SilentLucidity and I had the idea of starting a thread about poetry. Now, considering my art thread was a grandiose failure I do not expect too much response here either, but I still think we could at least try sharing our favourite poems. A basic rule: No song lyrics. I know the words of "Hallowed Be Thy Name" are poetic and a great lyrical feat, but still, we're talking about poems, not songs. You can post any poem you like, old or new, in whatever language, but please try to find an English translation so we all can enjoy (or try to, given lyrics are hard to translate) them. I will start off with a dark masterpiece by Paul Celan: Death Fugue. I have found two different translations of the poem, one very conventional which simply translates the poem into English, and another very interesting one which I thought is worth reading. I will post the 'normal' English translation first, then the 'strange' one, and then the German original (which, in my opinion, is far superior to the translations, but that is the case with any work of poetry as far as I'm concerned): Death Fugue Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night we drink it and drink it we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete he writes it ans steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave he commands us strike up for the dance Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at sundown we drink and we drink you A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play he grabs at teh iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue jab deper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown we drink and we drink you a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into air then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in the air He plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamith Deathfugue Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night we drink and we drink we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling, he whistles his hounds to come close he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground he commands us to play up for the dance. Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening we drink and we drink A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta Your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped He shouts jab the earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are so blue jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening we drink and we drink a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margareta your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays his vipers He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from Deutschland he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise then as smoke to the sky you'll have a grave then in the clouds there you won't lie too cramped Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Shulamith Todesfuge Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts wir trinken und trinken wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith A few notes: This is a German standard, meaning it is also read in school, and certainly one of the most famous post-war poems. I will not say anything about the content, however, it should be noted to those not familiar with musical terminology, that a fugue is An imitative polyphonic composition in which a theme or themes are stated successively in all of the voices of the contrapuntal structure. Paul Celan was a Romanian Jew who was a victim of the nazis. After the war he lived in Paris, where he commited suicide in 1970. It must be noted that his mother tongues were Hebrew and German and he wrote all of his works in German (to my knowledge; I know for a fact "Death Fugue" was originally written in German).
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Afternoons by Philip Larkin Summer is fading: The leaves fall in ones and twos From trees bordering The new recreation ground. In the hollows of afternoons Young mothers assemble At swing and sandpit Setting free their children. Behind them, at intervals, Stand husbands in skilled trades, An estateful of washing, And the albums, lettered Our Wedding, lying Near the television: Before them, the wind Is ruining their courting-places That are still courting-places (But the lovers are all in school), And their children, so intent on Finding more unripe acorns, Expect to be taken home. Their beauty has thickened. Something is pushing them To the side of their own lives. War Photographer by Carol Ann Duffy I can't find a transcript of this poem but when I do, i'll edit this [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/wink.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"wink.gif\" /] All of these poems I am studying for my GCSE in English Literature and the way we scrutinise and "drag the arse out of" each of them takes away from their brilliance. Don't take the piss out of me for taking poetry from school btw ::
[!--quoteo(post=129380:date=Feb 20 2006, 10:55 PM:name=Conor)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Conor @ Feb 20 2006, 10:55 PM) [snapback]129380[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]Don't take the piss out of me for taking poetry from school btw :: [/quote] Why should anybody? School poems are usually the best [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/smile.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"smile.gif\" /]
The Albatross by Charles Baudelaire Often, to amuse themselves, the crew of the ship Would fell an albatross, the largest of sea birds, Indolent companions of their trip As they slide across the deep sea's bitters. Scarcely had they dropped to the plank Than these blue kings, maladroit and ashamed Let their great white wings sink Like an oar dragging under the water's plane. The winged visitor, so awkward and weak! So recently beautiful, now comic and ugly! One sailor grinds a pipe into his beak, Another, limping, mimics the infirm bird that once could fly. The poet is like the prince of the clouds Who haunts the storm and laughs at lightning. He's exiled to the ground and its hooting crowds; His giant wings prevent him from walking. Original poem L' Albatros Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers, Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage, Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers. A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches, Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux, Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux. Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule! Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid! L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule, L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait! Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
Here's another "school poem." And this one even has some loose connection to Iron Maiden... Ozymandias by Percy Bysse Shelly I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed, And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. "Face in the Sand" anyone?
