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Mylene
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Post: #91
RE: Post a Poem
Rêve pour l'hiver

L'hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.

Tu fermeras l'oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.

Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée...
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou...

Et tu me diras: "Cherche!" en inclinant la tête,
Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
Qui voyage beaucoup...

Arthur Rimbaud

coffee
2013 Nov 03 18:58
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Gamera
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Post: #92
RE: Post a Poem
Black Messengers

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!
Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them
the undertow of all our sufferings
is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!

There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows
in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,
They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas
or the dark heralds Death sends us.


They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door

And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are such hard blows in life. I don't know.

Original:

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes ... ¡Yo no sé!

Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,

la resaca de todo lo sufrido

se empozara en el alma... Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son... Abren zanjas obscuras

en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.

Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;

o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,

de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.

Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones

de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre... Pobre... pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como

cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;

vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido

se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... Yo no sé!

By Cesar Vallejo.

“I'm an economist. I've even got a PhD in Economics. Yet, I'm a good person, I swear!” - Rafael Correa, president of Ecuador
2013 Nov 04 12:37
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Gamera
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España

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Post: #93
RE: Post a Poem
O Spain, take this cup from me, written during the Spanish Civil War.

(also by César Vallejo)

Children of the world,
if Spain falls, -I say, to you I say-
if she falls
down from the sky,
catch her arm of roasting flesh
in a sling between two sheets of earth’ s metal;
children, how old that curved brow!
how soon in that sun what I told you of!
how quick at breast the ancient rumbles!
how aged your 2 in the school notebook!

Children of the world,
Mother Spain is here cradling her own womb;
she is our teacher with her switches,
she is mother and teacher,
cross and wood, because she brings you
the dizzying heights and division, and sums, children.
She is self-contained, you prosecuting fathers!

If she falls, I say, to you I say,
if Spain falls, the earth tumbling down,
children, how you will stop growing!
how the year is going to punish the month!
how your mouth will not grow more than ten teeth,
your diphthongs will be switched, your medals will wail!
How the roasted lamb’s hide will go on and on
tied by the paw to the great inkpot!
How you are going to descend the steps of the alphabet
until you arrive at the letter in which pain was born!

Children,
sons of warriors, just then,
lower your voice, for Spain at this moment is dividing up
her powers between the rule of the beast,
the flowering things, the comets, and mankind.

Lower your voice, for she is
still with her severity, which is great, not knowing
what to do, and she has in her hand
the talking skull, and it talks and talks,
the skull, that one with braided hair,
the skull, that one that is alive!

Lower your voice, I tell you;
lower your voice, the song all of syllables, the cry
of matter and the low babel of the pyramids,
the empty skulls’ song that walks carrying two stones!

Lower your breath, and if
her arm comes down,
and if the switches swish, if it is night,
if the heavens fit into two earthly Purgatories,
if there is a racket in the doors’ voices,
if I am late,
if you don’t see anybody and if the unsharpened pencils
frighten you, and if your Mother
Spain falls, -I say, to you I say-
leave, children of the world. Go and find her!


Original

Niños del mundo,
si cae España —digo, es un decir—
si cae
del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen,
en cabestro, dos láminas terrestres;
niños, ¡qué edad la de las sienes cóncavas!
¡qué temprano en el sol lo que os decía!
¡qué pronto en vuestro pecho el ruido anciano!
¡qué viejo vuestro 2 en el cuaderno!

¡Niños del mundo, está
la madre España con su vientre a cuestas;
está nuestra madre con sus férulas,
está madre y maestra,
cruz y madera, porque os dio la altura,
vértigo y división y suma, niños;
está con ella, padres procesales!

Si cae —digo, es un decir— si cae
España, de la tierra para abajo,
niños ¡cómo vais a cesar de crecer!
¡cómo va a castigar el año al mes!
¡cómo van a quedarse en diez los dientes,
en palote el diptongo, la medalla en llanto!
¡Cómo va el corderillo a continuar
atado por la pata al gran tintero!
¡Cómo vais a bajar las gradas del alfabeto
hasta la letra en que nació la pena!

Niños,
hijos de los guerreros, entre tanto,
bajad la voz que España está ahora mismo repartiendo
la energía entre el reino animal,
las florecillas, los cometas y los hombres.
¡Bajad la voz, que está
en su rigor, que es grande, sin saber
qué hacer, y está en su mano
la calavera, aquella de la trenza;
la calavera, aquella de la vida!

¡Bajad la voz, os digo;
bajad la voz, el canto de las sílabas, el llanto
de la materia y el rumor menos de las pirámides, y aún
el de las sienes que andan con dos piedras!
¡Bajad el aliento, y si
el antebrazo baja,
si las férulas suenan, si es la noche,
si el cielo cabe en dos limbos terrestres,
si hay ruido en el sonido de las puertas,
si tardo,
si no veis a nadie, si os asustan
los lápices sin punta, si la madre
España cae —digo, es un decir—,
salid, niños, del mundo; id a buscarla!...

“I'm an economist. I've even got a PhD in Economics. Yet, I'm a good person, I swear!” - Rafael Correa, president of Ecuador
2013 Nov 04 12:43
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Phlegethon
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Post: #94
RE: Post a Poem
The Wild Swans at Coole

William Butler Yeats (1919)


The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?


Not in haunts of marble chill,
Temples drear where ancients trod,—
Nay, in oaks on woody hill
Lives and moves the German God.

2013 Nov 04 13:12
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Phlegethon
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Post: #95
RE: Post a Poem
The Autumn

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1833)



Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill —
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.


Not in haunts of marble chill,
Temples drear where ancients trod,—
Nay, in oaks on woody hill
Lives and moves the German God.

