My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
Ah, we were thinking of the same one. It's worth noting that his brother, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_James , wrote some of the most lyrical philosophy and psychology works of the late 19th century.
As measured by lines remembered, I suppose that Yeats has to top the list. In no particular other order, Eliot, Ransom, Wyatt, Hardy, J.V. Cunningham, Bunting.
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulph between;
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd.)
The slippery verge her feet beguil'd;
She tumbled headlong in.
Omar Khayyam is wonderful. I have the first stanza of the Rubaiyat painted and framed in khatam style.
This quatrain makes me think Khayyam was a HN reader:
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
I want to do to you , what the spring does to the cherry trees.
Here's another one
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
How he is able construct such powerful verse out of simple words and concepts always blows me away. Though it looks easy I've never seen a good imitation of his style.
Then there's this poem by Phillip Larkin that I like.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Shakespeare's sonnets are good.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Classical poetry is just really hardcore when you consider how hard it is to write within the constraints of rhyme , meter and the chosen form. It's definitely in the hacker spirit of doing things like the JS1K contest , or maybe crazy assembly optimised demos.
"I want to do to you , what the spring does to the cherry trees." I've never seen that in english, so I looked it up (http://albalearning.com/audiolibros/neruda/poema14-sp-en.htm...) I guess it goes without saying, but english really doesn't do him justice, rhyming trees with kisses is pretty poor compared to cerizos and besos which is perfect rhyme. But I suppose poetry is about the most difficult thing to translate b/c of the many levels from phonetical to subtle contextual and semantical differences that are all overlayed and compacted into a few small verses. I certainly wouldn't want to / couldn't translate it.
In english I just nerd out on the old the stuff and for some reason never really got into anything newer... I like chaucer, spencer, milton, shakespeare, plus just reading through all those in the original is so cool after a couple pages you slip into another world and time, nice escapism.
> rhyming trees with kisses is pretty poor compared to cerizos and besos which is perfect rhyme
I read the spanish version from the link you posted and, although I don't speak spanish, it doesn't look like there is any other rhyme at all in the whole poem. Am I right? Do you think that this was intentional - does it mean something in spanish/latin american poetry?
No there's rhyming all over the place in this one, just not always on the end of the line. But first and second stanzas, in the 4th just take for example:
"Pasan huyendo los pájaros. El viento. El viento"
huyendo rhymes with viento, pasan alliterates with pajaros, and the "l" en los and "o" in pajaros fits very nicely with the "l" and "o" in the repition of "el viento".
In english you see the translator trying to get it somewhat with birds and by :
Since letters in Spanish have only one sound, '-izos' and '-esos' cannot be made to rhyme without distorting the pronunciation of one of the words. I don't see how that makes 'perfect' rhyme.
I would like to become more "cultured" and just aware of more words, forming sentences, communicating, and have more to call on for expressing my feelings.
What is the best way to get into poetry more? Read a couple a day or something? I would actually really like to read Shakespeare, but most seem to be of the mind that you really need a class or something to really get the translation.
well, if you want to get into the older stuff like shakespeare I would suggest just diving in. At first, just lookup the words you dont know and after maybe one play you should have already learned enough to understand his style and language and "get" his works on their face value.
as far as literary references go - aka john milton - (basically the only reason you'd need a class), I really think you'd just have to read/know most of the greek/roman classics and the bible to be able to get most of them. But no worries, if you enjoy reading the classics are a blast, the hebrew old testament is packed with pretty cool stories (the mad king Nebuchadnezzer) and it doesn't get much better than the iliad and odyssey.
I read Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency before ever coming across Coleridge's Kubla Khan and spent quite a bit of time (this was before I was on the Internet) trying to find the rest of the poem. I was quite disappointed once I figured things out but on the plus side I understood what happened in the book afterwards.
I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER’S ICE CREAM STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:
Among English poems, I rather like this one by Laurie Lee:
A golden fish like a pint of wine
Rolls the sea undergreen,
Glassily balanced on the tide
Only the skin between.
Fish and water lean together,
Separate and one,
Till a fatal flash of the instant sun
Lazily corkscrews down.
Did fish and water drink each other?
The reed leans there alone;
As we, who once drank each other's breath,
Have emptied the air, and gone.
And of course W.H. Auden:
...I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Plumb
Dormeau adanc sicriele de plumb,
Si flori de plumb si funerar vesmant -
Stam singur in cavou ... si era vant ...
Si scartaiau coroanele de plumb.
Dormea intors amorul meu de plumb
Pe flori de plumb, si-am inceput sa-l strig -
Stam singur langa mort ... si era frig ...
Si-i atarnau aripile de plumb.
Lead
The coffins of lead were lying sound asleep,
And the lead flowers and the funeral clothes -
I stood alone in the vault ... and there was wind ...
And the wreaths of lead creaked.