[!--quoteo(post=129408:date=Feb 21 2006, 12:34 PM:name=macunaima)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(macunaima @ Feb 21 2006, 12:34 PM) [snapback]129408[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] "Face in the Sand" anyone? [/quote] I can't see the relationship to be honest. The song is more about a metaphorical level where society puts it's face in the sand when there is a problem... It is much easier to avoid the spotlight of the media and hope the problem resolves itself. I think this poem is talking about sand in a more literal sense but maybe you could enlighten my philistinical mind as to what this is about? [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /]
The Alaskan There once was a man from Alas Whose parts were constructed of brass. When they knocked together They made stormy weather And lightning shot out of his ass. Look out Tennyson!
Emily Dickinson 77 I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation A flying attitude! I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars Only to fail again! 125 For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ration To the ecstasy. For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years -- Bitter contested farthings -- And Coffers heaped with Tears!
First, I have to apologize, Perun. I wanted to post in your art thread but I was too lazy to search for art pictures on internet. Now if ever I can get out of my laziness, I promise I'll revive the thread. Now here's the first part of Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias / Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Meijas by Federico Garcia Lorca. He wrote it in memory of his friend who was a bullfighter and who was wounded during a corrida and died soon after. The Goring and the Death At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A basketful of lime in readiness at five in the afternoon. Beyond that, death and death alone at five in the afternoon. The wind carried off wisps of cotton at five in the afternoon. And oxide dispersed glass and nickel at five in the afternoon. Dove locked in struggle with leopard at five in the afternoon. A thigh with a horn of desolation at five in the afternoon. The bass strings began to throb at five in the afternoon The bells of arsenic, the smoke at five in the afternoon. At street corners silence clustering at five in the afternoon. Only the bull with upbeat heart at five in the afternoon. When snow-cold sweat began to form at five in the afternoon, when iodine had overspread the ring at five in the afternoon death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. At exactly five in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels is the bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes resound in his ear at five in the afternoon. The bull was bellowing in his face at five in the afternoon. Death pangs turned the room iridescent at five in the afternoon. In the distance gangrene on the way at five in the afternoon. Lily-trumpet in the verdant groin at five in the afternoon . The wounds burned with the heat of suns at five in the afternoon, and the throng burst through the windows at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Horrifying five in the afternoon! The stroke of five on every clock. The dark of five in the afternoon. La cogida y la muerte A las cinco de la tarde. Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde. Un niño trajo la blanca sábana a las cinco de la tarde. Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida a las cinco de la tarde. Lo demás era muerte y sólo muerte a las cinco de la tarde. El viento se llevó los algodones a las cinco de la tarde. Y el óxido sembró cristal y níquel a las cinco de la tarde. Ya luchan la paloma y el leopardo a las cinco de la tarde. Y un muslo con un asta desolada a las cinco de la tarde. Comenzaron los sones del bordón a las cinco de la tarde. Las campanas de arsénico y el humo a las cinco de la tarde. En las esquinas grupos de silencio a las cinco de la tarde. ¡Y el toro solo corazón arriba! a las cinco de la tarde. Cuando el sudor de nieve fué llegando a las cinco de la tarde, cuando la plaza se cubrió de yodo a las cinco de la tarde, la muerte puso huevos en la herida a las cinco de la tarde. A las cinco de la tarde. A las cinco en punto de la tarde. Un ataúd con ruedas es la cama a las cinco de la tarde. Huesos y flautas suenan en su oído a las cinco de la tarde. El toro ya mugía por su frente a las cinco de la tarde. El cuarto se irisaba de agonía a las cinco de la tarde. A lo lejos ya viene la gangrena a las cinco de la tarde. Trompa de lirio por las verdes ingles a las cinco de la tarde. Las heridas quemaban como soles a la cinco de la tarde, y el gentío rompía las ventanas a la cinco de la tarde. A las cinco de la tarde. ¡Ay qué terribles cinco de la tarde! ¡Eran las cinco en todos los relojes! ¡Eran las cinco en sombra de la tarde! I couldn't write it all because it's a very long poem in four parts but if you like it you'll find the whole poem here in Spanish, English and French. You'll notice that the poem is illustrated with paintings. They're part of the serie 69 imagenes sobre el poema "Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Meijas" de Federico Garcia Lorca by August Puig who transformed Lorca's word into abstract images. You can see the 69 paintings there
[!--quoteo(post=129441:date=Feb 21 2006, 11:24 PM:name=syl)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(syl @ Feb 21 2006, 11:24 PM) [snapback]129441[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]He wrote it in memory of his friend who was a bullfighter and who was wounded during a corrida and died soon after. there [/quote] Sorry if I'm being off-topic, but I have no sympathy whatsoever for bullfighters. [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/sleep.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"sleep.gif\" /]
