That is alovely poem St Lukes. Would it be possible to get the original Italian?
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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 justnow.
Their eyes are dead and their lips are limp, and their wordscan 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 stillsee my soul in dreams? - No.
Ah! those fine days of ineffable bliss when our lips werejoined! - 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 darknessalone 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!
We once posted this poem by Liselotte Raune in another topic, but since it is a good one, we will post it here too:
First in German:
Quote:
Als mein Vater
mich zum erstenmal fragte,
was ich mal werden will,
sagte ich nach kurzer Denkpause
"Ich möchte mal glücklich werden."
Sa sah mein Vater sehr unglücklich aus
aber dann bin ich
doch was anderes geworden
und alle waren mit mit zufrieden.
To translate loosely:
Quote:
When my father
asked me for the first time
what I once want to be(come),
said I after a small thinking-pause:
"I want to be happy"
Then my father looked very unhappy
but then I
still became something else
and everyone was very pleased with me
I think this is a very poignant poem. Thank you Tal. It seems a commentary on parents' expectations for their children, as well as the ability to obtain happiness as an adult.
Oh to be love
One may say it to be bliss
And if this may be this
Thier bliss be but of one tree in my forest
-Clark
I heard somebody talking about love so I am here because Love is My Reiligion. More Love Poems Dear.
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
John Milton
Beautiful Pushkin poem. Love it!
Fatima by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.
Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll'd among the tender flowers:
I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth;
I look'd athwart the burning drouth
Of that long desert to the south.
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul thro'
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a daled morning moon.
The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.
My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.
Here's a double whammy, just because it has been so long. ;)
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedi...f-portrait.jpg
April 18
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
"Metaphors,"
I'm a riddle in nine syllables.
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.
--- Sylvia Plath
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedi...erary_Life.jpg
To Those Without Pity
Cruel of heart, lay down my song.
Your reading eyes have done me wrong.
Not for you was the pen bitten,
And the mind wrung, and the song written.
Evening on Lesbos
Twice having seen your shingled heads adorable
Side by side, the onyx and the gold,
I know that I have had what I could not hold.
Twice have I entered the room, not knowing she was here.
Two agate eyes, two eyes of malachite,
Twice have been turned upon me, hard and bright.
Whereby I know my loss.
Oh, not restorable
Sweet incense, mounting in the windless night!
Both by Edna Millay.
Willie Nelson
“This looks like a December day.
This looks like a time to remember day.
And I remember a spring - such a sweet tender thing,
And love's summer college, where the green leaves of knowledge
Were waiting to fall with the fall . . .
And where September wine numbed a measure of time
Through the tears of October
Now November's over; and this looks like . . . a December day . . .
This looks like a December day, it looks like we've come to the end of the way
And as my memories race back to love's eager beginning
Reluctant to play with the thoughts of the ending - the ending that won't go away . . .
And as my memories race back to love's eager beginning
Reluctant to play with the thoughts of the ending - the ending that won't go away.
Yes, this looks like . . . a December day . . .”
http://i129.photobucket.com/albums/p...ofilesized.jpg
I hope it is not too presumptious to ask for comments on this poem I have written. Whilst it is critical I believe I have the creative right to express myself. I will not go into the personal reasons - that would be wrong.
The Bitterer the Better (for Lucien Freud).
Shuffling love rat,
Paints half naked.
Likes music hall,
And poetry.
Grand pup of
Psycho analysis:
Attention seeking,
Fleeting novelty.
Smears on canvas,
His mauve droppings.
Like make-up,
Applied badly.
Shuns publicity!?
Cards held close.
Wizened egomaniac,
Public laundry.
One trick vermin,
Boring clique:
Lucifer, fraud,
Have some warfarin with your tea.
Brilliant, I read it three times in a row.Quote:
Originally Posted by ShoutGrace
cant get it out of my head...
imagine all the thought that flowed intot his poem.
a clear masterpiece
The moon shone bright
Under a midnight sky
The moon shone bright.
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
No stars were out for a
Walk at night.
No clouds hung around to
Talk to the Earth
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
Than a bright moon at night.
The Maserati Hilton Continues On:
It almost got her again:
I call a spade a lodestar
Did you call it a day?
Tomorrow crawls into my dreams
Rome was built and remains
She was mesmerised by the horrible old hypnotysing guy - yuk!
Lucien get some style guy you is rancid
Invitations to any sort of commentary:
How depressing can you get?
Time to cheer things up
Willow Tree
I sang of the Moon to a restless willow, once.
I said “Such beauty, Willow tree, is the moon,
Don’t you see?”
Not the moon, nor beauty, did the restless willow speak, but
Only of the wind passing through her leaves.
I sang of the sky to a waking willow, once.
I sang, “Such vastness, Willow tree, the sky holds to thee,
Don’t you see?”
Yet Willow tree cared not for the sky, nor the moon,
But only of the wind passing through her leaves.
I sang of the stars to a dying willow once,
I cried “I see a star in the heavens, doth twinkle
Don’t you see?”
Not the twinkle of the heavens, the breadth of the sky,
Nor the cold of the moon sought the Willow,
But only the failing wind through her leaves.
J. R. Johnson
20th Feb
The Road Not Taken -- 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.
Today is Ash Wednesday, a Christian religious day leading to Easter Sunday. I'm always reminded on this day of a poem from T.S. Eliot named, "Ash Wednesday." It's too long to post the entire thing, but I'll post my favorite section, Part II.