Upturned my lead beloved lay asleep
On the lead flower ... and I began to call -
I stood alone by the corpse ... and it was cold ...
And the wings of lead drooped.
Translating poems is pretty hard. That was an ok translation. It doesn't quite sound quite right.
Richard Wilbur has done exquisite translations, like this one...
Everness, Jorge Luis Borges
One thing does not exist: Oblivion.
God saves the metal and he saves the dross,
And his prophetic memory guards from loss
The moons to come, and those of evenings gone.
Everything is: the shadows in the glass
Which, in between the day’s two twilights, you
Have scattered by the thousands, or shall strew
Henceforward in the mirrors that you pass.
And everything is part of that diverse
Crystalline memory, the universe;
Whoever through its endless mazes wanders
Hears door on door click shut behind his stride,
And only from the sunset’s farther side
Shall view at last the Archetypes and the Splendors.
Glad people still read poetry!
Surprised no one's mentioned Byron yet:
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing a far,—and at his iron feet
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done.
For on this morn three potent nations meet,
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
Tempt me no more, for I
Have known the lightning's hour,
The poet's inward pride,
The certainty of power.
And, of course being a Scot, Robert Burns:
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
and:
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!—
Let us do or die!
[Apologies for the bloodthirsty nature of Scots Wha Hae - but I was taught this stuff from an early age and it kind of stuck even though it's describing events of 700 years ago.]
Edit:
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
But gin the auld fowks' tales are richt
An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht,
O freend o' freends! what wad I gie
To feel ye rax yer hand to me
Atween the dark an' caun'le licht?
Awa in France, across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave,
An' you an' me their lowe hae seen--
Ye'11 mebbe hae yer Hallowe'en
Yont, whaur ye're lyin' wi' the lave.
A few mentions of Hopkins in this thread, but too few examples.
So, Heaven Haven:
I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail,
And a few lilies blow.
And I have asked to be
Where no storms come,
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
And out of the swing of the sea.
And then: "The Habit of Perfection":
ELECTED Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and be
The music that I care to hear.
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
It is the shut, the curfew sent
From there where all surrenders come
Which only makes you eloquent.
Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
And find the uncreated light:
This ruck and reel which you remark
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
The can must be so sweet, the crust
So fresh that come in fasts divine!
Nostrils, your careless breath that spend
Upon the stir and keep of pride,
What relish shall the censers send
Along the sanctuary side!
O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet
That want the yield of plushy sward,
But you shall walk the golden street
And you unhouse and house the Lord.
And, Poverty, be thou the bride
And now the marriage feast begun,
And lily-coloured clothes provide
Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.
here’s a toast to Alan Turing
born in harsher, darker times
who thought outside the container
and loved outside the lines
and so the code-breaker was broken
and we’re sorry
yes now the s-word has been spoken
the official conscience woken
– very carefully scripted but at least it’s not encrypted –
and the story does suggest
a part 2 to the Turing Test:
1. can machines behave like humans?
2. can we?”
― Matt Harvey
For me it's Sir John Betjeman. Very English of course. But...
A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
and puffs at his pitiful life
She's losing her looks very fast,
she loses her temper all day;
that lorry won't let me get past,
this Mini is blocking my way.
"Why can't you step on it and shift her!
I can't go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
Thank heavens we don't have to kiss.
"I'd like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won't argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.
"You're barmy or plastered, I'll pass you, you bastard-
I will overtake you. I will!"
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner's accepting its kill.
Don’t Play it Safe
Don’t stand idle
at the side of the road
don’t hold off on happiness
don’t love with half a heart
don’t play it safe now
or ever
don’t play it safe
don’t fill up with calm
don’t take cover from the world
in a quiet corner
don’t let your eyelids come down
like a weighty sentence
don’t forget you have lips
don’t sleep but to rest
don’t ignore the blood in your veins
don’t think you have no time
but if
in any case
you can’t help it
and hold off on happiness
and love with half a heart
and play it safe now
and fill up with calm
and take cover from the world
in a quiet corner
and let your eyelids come down
like a weighty sentence
and dry up without lips
and sleep not to rest
and ignore the blood in your veins
and think you have no time
and stand idle
at the side of the road
and play it safe
in that case
don’t hold on to me.
366 comments
[ 2.9 ms ] story [ 300 ms ] thread"...I loved them, my children, my wife, my home;
I loved them as poets love the poetry
that kills them, as drowned sailors the sea."
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177932
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Walcott
"The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome..."
http://www.poemhunter.com/dylan-thomas/
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
But also Neruda:
--
Thomas Gray
http://www.potw.org/archive/potw90.html https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_GrayThis quatrain makes me think Khayyam was a HN reader:
Then there's this poem by Phillip Larkin that I like.