This is one I get somewhat sentimental about... it's from Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. That was the first book I remember being confronted with, and I remember my father reading it to me at bed-time when I must have been between three and five years old. I believe this is my fondest childhood memory. The Law Of The Jungle Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter -- go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle -- the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear. And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair. When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken -- it may be fair words shall prevail. When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again. If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away. Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man! If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide. The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies. The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will; But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill. Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same. Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same. Cave-Right is the right of the Father -- to hunt by himself for his own: He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone. Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law. Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they; But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is -- Obey!
Walter de la Mare The Window Behind the blinds I sit and watch The people passing - passing by; And not a single one can see My tiny watching eye. They cannot see my little room, All yellowed with the shaded sun; They do not even know I'm here; Nor'll guess when I am gone. EDIT: Whoever said emo was a new phenomenon...
[!--quoteo(post=129410:date=Feb 21 2006, 08:26 AM:name=Conor)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Conor @ Feb 21 2006, 08:26 AM) [snapback]129410[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] I can't see the relationship to be honest. The song is more about a metaphorical level where society puts it's face in the sand when there is a problem... It is much easier to avoid the spotlight of the media and hope the problem resolves itself. I think this poem is talking about sand in a more literal sense but maybe you could enlighten my philistinical mind as to what this is about? [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /] [/quote] Well, you're right that (on one level) the poem is literally about a face in the sand whereas the song is metaphorical. But, of course, great literature always has many levels. On another level, the face is the sand is symbolic or allegorical for the impernanence of political power, empires and civilization. Ozymandias was a great King whose domains extended as far as one could see...now all that is left of his great empire is the face from his statute half-buried in the sand. I think this is one of the main themes of 'Face in the Sand.' I'm not suggesting that Bruce was thinking about this poem when he wrote the lyrics -- he may not even know about the poem for all I know (though I think that is rather unlikely) -- but they are thematically related, and they rely upon the same image to convey their message.
[!--quoteo(post=129513:date=Feb 22 2006, 03:26 PM:name=macunaima)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(macunaima @ Feb 22 2006, 03:26 PM) [snapback]129513[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] Ozymandias was a great King whose domains extended as far as one could see...now all that is left of his great empire is the face from his statute half-buried in the sand. I think this is one of the main themes of 'Face in the Sand.' I'm not suggesting that Bruce was thinking about this poem when he wrote the lyrics -- he may not even know about the poem for all I know (though I think that is rather unlikely) -- but they are thematically related, and they rely upon the same image to convey their message. [/quote] I think what that poem and the song are trying to tell us is that people always shirk responsibility... that King dude must have neglected his duties as all that is left of his domain is a lifeless statue. Now for a poem outside of the realm of school: The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred. I like the galloping rhythm in this poem and it is reminiscint of a bunch of troopers going off in a hopeless persuit. You can really hear the gallop of the horses and I think the song has a similar quality [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /]
[!--quoteo(post=129516:date=Feb 22 2006, 12:19 PM:name=Conor)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Conor @ Feb 22 2006, 12:19 PM) [snapback]129516[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] I think what that poem and the song are trying to tell us is that people always shirk responsibility... that King dude must have neglected his duties as all that is left of his domain is a lifeless statue. [/quote] You may be right about the song, but I think you're reading that into the poem. You may be right that the only thing that could explain a civilization passing into oblivion is some leader shirking his responsibilities, but there is nothing in the poem to suggest such a thing. In fact, since there is no indication whatsover about what the cause of Ozymandias' fate was, I'm inclined to think that Shelly is trying to convey the utter necessity of it.
