Poem of the Day

I am in love with him
To whom a hyacinth is dearer
Than I shall ever be dear.

On nights when the field-mice
Are abroad, he cannot sleep.
He hears their narrow teeth
At the bulbs of his hyacinths.

But the gnawing at my heart he does not hear.


----- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl

It also brings to mind the Sistine Chapel, with the fusion of God and Adam's fingertips creating a point of light, or if you are of a more pop culture bent, ET and the boy touching fingertips.:p

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I love these references :)

We should have this one as Poem of the Week maybe! :D

I'm game for it. . . I love this poem.

ShoutGrace, how clever of you to find the Millay Hyacinth poem! :D

LXX

My woman says there's no one she would rather wed

Than me, not even if asked by Jove himself.

Says - but what a woman says to an eager lover

One should write on the wind or the running water.

- Catullus ( c. 84 B.C. - c. 54 B.C. )

Translation from the Latin by Guy Lee

If only I could force
some fragment of your ecstasy
into this clumsy music of mine;
had I the talent to match your voices
with my stammering speech-
I who once dreamed of acquiring
those salt-sea words of yours
where nature fuses with art-
and with your vast language proclaim the sadness
of an aging boy who shouldn't have learned to think.
But moldy disctionary words
are all I have, and that voice of mystery
dictated by love grows faint,
turns literary, elegaic.
All I have are these words
that, like public women,
offer themselves to any takers;
all I have are these cliches
which student rabble might tomorrow steal
in real poetry.
And your booming grows, and the blue
of the fresh shadow widens.
My thoughts fail; they leave me.
I have no sense, no senses. No limit.

Eugenio Montale
from "Mediterranean" from the book Cuttlefish Bones
translated by William Arrowsmith

I just recently came across this poem while re-reading Montale... perhaps my favorite 20th century Italian writer after Calvino (and definitely my favorite poet). I am struck with the manner in which the poet (great as he is) feels himself to be something of a failure... impotent... in the face of the Mediterranean... and one gets the feeling that within this concept of the Mediterreanean, Montale is thinking of his great poetic precursors... especially Dante.

That is alovely poem St Lukes. Would it be possible to get the original Italian?

Potessi almeno costringere
in questo mio ritmo stento
qualche poco del tuo vanneggiamento;
dato mi mi fosse accordare
alle tue voci il mio balbo parlare: -
io che sognava rapirti
le salmastre parole
in cui natura ed arte si confondono,
per gridar meglio la mia malinconia
di fanciullo invecchiato che non doveva pensare.
Ed invece non ho che le lettere fruste
dei dizionari, e l'oscura
voce che amore detta s'affioca,
si fa lamentaosa letteratura.
Non ho che queste parole
che come donne pubblicate
s'offrono a chi le richiede;
non ho che queste frasi stancate
che potranno rubarmi anche domani
gli studenti canaglie in versi veri.
Ed il tuo rombo cresce, e si dilata
azzurra l'ombra nuova.
M'abbandonano a prova i miei pensieri.
Sensi non ho; sé senso. Non ho limite.

Nice. It's been awhile since I've picked up my Montale, and what a poem! Thanks, slg.

Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

---Alfred Tennyson

Welcome to the forums GothMan, that's a timeless and stirring poem from the Victorian Poet Laureate.

Sentimental Dialogue

In the lonely, frozen old park, two figures passed by just

now.

Their eyes are dead and their lips are limp, and their words

can hardly be heard.

In the lonely, frozen old park, two spectres evoked the past.

- Do you remember our old rapture?
- Why on earth should I remember that?

- Does your heart still beat at my very name? Do you still

see my soul in dreams? - No.

Ah! those fine days of ineffable bliss when our lips were

joined! - It may have been so.

- How blue the sky was, how great was hope!

- Hope has fled, defeated, towards the black sky.

Thus they walked among the wild oats, and the darkness

alone heard their words.

- Paul Verlaine ( 1844 - 1896 )

Translation from the French by William Rees

To tell the truth I haven't read this one from Verlaine yet (especially in English... ;) ) but it's really a gem! Thanks for sharing! :thumbs_up

Hello GothMan, I'm glad you liked the poem. The title and subject of the piece could have fallen into mush with lesser hands, but Verlaine's talent makes it timelessly resonating.

I first read the poem from an anthology of great French poets from France's greatest poetical period. It includes all of the great poets of the era and a lot of lesser-known but talented ones. One of it's attributes is that the originals are placed alongside the translations. An essential collection and an enriching read.

Here's a link of the book from Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Penguin-Book-F...e=UTF8&s=books

mm. i like it a lot.

I love the French poetry from this period, especially Verlaine and Rimbaud. Great poem!