2013 Nov 04 13:20
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Karl
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My face when I read your post:



Eesti

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Post: #96
RE: Post a Poem
My poem about the Estonian flag from January, 2010:

Eestil on ilus lipp,
ajalugu tal pikk.
Värve tal on kolm,
must näitab, et minevik julm.

Sinine sümboliseerib merd,
Vabadussõjas selle lipu all valati verd.
Sinimustvalge lehvib Pika Hermanni tipus,
Eesti uhkus on selles lipus.

See lipp ilmus Otepääl,
pärast seda ta oli jääv.
ENSVs sinimustvalge keelati,
hiljem ülekohus peatati.
2013 Nov 05 04:10
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Mustapaita
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Tulkoon sota ja veriset vaatteet



Suomi

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Post: #97
RE: Post a Poem
[Image: EinoLeino.jpg]

I'll give a go at translating it:

Which is more beautiful:
to believe, that freedom will prevail
to hope, that light will conquer
and to fight for the light
Or to fight
knowing, that light will not prevail
knowing, that freedom will not conquer
and at least fight?

Which is more beautiful:
to think: that if freedom is not to conquer
to ponder, that if light is not to prevail,
why do I fight?
Or to think:
I'm a child of the sunset, not the rise,
I'm a man of light, but not victorious,
that is why I must break.


Oh and its by Eino Leino. Smile

"Devil, I am devil." ― Pekka Siitoin
2013 Nov 05 23:17
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Phlegethon
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Post: #98
RE: Post a Poem
Neujahr

Altes Jahr, du ruhst in Frieden,
Deine Augen sind geschlossen;
Bist von uns so still geschieden
Hin zu himmlischen Genossen,
Und die neuen Jahre kommen,
Werden auch wie du vergehen,
Bis wir alle aufgenommen
Uns im letzten wiedersehen.
Wenn dies letzte angefangen,
Deutet sich dies Neujahrgrüßen,
Denn erkannt ist dies Verlangen,
Nach dem Wiedersehn und Küssen.


- Achim von Arnim


Not in haunts of marble chill,
Temples drear where ancients trod,—
Nay, in oaks on woody hill
Lives and moves the German God.

2014 Jan 01 18:53
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Blackthorne
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England

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Post: #99
RE: Post a Poem
Ach, a bit too large: Chesterton's The Ballad of the White Horse. I'll post the intro and leave yall to read the rest if you want. Smile

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1719

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night—
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood
Or breathe his breath alive?
His century like a small dark cloud
Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd,
Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud
And the dense arrows drive.

Lady, by one light only
We look from Alfred's eyes,
We know he saw athwart the wreck
The sign that hangs about your neck,
Where One more than Melchizedek
Is dead and never dies.

Therefore I bring these rhymes to you
Who brought the cross to me,
Since on you flaming without flaw
I saw the sign that Guthrum saw
When he let break his ships of awe,
And laid peace on the sea.

Do you remember when we went
Under a dragon moon,
And 'mid volcanic tints of night
Walked where they fought the unknown fight
And saw black trees on the battle-height,
Black thorn on Ethandune?

And I thought, "I will go with you,
As man with God has gone,
And wander with a wandering star,
The wandering heart of things that are,
The fiery cross of love and war
That like yourself, goes on."

O go you onward; where you are
Shall honour and laughter be,
Past purpled forest and pearled foam,
God's winged pavilion free to roam,
Your face, that is a wandering home,
A flying home for me.

Ride through the silent earthquake lands,
Wide as a waste is wide,
Across these days like deserts, when
Pride and a little scratching pen
Have dried and split the hearts of men,
Heart of the heroes, ride.

Up through an empty house of stars,
Being what heart you are,
Up the inhuman steeps of space
As on a staircase go in grace,
Carrying the firelight on your face
Beyond the loneliest star.

Take these; in memory of the hour
We strayed a space from home
And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint
With Westland king and Westland saint,
And watched the western glory faint
Along the road to Frome.

You goddamn communist heathen, you had best sound off that you love the Virgin Mary... or I'm gonna stomp your guts out!
2014 Jan 02 20:33
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Phlegethon
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Post: #100
RE: Post a Poem
Comfort

Hast thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul
Seen tempests roll?
Hast thou watched all the hopes thou wouldst have won
Fade, one by one?
Wait till the clouds are past, then raise thine eyes
To bitter skies.

Hast thou gone sadly through a dreary night,
And found no light,
No guide, no star, to cheer thee through the plain--
No friend, save pain?
Wait, and thy soul shall see, when most forlorn,
Rise a new morn.

Hast thou beneath another's stern control
Bent thy sad soul,
And wasted sacred hopes and precious tears?
Yet calm thy fears,
For thou canst gain, even from the bitterest part,
A stronger heart.

Has Fate overwhelmed thee with some sudden blow?
Let thy tears flow;
But know when storms are past, the heavens appear
More pure, more clear;
And hope, when farthest from their shining rays,
For brighter days.

Hast thou found life a cheat, and worn in vain
Its iron chain?
Has thy soul bent beneath earth's heavy bond?
Look thou beyond;
If life is bitter--there for ever shine
Hopes more divine.

Art thou alone, and does thy soul complain
It lives in vain?
Not vainly does he live who can endure
Oh be thou sure,
That he who hopes and suffers here, can earn
A sure return.

Hast thou found nought within thy troubled life
Save inward strife?
Hast thou found all she promised thee, Deceit,
And Hope a cheat?
Endure, and there shall dawn within thy breast
Eternal rest!



- Adelaide Anne Procter


Not in haunts of marble chill,
Temples drear where ancients trod,—
Nay, in oaks on woody hill
Lives and moves the German God.

2014 Jan 04 12:44
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