[!--quoteo(post=130115:date=Mar 1 2006, 11:58 AM:name=SilentLucidity)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(SilentLucidity @ Mar 1 2006, 11:58 AM) [snapback]130115[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] Has anyone ever wondered why topics like this go on and on, while a poetry thread is bound to die? [/quote] Because 3/4 of the population are stupid (the last quarter too, but they aren't so numerous! [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/tongue.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"tongue.gif\" /] )
[!--quoteo--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE[/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]Now for a poem outside of the realm of school: The Charge of the Light Brigade[/quote] One of the few I know almost by heart. Here we go for another one: The Thousandth Man Rudyard Kipling One man in a thousand, Solomon says, Will stick more close than a brother. And it's worth while seeking him half your days If you find him before the other. Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend On what the world sees in you, But the Thousandth man will stand your friend With the whole round world agin you. 'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show Will settle the finding for 'ee. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go By your looks, or your acts, or your glory. But if he finds you and you find him. The rest of the world don't matter; For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim With you in any water. You can use his purse with no more talk Than he uses yours for his spendings, And laugh and meet in your daily walk As though there had been no lendings. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call For silver and gold in their dealings; But the Thousandth Man h's worth 'em all, Because you can show him your feelings. His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right, In season or out of season. Stand up and back it in all men's sight -- With that for your only reason! Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide The shame or mocking or laughter, But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side To the gallows-foot -- and after! Similar theme, but more epic (not such a good translation, but the best I found): The Pledge Friedrich Schiller To Dionysius, the tyrant, would sneak Damon, concealing a dagger; He’s slapped by the guards in a fetter. “What would you do with that dagger, speak!” Demands the despot, his visage bleak. “I would free the state from a tyrant!” “For that, on the cross be repentant.” “I am,” he replies, “ready to die And do not beseech you to spare me, But if you would show me mercy, I ask you to let three days go by, ’Til my sister her marriage bonds may tie, I’ll leave you my friend, in bondage, If I flee, his life is hostage.” The King then smiles with malice in his face, And speaks after thinking just briefly: “Three days I’ll give for your journey. But beware! If you’ve used up your days of grace, Before you’ve returned to me from that place, Then he must to death be committed, But your sentence will be remitted.” And he comes to his friend: “The King bids, that I Must pay by crucifixion For my wrongful act of passion, But he will let three days go by, ’Til my sister her marriage bonds may tie, So stay as my pledge, ’til I hasten Back to you, your bonds to unfasten.” And the true friend embraces him silently And goes to the tyrant in submission, The other goes hence on his mission. And before the sun rises upon the third day, He quickly gives his sister in marriage away, Hurries home, with anxious spirit, That he stay not beyond the time limit. Then the rain comes pouring down endlessly, From the mountains the springs are rushing, And the brooks and the streams are gushing. To the bank with his wanderer’s staff comes he, As the whirlpool is tearing the bridge away, And the waves