The Poetry Thread

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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there's a Tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

("Ode: Intimations of immortality from recollections of early childhood", William Wordsworth, 1804)
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ola small dickie
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by ola small dickie »

Într-o grădină
Lâng-o tulpină
Zării o floare, ca o lumină;

S-o tai, se strică,
S-o las, mi-e frică,
Că vine altul și mi-o rădică.


Într-o grădină
de Ienăchiță Văcărescu
Currently playing: Broken Sword 5: The Serpent's Curse
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Mahdi
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Mahdi »

tot mai adânc pe tripul ăsta cu trecutul
vedem anii '90 în halou de hașiș
și parfum bulgăresc de trandafiri
cu neoane și rujuri și cocotieri și glitch-uri
toate fuchsia în nopți cu scanlines
și bem jack daniels fals ironic
și întrebăm redacția ce să facem când gagica noastră de 13 ani
nu vrea să se fută cu noi pe holuri cu miros de motorină
de liceu industrial

#
stăm pe linux de dinainte să existe mouse
stăm pe linux morți de frig în peșteri
de dinainte să descoperim focul
stăm pe linux în cameră cu bosonul higgs
cuprins de o tulburare lăuntrică o crampă la stomac
devenind univers

pân 2030 o să fim clouds of flesh peruși criselefantini
tiviți cu moare, aur și fir de germaniu
sclavi de lux conectați opt ore la rețele neurale
vânzându-ne măduva spinării în feliuțe transparente de un tera
doar ca să ajungem acasă să ne tripăm pe nostalgie

să plătim PIB-ul cincinal al unei economii medii
pentru o seară în care să bușim în caverne cu bale la gură
o piatră de alta până face muchie ascuțită
să ne lăudăm a doua zi la colegi și prieteni
man am făcut săgeata de silex

#
și cu corticosuprarenala explodând ca un climax postrock
să fugim goi de tigri sabertooth plătiți cu lacrimile noastre
să ne vâneze să ne prindă și dacă ne prind
să ne mănânce până la căcat

încă 1000 de ani și vom deveni civilizație Kardashev tip trei
sugând în oglinzi de antimaterie mustul de fotoni
de la ciorchini întregi de stele
deveniți fiecare din smardoi energie pură
copil stelar călăuză și strajă blajină peste o galaxie
de miliarde de miliarde de sălbatici nobili
cu toată slava și toată corupția
monoliți de obsidian ca-n odiseea spațială 2
atemporali, acorporali, imanenți.

dar cine ajunge după aia acăsică
să se tolănește în foița aia lux de ceapă
în dâra noastră de scuipat?
putem în fine să fim parameci
dând din cur dând din cili excitați de moscul algelor cyano
vibrând ca o vulvă din vacuolele pulsatile
putem în fine să fim euglene
verzi de bucurie că ne putem hrăni prin fotosinteză
direct cu lumina de la soare
de la soarele lor de săraci
exact ca în vremurile bune

#
și așteptăm trecutul să vină
între umeboshi și prometazină
cariatide cu nas spart în apusul fuchsia
wow nostalgia

(nostalgia - florentin popa)
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juve3332
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by juve3332 »

Alt topic care pare sa fi prins abrupt aripi.
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Fular
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Fular »

după dezvăluire, coforumiștii noștri s-au întors într-un trecut întunecat și-au regresat la ce au fost. acum trăiesc numai cu speranța că:

Isold' ascultă și tresare:
E toată numa-nfiorare
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Iavo
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Iavo »

Arlechinul si Red Bull-ul e tot ce mai avem in lumea asta trista si pustie.

LE: Daca ne prefacem ca nu vedem cat de urat am gresit cu "e tot ce mai avem" e ca si cum nici nu s-a intamplat.
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ola small dickie
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by ola small dickie »

Currently playing: Broken Sword 5: The Serpent's Curse
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Mărar
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Mărar »

phpBB [video]


:roll:
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Fular »

Spoiler for nu Brumaru:
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Iavo
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Iavo »

You want to strike back and you can't
And you want to help but you can't
And the gun won't shoot
And the dynamite won't explode
And the wind is blowing the other way
And no one can hear you
And death is everywhere
And you're dying anyhow
And you're tired of the war
And you can't explain one more time

You can't explain anymore
And you're stuck behind your house
Like an old rusted truck
That will never haul another haul

And you're not leading your life
You're leading someone else's life
Someone you didn't know or like
And it's ending soon
And it's too late to begin again
Armed with what you know now

And all your stupid charities
Have armed the poor against you
And you're not who you wanted to be
Not remotley he or she
How am i going to get out of this
The untidy mess the untidiness
Never to be clean again or free
Soiled by gossip and publicity

And you can't explaim anymore
And you can't dig in
Because the surface is like steel
And all your fine emotions
Your subtle insights
Your famous understanding
Evaporate into stunning
(To you) irrelevance

Leonard Cohen
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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man—
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, 'Give me immortality.'
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men, who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.'

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch—if I be he that watch'd—
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East:
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground;
Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

("Tithonus" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1859)
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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue

Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
They fought all night with a cocaine rat.

She had cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red:
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes,
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.

Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray.
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad,
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad.

Lil went to a snow party one cold night,
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright.
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim.

There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid;
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet,
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat.

Along in the morning about half past three
They were all lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started for bed,
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead.

They laid her out in her cocaine clothes:
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose;
On her headstone you’ll find this refrain:
She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine.

(anonima; "culeasa" de Wystan Hugh Auden, publicata in 1938)
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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

(William Butler Yeats, 1899)
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Fular
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Fular »

Victor Vlad Delamarina - Ăl mai tare om din lume

Trîmbiț, dobe, larmă, chihot,
Fluier, strîgăt, rîs și ropot...
Șie să fie ? Șie să fie?
Iacă-n tîrg, "minajărie"!
O "comegie" d-a cu fiară
Și-mprejur lumie șî țară.

În căletcă, o măimucă
Baș ca omu mînca nucă;
Alta, blăstămată, șoadă,
Șă țînea numa' în coadă
Ș-alcele, mînca-le-ar focu!
Nu-ș găsau o clipă locu.

Lupi, urși, mîtă, oi, cornuce,
Fel dă fel dă joavini sluce;
Chițorani, ariși și vulturi,
Dă prîn lume, dîn țînuturi
D-elea gîbe, d-elea rele,
Feri-mă, Doamne, dă iele!

Mulce-am văz't, pă bani, viedz bine.
Cum nu vege ori șî șine.
D'apăi l-am văzut anume
P-"ăl măi tare om dîn lume",
Care să juca cu leii
Si-i băcea dă-i lua tăti zmeii!

Cui l-o doborî-n tărînă
Ișia că-i plăceșce-n mînă
O hîrcie d-a d-o sută
Fără dă niși o dispută.
Dar cum mi ce puni cu neamtu,
Care-n ghinț îț rupe lantu?

Să loviau fișiorii-n coace:
"Șiine-i? Unge-i? Care poace?"
Cînd d-odată, - iacă-amaru!
Sandu Blegia, - tăbăcaru,
Să sufulcă șî tușeșce,
Lfngă "comegianț" să-opreșce.

Să rîgea neamțu dă Sandu,!
Dară Sandu, fișiorandu,
Mi-l cuprinsă dă subsoară
Șî nu să lăsă cu "doară"!
Strînjie-l! Sușie-l! Zî-i pă nume!
Ãlui mai tare dîn lume!

Gîfăia neamtu a sîlă,
Dar lu Blegia nu-i fu milă,
Hopa-țupa, țupa-hopa!
Ș-o găsît nemțoniu popa!
"Þîne-l! lasă-l! Ia-l dă mînă!
Zdup cu neamțu în țărînă!

"Bravo ! - Sandu să trăiască !"
Dar cînd fu să îi plăcească,
Ișie neamțu : "Abăr, frace...
Nu să pringe că-i pă space!"
Vrea : că-i pungă și că-i ceacă.
Suta zuitată s-o-facă!

"Nu ce joși cu mine, dragă!
"Asta, viedz, în cap ț-o bagă!
"N-ascult vorbe io șî glume,
"Cind mi-s io mai tare-n lume!
"Ș-adă suta !" Ișie Blegia, '
"Că dă nu - 'ț fac prau comegia!!!"
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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

(Robert Frost, 1922)
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Harley Quinn
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Harley Quinn »

''I copied out and gave her the two translations from Cavafy which had pleased her though they were by no means literal. By now the Cavafy canon has been established by the fine thoughtful translations of Mavrogordato and in a sense the poet has been freed for other poets to experiment with; I have tried to transplant rather than translate — with what success I cannot say.


THE CITY

You tell yourself: I’ll be gone
To some other land, some other sea,
To a city lovelier far than this
Could ever have been or hoped to be —
Where every step now tightens the noose:
A heart in a body buried and out of use:
How long, how long must I be here
Confined among these dreary purlieus
Of the common mind? Wherever now I look
Black ruins of my life rise into view.
So many years have I been here
Spending and squandering, and nothing gained.
There's no new land, my friend, no
New sea; for the city will follow you,
In the same streets you’ll wander endlessly,
The same mental suburbs slip from youth to age,
In the same house go white at last —
The city is a cage.
No other places, always this
Your earthly landfall, and no ship exists
To take you from yourself. Ah! don’t you see
Just as you’ve ruined your life in this
One plot of ground you’ve ruined its worth
Everywhere now — over the whole earth?


THE GOD ABANDONS ANTONY

When suddenly at darker midnight heard,
The invisible company passing, the clear voices,
Ravishing music of invisible choirs —
Your fortunes having failed you now,
Hopes gone aground, a lifetime of desires
Turned into smoke. Ah! do not agonize
At what is past deceiving
But like a man long since prepared
With courage say your last good-byes
To Alexandria as she is leaving.
Do not be tricked and never say
It was a dream or that your ears misled,
Leave cowards their entreaties and complaints,
Let all such useless hopes as these be shed,
And like a man long since prepared,
Deliberately, with pride, with resignation
Befitting you and worthy of such a city
Turn to the open window and look down
To drink past all deceiving
Your last dark rapture from the mystical throng
And say farewell, farewell to Alexandria leaving.''


From Justine, the first volume in The Alexandria Quartet tetralogy by Lawrence Durrell
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joonior_bmf
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

"Ill hath he chosen his part who seeks to please
The worthless world, — ill hath he chosen his part,
For often must he wear the look of ease
When grief is in his heart ;
And often in his hours of happier feeling
With sorrow must his countenance be hung,
And ever his own better thoughts concealing,
Must he in stupid grandeur's praise be loud,
And to the errors of the ignorant crowd
Assent with lying tongue.
Thus much would I conceal that none should know
What secret cause I have for silent woe;
And, taught by many a melancholy proof
That those whom fortune favors it pollutes,
I, from the blind and faithless world aloof,
Nor fear its envy, nor desire its praise,
But choose my path through solitary ways."

(Michelangelo Buonarroti, "Madrigal LIX", tradus de Robert Southey)
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Iavo
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Joined: 8 Apr 2016, 11:17

Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by Iavo »

A soldier’s always well,
He’ll do as he’s compelled
Like rugs are beaten in the sun,
We raise the dust as we press on.

There is no time for slowing,
The pace is blistering,
Our faces - always glowing,
Our boots are glistening!

A slow and steady tempo-
Across the burning plain –
The great Army Group Centre
Is marching through Ukraine

Before us all is blooming,
Behind us – flames and dust.
No need to think – it’s booming -
The voice controlling us.

We’re cheerful, full of glee,
We’ll win and afterwards
The fair-haired girls will be
Our well-deserved rewards!

They’ll greet us, oh so tender,
For now, though, we maintain–
The great Army Group Centre
Is marching through Ukraine.


"This song was written by Vladimir Vysotsky about German soldiers advancing through Ukraine during WW2."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cstbuMZYt4
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joonior_bmf
Gravity e un film misto
Posts: 6539
Joined: 3 Mar 2014, 18:32
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

Leda and the swan

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

(William Butler Yeats, 1923)
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joonior_bmf
Gravity e un film misto
Posts: 6539
Joined: 3 Mar 2014, 18:32
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Re: The Poetry Thread

Post by joonior_bmf »

Ulysses and the Siren

Siren: COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me:
The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.
Here may we sit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,
And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses: Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,
Then would I come and rest me there,
And leave such toils as these.
But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth:
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.

Siren: Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name;
This honour is a thing conceived,
And rests on others' fame:
Begotten only to molest
Our peace, and to beguile
The best thing of our life—our rest,
And give us up to toil.

Ulysses: Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
No honour nor report,
Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport:
For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much
As labour yields annoy.

Siren: Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil,
Which you forgo to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversely
Find never tedious day,
And ease may have variety
As well as action may.

Ulysses: But natures of the noblest frame
These toils and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same
As much as you in ease;
And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:
When Pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Siren: That doth Opinion only cause
That 's out of Custom bred,
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever Nature did.
No widows wail for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses: But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest:
And these great Spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best:
To purge the mischiefs that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well changed for war.

Siren: Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here:
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won, that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not won;
For beauty hath created been
T' undo, or be undone.

(Samuel Daniel, 1605)
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