Shakespeare's sonnets are good. Classical poetry is just really hardcore when you consider how hard it is to write within the constraints of rhyme , meter and the chosen form. It's definitely in the hacker spirit of doing things like the JS1K contest , or maybe crazy assembly optimised demos.Also checkout Charles Bukowski and Coleridge.
Genius.com is a wonderful way to read poetry.
But yea, in spanish my favorites are Neruda and Borges (see: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generaci%C3%B3n_del_45). I found this link which has a lot of other good poets IMHO for instance ruben dario or mario benedetti (http://www.cubaeuropa.com/cubarte/poesia/PoesiaLatinoamerica...).
In english I just nerd out on the old the stuff and for some reason never really got into anything newer... I like chaucer, spencer, milton, shakespeare, plus just reading through all those in the original is so cool after a couple pages you slip into another world and time, nice escapism.
I read the spanish version from the link you posted and, although I don't speak spanish, it doesn't look like there is any other rhyme at all in the whole poem. Am I right? Do you think that this was intentional - does it mean something in spanish/latin american poetry?
"Pasan huyendo los pájaros. El viento. El viento"
huyendo rhymes with viento, pasan alliterates with pajaros, and the "l" en los and "o" in pajaros fits very nicely with the "l" and "o" in the repition of "el viento".
In english you see the translator trying to get it somewhat with birds and by :
"The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind."
Since letters in Spanish have only one sound, '-izos' and '-esos' cannot be made to rhyme without distorting the pronunciation of one of the words. I don't see how that makes 'perfect' rhyme.
What is the best way to get into poetry more? Read a couple a day or something? I would actually really like to read Shakespeare, but most seem to be of the mind that you really need a class or something to really get the translation.
as far as literary references go - aka john milton - (basically the only reason you'd need a class), I really think you'd just have to read/know most of the greek/roman classics and the bible to be able to get most of them. But no worries, if you enjoy reading the classics are a blast, the hebrew old testament is packed with pretty cool stories (the mad king Nebuchadnezzer) and it doesn't get much better than the iliad and odyssey.
Also, I'm surprised to see nobody here recommending A.E. Houseman. His Reveille is my favorite poem:
... Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying: Hear the drums of morning play; Hark, the empty highways crying 'Who'll beyond the hills away?' ...
[0] http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173247
http://www.orgs.miamioh.edu/anthologies/bijou/vissat/Workwit...
Why? Because in the movie Groundhog Day, when Phil Connors has had his moment of enlightenment/peripety, he quotes :
"And winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!"
Knowing this poem makes the film better. Knowing how widely popular Coleridge became makes the poem better.
http://www.akirarabelais.com/vi/o/thelibraryofbabel/neruda/c...
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”
― Guillaume Apollinaire
close second:
I am Ebenezer Bleezer, I run BLEEZER’S ICE CREAM STORE, there are flavors in my freezer you have never seen before, twenty-eight divine creations too delicious to resist, why not do yourself a favor, try the flavors on my list:
COCOA MOCHA MACARONI TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO LOBSTER LITCHI LIMA BEAN MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN ALMOND HAM MERINGUE SALAMI YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE POMEGRANATE PUMPERNICKEL PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM PEANUT PUMPKIN BUBBLEGUM BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT COTTON CANDY CARROT CUSTARD CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD ONION DUMPLING DOUBLE DIP TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY GUAVA LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT
I am Ebenezer Bleezer, I run BLEEZER’S ICE CREAM STORE, taste a flavor from my freezer, you will surely ask for more.
-- Jack Prelutsky
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrJHrc-ABp4
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake
Among English poems, I rather like this one by Laurie Lee:
And of course W.H. Auden:http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099097/
Here is his probably most known one:
(Translation from: http://www.aboutromania.com/bacovia1.html) Translating poems is pretty hard. That was an ok translation. It doesn't quite sound quite right.Edgar Allan Poe
Jorge Manrique. This might be the less known so: http://users.ipfw.edu/jehle/POESIA/COPLASEN.HTM
It doesn't sound the same in english, though :(
And I can only add another vote for Neruda!
Everness, Jorge Luis Borges
Also a fan of Mary Oliver.
A couple recordings:
Where Dogs Come From: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOvbl3ZPPV4
A reading from Prairie Home Companion in February, dealing with cats: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTxpQCY7df8
If you get a chance tosee him live, don't miss it. He's delightful.
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing a far,—and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done. For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.
Also only one rapper?
Edit:
From http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_grace.htm:
The last line is often varied to read-One of Cummings's short poems that I enjoy:
So, Heaven Haven:
And then: "The Habit of Perfection":All life to know each other
Whom we can never learn
TS Elliot, on his good days (Prufrock counts as a good day, as do the Landscape poems. He oversteps in "The Waste Land".)
Tennyson, when in the mood for melancholy.
Robert Herrick, when in the mood for insouciance, contemplation and the poet's struggle.