now break with a thunder The arch of the vault asunder. And hopeless he wanders the shore’s dark sand, As widely as he scouts and gazes And as loud as the cries he raises, Here no boat puts out from safety’s strand, Which brings him across to the wished-for land, No skipper mans his station, And the wild stream swells to an ocean. Then he sinks on the shore and prays and cries, His hands up to Zeus extended: “O let the storm’s wrath be ended! The hours are hastening, at midday lies The sun, and if it leaves the skies, And I cannot reach the city, Then my friend must die without pity.” But renewed, the rage of the storm does grow, And wave upon wave goes racing, And hour after hour is chasing. His courage he seizes, his fear makes him go And headlong he dives in the thundering flow And cleaves, in a powerful fashion, The flood, and a god has compassion. And he wins the bank and runs from the flood And thanks to the god he expresses, When a band of robbers then presses From out a nocturnal spot in the wood, His pathway blocking, and snorts for his blood And holds up the wanderer’s speeding With threatening cudgels impeding. “What do you want?” he cries, pale with fear, “I’ve naught but my life to render, Which I to the king must surrender!” And he grabs the club from the one most near: “For the sake of my friend be merciful here!” And three, with a powerful beating He slays, the others retreating. And the sun glows hot as a burning brand, And from all of the pains of his mission He sinks to his knees in exhaustion. “O you’ve saved me with mercy from robbers’ hand, From out of the stream to the sacred land, And shall I here languishing perish, And my friend die for me, whom I cherish!” And hark! there it purls silver-clear, Quite close, like a rippling it rushes, And to listen, he halts and hushes, And see, from the rock ledge, now babbling near, An ebullient fountain springs murmuring here, And he joyfully kneels down and washes And his burning limbs refreshes. And the sunlight slants through the verdant trees And paints on the glistening meadows The forest’s gigantic shadows; And two wanderers walking the road he sees, He would hasten along as past them he flees, Then he hears the words they are saying: “Now him on the cross they are slaying.” And now fear gives wings to his hastening gait, Pangs of grief are him pursuing, And i’th’ shimmering red o’th’ evening, Distant Syracuse’ towers await, And here Philostratus comes from its gate, The household’s honest keeper, Who with horror perceives his master: “Go back! It’s too late to save your friend, So save your own life, for the future! Even now to death does he suffer. Your return he awaited for hours on end, To you his hopeful soul did bend, With a faith too strong and valiant To be robbed by the scorn of the tyrant.” “And is it too late, and can I not lend Him the hand of a welcome savior, Then in death I’ll join him forever. Let the bloody tyrant’s boasting end, That the friend has broken his word to his friend, Let him slaughter us two together And believe in love and honor.” And the sun now descends, by the gate he stands nigh And sees the cross elevated, Which the gaping crowd has awaited, On the rope already his friend’s lifted high, Through the thick of the throng he goes charging by: “Me, hangman! Kill me!” he’s crying, “I’m the one, for whom he is dying!” And amazement seizes the people all round, The two friends give each other embraces, Tears of sorrow and joy wet their faces. No eye without tears is there to be found, And the wonderful tale to the king is then bound, Humanely his feelings are shaken, To his throne are they quickly then taken. And long he regards them with wondering eye, Then he speaks: “You have prospered, My heart you now have conquered, And true faith, ’tis no empty vanity, So into your friendship’s bond take me, I would, if allowed my intention, Become the third in your union.” Original: Die Bürgschaft Friedrich Schiller Zu Dionys, dem Tyrannen, schlich Damon, den Dolch im Gewande: Ihn schlugen die Häscher in Bande, "Was wolltest du mit dem Dolche? sprich!" Entgegnet ihm finster der Wüterich. "Die Stadt vom Tyrannen befreien!" "Das sollst du am Kreuze bereuen." "Ich bin", spricht jener, "zu sterben bereit Und bitte nicht um mein Leben: Doch willst du Gnade mir geben, Ich flehe dich um drei Tage Zeit, Bis ich die Schwester dem Gatten gefreit; Ich lasse den Freund dir als Bürgen, Ihn magst du, entrinn' ich, erwürgen." Da lächelt der König mit arger List Und spricht nach kurzem Bedenken: "Drei Tage will ich dir schenken; Doch wisse, wenn sie verstrichen, die Frist, Eh' du zurück mir gegeben bist, So muß er statt deiner erblassen, Doch dir ist die Strafe erlassen." Und er kommt zum Freunde: "Der König gebeut, Daß ich am Kreuz mit dem Leben Bezahle das frevelnde Streben. Doch will er mir gönnen drei Tage Zeit, Bis ich die Schwester dem Gatten gefreit; So bleib du dem König zum Pfande, Bis ich komme zu lösen die Bande." Und schweigend umarmt ihn der treue Freund Und liefert sich aus dem Tyrannen; Der andere ziehet von dannen. Und ehe das dritte Morgenrot scheint, Hat er schnell mit dem Gatten die Schwester vereint, Eilt heim mit sorgender Seele, Damit er die Frist nicht verfehle. Da gießt unendlicher Regen herab, Von den Bergen stürzen die Quellen, Und die Bäche, die Ströme schwellen. Und er kommt ans Ufer mit wanderndem Stab, Da reißet die Brücke der Strudel herab, Und donnernd sprengen die Wogen Dem Gewölbes krachenden Bogen. Und trostlos irrt er an Ufers Rand: Wie weit er auch spähet und blicket Und die Stimme, die rufende, schicket. Da stößet kein Nachen vom sichern Strand, Der ihn setze an das gewünschte Land, Kein Schiffer lenket die Fähre, Und der wilde Strom wird zum Meere. Da sinkt er ans Ufer und weint und fleht, Die Hände zum Zeus erhoben: »O hemme des Stromes Toben! Es eilen die Stunden, im Mittag steht Die Sonne, und wenn sie niedergeht Und ich kann die Stadt nicht erreichen, So muß der Freund mir erbleichen." Doch wachsend erneut sich des Stromes Wut, Und Welle auf Welle zerrinnet, Und Stunde an Stunde ertrinnet. Da treibt ihn die Angst, da faßt er sich Mut Und wirft sich hinein in die brausende Flut Und teilt mit gewaltigen Armen Den Strom, und ein Gott hat Erbarmen. Und gewinnt das Ufer und eilet fort Und danket dem rettenden Gotte; Da stürzet die raubende Rotte Hervor aus des Waldes nächtlichem Ort, Den Pfad ihm sperrend, und schnaubert Mord Und hemmet des Wanderers Eile Mit drohend geschwungener Keule. "Was wollt ihr?" ruft er vor Schrecken bleich, "Ich habe nichts als mein Leben, Das muß ich dem Könige geben!" Und entreißt die Keule dem nächsten gleich: "Um des Freundes willen erbarmet euch!" Und drei mit gewaltigen Streichen Erlegt er, die andern entweichen. Und die Sonne versendet glühenden Brand, Und von der unendlichen Mühe Ermattet sinken die Kniee. "O hast du mich gnädig aus Räubershand, Aus dem Strom mich gerettet ans heilige Land, Und soll hier verschmachtend verderben, Und der Freund mir, der liebende, sterben!" Und horch! da sprudelt es silberhell, Ganz nahe, wie rieselndes Rauschen, Und stille hält er, zu lauschen; Und sieh, aus dem Felsen, geschwätzig, schnell, Springt murmelnd hervor ein lebendiger Quell, Und freudig bückt er sich nieder Und erfrischet die brennenden Glieder. Und die Sonne blickt durch der Zweige Grün Und malt auf den glänzenden Matten Der Bäume gigantische Schatten; Und zwei Wanderer sieht er die Straße ziehn, Will eilenden Laufes vorüber fliehn, Da hört er die Worte sie sagen: "Jetzt wird er ans Kreuz geschlagen." Und die Angst beflügelt den eilenden Fuß, Ihn jagen der Sorge Qualen; Da schimmern in Abendrots Strahlen Von ferne die Zinnen von Syrakus, Und entgegen kommt ihm Philostratus, Des Hauses redlicher Hüter, Der erkennet entsetzt den Gebieter: "Zurück! du rettest den Freund nicht mehr, So rette das eigene Leben! Den Tod erleidet er eben. Von Stunde zu Stunde gewartet' er Mit hoffender Seele der Wiederkehr, Ihm konnte den mutigen Glauben Der Hohn des Tyrannen nicht rauben." "Und ist es zu spät, und kann ich ihm nicht, Ein Retter, willkommen erscheinen, So soll mich der Tod ihm vereinen. Des rühme der blut'ge Tyrann sich nicht, Daß der Freund dem Freunde gebrochen die Pflicht, Er schlachte der Opfer zweie Und glaube an Liebe und Treue!" Und die Sonne geht unter, da steht er am Tor, Und sieht das Kreuz schon erhöhet, Das die Menge gaffend umstehet; An dem Seile schon zieht man den Freund empor, Da zertrennt er gewaltig den dichter Chor: "Mich, Henker", ruft er, "erwürget! Da bin ich, für den er gebürget!" Und Erstaunen ergreifet das Volk umher, In den Armen liegen sich beide Und weinen vor Schmerzen und Freude. Da sieht man kein Augen tränenleer, Und zum Könige bringt man die Wundermär'; Der fühlt ein menschliches Rühren, Läßt schnell vor den Thron sie führen, Und blicket sie lange verwundert an. Drauf spricht er: "Es ist euch gelungen, Ihr habt das Herz mir bezwungen; Und die Treue, sie ist doch kein leerer Wahn - So nehmet auch mich zum Genossen an: Ich sei, gewährt mir die Bitte, In eurem Bunde der dritte!"
[!--quoteo(post=130117:date=Mar 1 2006, 12:05 PM:name=Maverick)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Maverick @ Mar 1 2006, 12:05 PM) [snapback]130117[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]Because 3/4 of the population are stupid[/quote]Yes, I was thinking I'd change my nick to SilentStupidity... apoteos by Gunnar Ekelöf ge mig gift att dö eller drömmar att leva askesen skall sluta snart i månens portar som solen redan välsignat och fastän oförmälda med verkligheten skall den dödes drömmar sluta beklaga sitt öde fader åt din himmel återlämnar jag mitt öga som en blå droppe i havet den svarta världen böjer sig inte mer för palmer och psalmsång men tusenåriga vindar kammar trädenas utslagna hår källor släcker den osynlige vandrarens törst fyra väderstreck står tomma omkring båren och änglarnas musslin förvandlas genom ett trollslag till intet apotheosis give me poison so I can die or dreams so I can live asceticism will end soon at the gates of the moon that were already blessed by the sun and although unwedded by reality, the dreams of the dead shall cease to pity their fate father I revert my eye to your heaven like a blue drop in the ocean the black world no longer bows before palms and psalm singing but thousand-year-old winds comb the leafy hair of the trees springs quench the invisible wanderer's thirst four cardinal points stand empty around the coffin and the angels' muslin is transformed as if by magic into nothing Gunnar Ekelöf (1907-1968) was an outstanding Swedish modernist poet. He lost his beloved father at an early age and had a complicated relationship with his mother. He studied Oriental languages, translated Rimbaud, only to later distance himself from the French genius. His later works are influenced by T. S. Eliot but then Ekelöf distanced himself from Eliot as well. He is known for using many references and quotes, be it from the Bible, philosophy, history and Oriental cultures. He is considered a "difficult" poet.
[!--quoteo(post=130119:date=Mar 1 2006, 11:58 AM:name=Perun)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Perun @ Mar 1 2006, 11:58 AM) [snapback]130119[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--] One of the few I know almost by heart. Here we go for another one: The Thousandth Man Rudyard Kipling ... Similar theme, but more epic (not such a good translation, but the best I found): [/quote] The same theme as the Charge of the Light Brigade? Are you sure Per? I think this poem is just about friendship and has little to do with British soldiers galloping into a suicide mission on horseback with the wind in their tangled manes... [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /]