted: Fri 01 Apr , 2005 6:51 pm
Offline
 
Posts: 90
Joined: Thu 10 Mar , 2005 12:35 pm
 
Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved
.

----------------------------------------------------
And I love Shelle's political poems. This one makes me want to man the barricades and string the ruling class up on lamp-posts.

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -- nay, drink your blood?


Top
Profile Quote
Amrunelen
Post subject:
Posted: Sat 02 Apr , 2005 4:03 am
wencherific
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 4401
Joined: Sun 27 Mar , 2005 4:26 pm
Location: been here before, going in circles!
 
Tennyson, anyone?

The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

_________________

[ img ]

"Morning has broken and I have felt a presence that disturbs
me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of
something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the
light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air,
and the blue sky, and in the mind of man; a motion and a
spirit, that impels." -Wordsworth


Top
Profile Quote
Andri
Post subject:
Posted: Sat 02 Apr , 2005 11:38 am
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 255
Joined: Tue 01 Feb , 2005 7:23 pm
Location: running after my kids
 
My contribution to the list is a poem by Constantinos Cavafys, an early 20th century Greek poet.

This is not one of his best known works but it's one of my favourites.

It's a pity I cannot share it with you in its original language because, no matter how good the translation is, there is always something lacking.

The Afternoon Sun
(Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

This room, how well I know it.
Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it,
As offices. The whole house has become
An office building for agents, buisinessmen, companies.

This room, how familiar it is.

The couch was here, near the door,
A Turkish carpet in front of it.
Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right – no, opposite – a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle the table where he wrote,
And the three big wicker chairs.
Beside the window the bed
Where we made love so many times.

They must still be around somewhere, those old things.

Beside the window the bed;
The afternoon sun used to touch half of it.

… One afternoon we separated
For a week only… And then –
That week became forever.


Top
Profile Quote
Northerner
Post subject:
Posted: Sun 03 Apr , 2005 2:23 pm
Queen of the Tundra
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 157
Joined: Mon 14 Mar , 2005 11:13 pm
 
Wishing that my French were better.

Anyone familiar with Edna St. Vincent Millay?

Renascence

ALL I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And -- sure enough! -- I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious thrust,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire, --
Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight! Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more, -- there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who's six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!
Before the wild wind's whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain's cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, --
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --
I know not how such things can be! --
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e'er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, --
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat -- the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

_________________

[ img ]


Top
Profile Quote
Mummpizz
Post subject:
Posted: Mon 04 Apr , 2005 1:20 pm
Gloriosus
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 1805
Joined: Wed 08 Dec , 2004 11:10 am
Location: history (repeats itself)
Contact: Website
 
Ich hatte einst ein schönes Vaterland.
Der Lindenbaum
Wuchs dort so hoch, die Blumen nickten sanft.
Es war ein Traum.

Dort küsst' man mich auf deutsch, und sprach auf deutsch
(Du glaubst es kaum
Wie gut es klang) "Ich liebe dich"
Es war ein Traum.


Heinrich Heine

(posted for the n-th time on TORC and here and even here)

_________________

– – –


Top
Profile Quote
Nin
Post subject:
Posted: Wed 06 Apr , 2005 11:05 am
Per aspera ad astra
Offline
 
Posts: 3388
Joined: Thu 28 Oct , 2004 6:53 am
Location: Zu Hause
 
Mummpizz......

Sie saßen und tranken am Teetisch
Und sprachen von Liebe viel.
Die Herren, die waren ästhetisch,
Die Damen von zartem Gefühl.
"Die Liebe muß sein platonisch",
Der dürre Hofrat sprach.
Die Hofrätin lächelt ironisch,
Und dennoch seufzet sie: "Ach!"
Der Domherr öffnet den Mund weit:
"Die Liebe sei nicht zu roh,
Sie schadet sonst der Gesundheit."
Das Fräulein lispelt: "Wieso?"
Die Gräfin spricht wehmütig:
"Die Liebe ist eine Passion!"
Und präsentierte gütig
Die Tasse dem Herrn Baron.
Am Tische war noch ein Plätzchen;
Mein Liebchen, da hast du gefehlt.
Du hättest so hübsch, mein Schätzchen,
Von deiner Liebe erzählt

_________________

Nichts Schöneres unter der Sonne als unter der Sonne zu sein.
(Ingeborg Bachmann)


Top
Profile Quote
Pippin4242
Post subject:
Posted: Wed 06 Apr , 2005 3:37 pm
Hasta la victoria, siempre
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 3978
Joined: Sun 13 Mar , 2005 7:49 pm
Location: Outer Heaven
 
I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen,
Of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were,
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen:
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago,
And people who will see a world
That I shall never know.

