Post a Poem
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Kat
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Suomi

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Post: #71
RE: Post a Poem
You looked for a flower
and found a fruit.
You looked for a well
and found a sea.
You looked for a woman
and found a soul –
you are disappointed.


- Edith Södergran, 1916
2013 Feb 11 18:11
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Lohengrin
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Österreich

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Post: #72
RE: Post a Poem
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us
Don't tell—they'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public—like a frog—
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-Emily Dickinson

"It does not take a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men." - Samuel Adams
2013 Feb 11 19:26
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Mylene
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Србија

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Post: #73
RE: Post a Poem
One quite famous. There is even song with this lyrics.

IL N'Y A PAS D'AMOUR HEUREUX
-Louis Aragon-

Rien n'est jamais acquis à l'homme
Ni sa force
Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur.
Et quand il croit
Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d'une croix.
Et quand il veut serrer son bonheur il le broie
Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.
Sa vie
Elle ressemble à ces soldats sans armes
Qu'on avait habillés pour un autre destin
A quoi peut leur servir de se lever matin
Eux qu'on retrouve au soir désarmés incertains,
Dites ces mots
Ma vie
Et retenez vos larmes
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.
Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirure
Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé
Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regarde passer
Répétant après moi ces mots que j'ai tressés
Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.
Le temps d'apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard
Que pleurent dans la nuit nos coeurs à l'unisson
Ce qu'il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson
Ce qu'il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson
Ce qu'il faut de sanglots pour un air de guitare
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux.

coffee
2013 Mar 11 16:23
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Phlegethon
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Post: #74
RE: Post a Poem
"Where there is discord, may we bring harmony.
Where there is error, may we bring truth.
Where there is doubt, may we bring faith.
And where there is despair, may we bring hope."


- Margaret Thatcher, quoting St Francis of Assisi, on her election victory 1979.


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

2013 Apr 11 20:33
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Phlegethon
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Post: #75
RE: Post a Poem
Frühlingsglaube

Die linden Lüfte sind erwacht,
Sie säuseln und wehen Tag und Nacht,
Sie schaffen an allen Enden.
O frischer Duft, o neuer Klang!
Nun, armes Herze, sei nicht bang!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.
Die Welt wird schöner mit jedem Tag,
Man weiß nicht, was noch werden mag,
Das Blühen will nicht enden.
Es blüht das fernste, tiefste Tal:
Nun, armes Herz, vergiß der Qual!
Nun muß sich alles, alles wenden.


Faith In Spring

The gentle winds are awakened,
They murmur and waft day and night,
They create in every corner.
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor heart, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.
The world becomes more beautiful with each day,
One does not know what may yet happen,
The blooming doesn't want to end.
The farthest, deepest valley blooms:
Now, poor heart, forget the pain!
Now everything, everything must change.

- Ludwig Uhland

Frühling

In dämmrigen Grüften
träumte ich lang
von dein Bäumen und blauen Lüften,
von deinem Duft und Vogelsang.
Nun liegst du erschlossen
in Gleiss und Zier
von Licht übergossen
wie ein Wunder vor mir.
Du kennst mich wieder,
du lockst mich zart,
es zittert durch all meine Glieder
deine selige Gegenwart!


Spring

In dusky hollows
I long dreamed
of your trees and blue skies,
of your fragrance and bird song.

Now you stand revealed
in glitter and glory,
flooded with light,
like a miracle.

You recognize me,
and gently beckon;
my whole body trembles
with your holy presence!


- Hermann Hesse


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

(This post was last modified: 2013 Apr 11 21:03 by Phlegethon.)
2013 Apr 11 21:01
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Arnau
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Catalunya

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Post: #76
RE: Post a Poem
There was a newspaper poll last year about the best verse ever in Catalan. Not poem, but verse. These were the five most voted among the many chosen ones:

1. Tot està per fer, i tot és possible. (Miquel Martí i Pol) 18,32%
Everything remains to be done, and everything is possible
* In a context like ours, in which we are on the road to our full national development, no wonder why this verse is so dear to us.

2. És quan dormo que hi veig clar (J.V. Foix) 9,38%
It's when I sleep that I can see
* The rest of the poem is surrealist in a Gaudian way.

3. A l'atzar agraeixo tres dons: haver nascut dona, de classe baixa i nació oprimida (Maria-Mercè Marçal) 7,9%
I thank fate for three things: being born a woman, of the lower class, from an opressed nation
* This could just be applied to so many other places in the world.

4. Al Fossar de les Moreres no s'hi enterra cap traidor (Serafí Pitarra) 7,18%
No traitor is to be buried at Mulberry Cemetery
* When Barcelona fell to Spanish troops and Catalonia lost its liberties, defenders of the city were buried there. One century later they tried to get rid of all memories by building on the place and demystifying it. The force of the verse had the power to remind it, and one can read the whole beginning in the square where the cemetery was, and other places in Barcelona.

[Image: Barcino-083-300x225.jpg]
No traitor is to be buried at Mulberry Cemetery.
Even losing our flags, this will be the Urn of Honor.


5. No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres
Never there were in Valencia two lovers like us
* That verse opens the poem and closes it by adding:
car amants com nosaltres en són parits ben pocs!
For lovers like us are hardly ever born!
* They were btw said by two newly-wed Valencians friends of mine at their wedding. Smile
2013 Apr 11 21:03
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Dussander
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Hrvatska

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Post: #77
RE: Post a Poem
The Hollow Men

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.


T. S. Eliot

We must dissent.

[Image: 10494820_10152495444871387_2677074454375​72888_n.jpg]
2013 Apr 12 14:17
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Violet
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England

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Post: #78
RE: Post a Poem
Sonnet I

I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--
Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Send me the pillow... The one that you dream on.
2013 Apr 12 18:50
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Phlegethon
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Deutschland

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Post: #79
RE: Post a Poem
Will dir den Frühling zeigen

Will dir den Frühling zeigen,
der hundert Wunder hat.
Der Frühling ist waldeigen
und kommt nicht in die Stadt.

Nur die weit aus den kalten
Gassen zu zweien gehn
und sich bei den Händen halten -
dürfen ihn einmal sehn.

- Rainer Maria Rilke


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

2013 Apr 12 19:35
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Phlegethon
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Post: #80
RE: Post a Poem
Osterspaziergang

Vom Eise befreit sind Strom und Bäche,
Durch des Frühlings holden, belebenden Blick,
Im Tale grünet Hoffnungs-Glück;
Der alte Winter, in seiner Schwäche,
Zog sich in rauhe Berge zurück.

Von dorther sendet er, fliegend, nur
Ohnmächtige Schauer körnigen Eises
In Streifen über die grünende Flur;
Aber die Sonne duldet kein Weisses,
Überall regt sich Bildung und Streben,
Alles will sie mit Farben beleben;
Doch an Blumen fehlts im Revier,
Sie nimmt geputzte Menschen dafür.

Kehre dich um, von diesen Höhen
Nach der Stadt zurück zu sehen.
Aus dem hohlen finstern Tor
Dring ein buntes Gewimmel hervor.
Jeder sonnt sich heute so gern.
Sie feiern die Auferstehung des Herrn,
Denn sie sind selber auferstanden,
Aus niedriger Häuser dumpfen Gemächern,
Aus Handwerks- und Gewerbes Banden,
Aus dem Druck von Giebeln und Dächern,
Aus Strassen quetschender Enge,
Aus der Kirchen ehrwürdiger Nacht
Sind sie alle ans Licht gebracht.

Sieh nur sieh! wie behend sich die Menge
Durch die Gärten und Felder zerschlägt,
Wie der Fluss, in Breit' und Länge,
So manchen lustigen Nachen bewegt,
Und, bis zum Sinken überladen
Entfernt sich dieser letzte Kahn.
Selbst von des Berges fernen Pfaden
Blinken uns farbige Kleider an.

Ich höre schon des Dorfs Getümmel,
Hier ist des Volkes wahrer Himmel,
Zufrieden jauchzet gross und klein:
Hier bin ich Mensch, hier darf ich sein.



Easter Walk

From the ice they are freed, the stream and brook,
By the Spring's enlivening, lovely look;
The valley's green with joys of hope;
The Winter old and weak ascends
Back to the rugged mountain slope.

From there, as he flees, he downward sends
An impotent shower of icy hail
Streaking over the verdant vale.
Ah! but the Sun will suffer no white,
Growth and formation stir everywhere,
'Twould fain with colours make all things bright,
Though in the landscape are no blossoms fair.
Instead it takes gay-decked humanity.

Now turn around and from this height,
Looking backward, townward see.
Forth from the cave-like, gloomy gate
Crowds a motley and swarming array.
Everyone suns himself gladly today.
The Risen Lord they celebrate,
For they themselves have now arisen
From lowly houses' mustiness,
From handicraft's and factory's prison,
From the roof and gables that oppress,
From the bystreets' crushing narrowness,
From the churches' venerable night,
They are all brought out into light.

See, only see, how quickly the masses
Scatter through gardens and fields remote;
How down and across the river passes
So many a merry pleasure-boat.
And over-laden, almost sinking,
The last full wherry moves away.
From yonder hill's far pathways blinking,
Flash to us colours of garments gay.

Hark! Sounds of village joy arise;
Here is the people's paradise,
Contented, great and small shout joyfully:
"Here I am Man, here dare it to be!"


(Goethe, Faust I, Act I)


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

2013 Apr 18 10:36
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