You can read the entire thing here: http://www.poetry-online.org/eliot_s..._wednesday.htmQuote:
From Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been
contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff
Paula Becker 1876-1907
Clara Westhoff 1878-1954
became friends at Worpswede, an artist's colony near Bremen, Germany, summer 1899. In January 1900, spent a half-year together in Paris, where Paula painted and Clara studied sculpture with Rodin. In August they returned to Worpswede, and spent the next winter together in Berlin. In 1901, Clara married the poet Rainer Maria Rilke; soon after, Paula married the painted Otto Modersohn. She died in a hemorrhage after childbirth, murmuring, What a shame!
The autumn feels slowed down,
summer still holds on here, even the light
seems to last longer than it should
or maybe I'm using it to the thin edge.
The moon rolls in the air. I didn't want this child.
You're the only one I've told.
I want a child maybe, someday, but not now.
Otto has a calm, complacent way
of following me with his eyes, as if to say
Soon you'll have your hands full!
And yes, I will; this child will be mine
not his, the failures, if I fail
will all be mine. We're not good, Clara,
at learning to prevent these things,
and once we have a child it is ours.
But lately I feel beyond Otto or anyone.
I know now the kind of work I have to do.
It takes such energy! I have the feeling I'm
moving somewhere, patiently, impatiently,
in my loneliness. I'm looking everywhere in nature
for new forms, old forms in new places,
the planes of an antique mouth, let's say, among the leaves.
I know and do not know
what I am searching for.
Remember those months in the studio together,
you up to your strong forearms in wet clay,
I trying to make something of the strange impressions
assailing me—the Japanese
flowers and birds on silk, the drunks
sheltering in the Louvre, that river-light,
those faces...Did we know exactly
why we were there? Paris unnerved you,
you found it too much, yet you went on
with your work...and later we met there again,
both married then, and I thought you and Rilke
both seemed unnerved. I felt a kind of joylessness
between you. Of course he and I
have had our difficulties. Maybe I was jealous
of him, to begin with, taking you from me,
maybe I married Otto to fill up
my loneliness for you.
Rainer, of course, knows more than Otto knows,
he believes in women. But he feeds on us,
like all of them. His whole life, his art
is protected by women. Which of us could say that?
Which of us, Clara, hasn't had to take that leap
out beyond our being women
to save our work? or is it to save ourselves?
Marriage is lonelier than solitude.
Do you know: I was dreaming I had died
giving birth to the child.
I couldn't paint or speak or even move.
My child—I think—survived me. But what was funny
in the dream was, Rainer had written my requiem—
a long, beautiful poem, and calling me his friend.
I was your friend
but in the dream you didn't say a word.
In the dream his poem was like a letter
to someone who has no right
to be there but must be treated gently, like a guest
who comes on the wrong day. Clara, why don't I dream of you?
That photo of the two of us—I have it still,
you and I looking hard into each other
and my painting behind us. How we used to work
side by side! And how I've worked since then
trying to create according to our plan
that we'd bring, against all odds, our full power
to every subject. Hold back nothing
because we were women. Clara, our strength still lies
in the things we used to talk about:
how life and death take one another's hands,
the struggle for truth, our old pledge against guilt.
And now I feel dawn and the coming day.
I love waking in my studio, seeing my pictures
come alive in the light. Sometimes I feel
it is myself that kicks inside me,
myself I must give suck to, love...
I wish we could have done this for each other
all our lives, but we can't...
They say a pregnant woman
dreams her own death. But life and death
take one another's hands. Clara, I feel so full
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say.
Adrienne Rich
Asa is back!!!
I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.
A pantoum is a poem composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza are "promoted" to the first and third lines of the following stanza. The final stanza will often feature the first and third lines of the first stanza; thus, the last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.
Incident by Natasha Trethewey
We tell the story every year--
how we peered from the windows, shades drawn--
though nothing really happened,
the charred grass now green again.
We peered from the windows, shades drawn,
at the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,
the charred grass still green. Then
we darkened our rooms, lit the hurricane lamps.
At the cross trussed like a Christmas tree,
a few men gathered, white as angels in their gowns.
We darkened our rooms and lit hurricane lamps,
the wicks trembling in their fonts of oil.
It seemed the angels had gathered, white men in their gowns.
When they were done, they left quietly. No one came.
The wicks trembled all night in their fonts of oil;
by morning the flames had all dimmed.
When they were done, the men left quietly. No one came.
Nothing really happened.
By morning all the flames had dimmed.
We tell the story every year.
i am fat
u r a cat
by me
My english is not very good,but I like poems very much.Since I can not speak out my feelings properly, I just read your words and enlarge my knowledge about poems.It will be very helpful if any of you give me some advice of reading poems. Thanks.
I think you will find some good advice in the How to Analyze Poems thread. Here is the link:Quote:
Originally Posted by Abgail
http://www.online-literature.com/for...ad.php?t=17439
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
Cummings always shares a very distinct point of view-it might be a vision ,a dream or a fantasy.Evey line occurs so unexpected, a number of his poems feature a typographically exuberant style.As a painter Cummings understood the importance of presentation using topography to paint a picture with some of his poems.Anyway he was criticized for his lack of artistic growth.
my best poem for today is:
"To My Dear and Loving Husband"
by Anne Bradstreet
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Anne Bradstreet
Have Folded My Sorrows
by Bob Kaufman
I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night,
Assigning each brief storm its alloted space in time,
Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes.
And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game,
And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me,
And in the imaginary forest, the shingles hippo becomes the gay unicorn.
No, my traffic is not addled keepers of yesterday's disasters,
Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday's pains.
Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey.
And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights.
And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters. Still, they remain unfinished.
And yes, I have at times wished myself something different.
The tragedies are sung nightly at the funerals of the poet;
The revisited soul is wrapped in the aura of familiarity.
Why did my poem get deleted?