And while I think
Of times that have come before,
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door.


*~Pips~*

_________________

Avatar is a male me, drawn by a very close friend. Just don't ask why.


Top
Profile Quote
jeanelf
Post subject:
Posted: Tue 28 Jun , 2005 1:50 am
Offline
 
Posts: 222
Joined: Mon 27 Jun , 2005 10:41 pm
Location: Chicago, Illinois
 
Here are my three favorite poems. They really speak to me, personally and perhaps will also speak to you: Poem #1:


The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.


~ Mary Oliver ~


Top
Profile Quote
jeanelf
Post subject:
Posted: Tue 28 Jun , 2005 1:51 am
Offline
 
Posts: 222
Joined: Mon 27 Jun , 2005 10:41 pm
Location: Chicago, Illinois
 
Poem #2:

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


Derek Walcott


Top
Profile Quote
Erinhue
Post subject:
Posted: Tue 05 Jul , 2005 8:01 pm
Iluvatar's Bright Spirit
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 131
Joined: Wed 18 May , 2005 1:19 am
Location: Left of Ground Zero
 
I have always liked the work of Kahlil Gibran but I find myself drawn to his writing more and more these days. My favorite has always been

A Tear And A Smile

I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart for the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes to flow from my every part turn into laughter. I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.

A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding of life's secrets and hidden things. A smile to draw me high to the sons of my kind and to be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.
A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; a smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.

I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I lived weary and despairing.
I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the depths of my spirit, for I have seen those who are satisfied the most wretched of people. I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.

With evening's coming the flower folds her petals and sleeps, embracing her longing. At morning's approach she opens her lips to meet the sun's kiss.
The life of a flower is longing and fulfillment. A tear and a smile.

The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come together and are a cloud.
And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping to the fields and joins with the brooks and rivers to return to the sea, its home.
The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile.

And so does the spirit become separated from the greater spirit to move in the world of matter and pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow and the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death and return whence it came.
To the ocean of Love and Beauty --- to God.

_________________

You would know the secret of Death?
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life. For Life and Death are one even as the river and the sea are one.


Top
Profile Quote
Estel
Post subject:
Posted: Fri 02 Jun , 2006 2:07 am
Pure Kitsch Flavor
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 5159
Joined: Wed 27 Oct , 2004 6:47 pm
Location: London
 
I loved the poem "Rachels Song" which Guy Gavriel Kay published in one of his books.
      • Love, do you remember
        My name? I was lost
        In summer turned winter
        Made bitter by frost.
        And when June comes December
        The heart pays the cost.

        The breaking of waves upon a long shore,
        In the grey morning the slow fall of rain,
        And stone lies over.

        You'll bury your sorrow
        Deep in the sea,
        But sea tides aren't tamed
        That easily--
        There will come a tomorrow
        When you weep for me

        The breaking of waves on a long shore,
        In the grey morning the slow fall of rain,
        Oh love remember, remember me.


Top
Profile Quote
BrianIsSmilingAtYou
Post subject:
Posted: Wed 12 Jul , 2006 3:22 am
User avatar
Offline
 
Posts: 1225
Joined: Wed 21 Sep , 2005 2:38 am
Location: Philadelphia
 
Dindraug wrote:
Hiawatha; a poem, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I won't post the whole lot here but look at ]http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/toc/moden ... nHiaw.html

This one means a lot to me. We did a dramatic production of this in school and it was the most amazing thing. Basically we copied the National Theatre interpritation of Ted Hughe's version of it, which considering the cast were 14-18 year old comprehensive school kids form Cheshire, well it was awesome.

Anyway, the into goes as follows, you should try reading the whole thing because it is stunning, as an adventure, as a tale, and all of that. Very sad in places though ;)
Quote:
Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?


I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."


Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!
Just thought I'd add a note to this.

Hiawatha is based on the Finnish Kalevala, which was the also source that Tolkien used for much of his inspiration of the Tale of Turin Turambar.

http://encyclopedia.quickseek.com/index.php/Kalevala

BrianIs :) AtYou

_________________

[ img ]

My niece, Humera, under a pumpkin leaf!


Top
Profile Quote
Display: Sort by: Direction:
Post Reply   Page 3 of 3  [ 56 posts ]
Return to “Literary Rambles: There & Back Again...” | Jump to page « 1 2 3
Jump to: