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June 10th, 2011, 8:22 pm

It has been awhile since we have visited this thread.**ApparitionLa lune s'attristait. Des séraphins en pleursRêvant, l'archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleursVaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violesDe blancs sanglots glissant sur l'azur des corolles.- C'était le jour béni de ton premier baiser.Ma songerie aimant à me martyrisers'enivrait savamment du parfum de tristesseQue même sans regret et sans déboire laisseLa cueillaison d'un Rêve au coeur qui l'a cueilli.J'errais donc, l'oeil rivé sur le pavé vieilliQuand avec du soleil aux cheveux, dans la rueEt dans le soir, tu m'es en riant apparueEt j'ai cru voir la fée au chapeau de clartéQui jadis sur mes beaux sommeils d'enfant gâtéPassait, laissant toujours de ses mains mal ferméesNeiger de blancs bouquets d'étoiles parfumées.- Stéphane Mallarmé**ApparitionThe moon was grieving. Seraphim in tears,Musing in the calm of vaporous flowers,Were drawing, bow in hand, from sad violasSobbing glissandos over blue corollas.- It was the blessèd day of your first kiss.My reverie, enraptured by the abyss,Imbibed its wisdom from the sad perfumeWhich even the dreams we gather in full bloomDistill within the heart that gathers them.My eyes on the worn stones, I wandered then,When suddenly you happened to appear,Laughing, with evening sunlight in your hair;And I thought I saw the fairy with the capOf light, who passed before my infant sleep,Opening her hands to scatter through the yearsSnowy bouquets of richly scented stars.- Stéphane Mallarmé
Last edited by trackstar on June 9th, 2011, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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frenchX
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June 10th, 2011, 8:36 pm

It's really a beautifull poem !
 
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ExSan
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June 10th, 2011, 10:14 pm

Juan Ramón Jiménez (24 December 1881 ? 29 May 1958) Spain PLATERO Y YO QuotePlatero es pequeño, peludo, suave; tan blando por fuera, que se diría todo de algodón, que no lleva huesos. Sólo los espejos de azabache de sus ojos son duros cual dos escarabajos de cristal negro. Lo dejo suelto y se va al prado, y acaricia tibiamente con su hocico, rozándolas apenas, las florecillas rosas, celestes y gualdas... Lo llamo dulcemente: "¿Platero?", y viene a mí con un trotecillo alegre que parece que se ríe, en no sé qué cascabeleo ideal... Come cuanto le doy. Le gustan las naranjas mandarinas, las uvas moscateles, todas de ámbar; los higos morados, con su cristalina gotita de miel... Es tierno y mimoso igual que un niño, que una niña...; pero fuerte y seco por dentro, como de piedra... Cuando paso sobre él, los domingos, por las últimas callejas del pueblo, los hombres del campo, vestidos de limpio y despaciosos, se quedan mirándolo: ? Tiene acero... Tiene acero. Acero y plata de luna, al mismo tiempo. PLATERO AND I QuoteA man with black bear and an old hat had a donkey as a friend. It was named Platero. He was little, hairy, dark eyes and soft as cotton. He seemed he didn´t have bones. Amber colored muscatel grapes, mandarins oranges, and deep purple figs were eaten by Platero because he liked them. Many accidents happened to the little animal. When some men saw Platero, they decided to castrate him because they thought he would have problems with females. Since then, the animal was not the same. Another day, an orange´s spike was stuck in Platero´s paw. Fortunately a vet took it off from him. Also his mouth was bleeding for a leech in his tongue. The leech was removed when he could open his mouth. The man talked to Platero every day and he explained it everything. For example, when they found three old women. One woman was blind, how they talked to each other, and how they were dressed. A girl was helped by the man and Platero; she was in a big creek with a little cart and a little burro. She was crying and trying to take them off from the impasse. Then, Platero and the man were able to help the girl. Some oranges were received by the man for Platero. They had a close relationship. The man thought that Platero had dreamed the same dreams like him. They knew each other; he treated the donkey as a little boy. He kissed, he made him get upset, but Platero understood what he wanted to do. Platero loved him, he didn´t want to be with someone else. One of the most terrible things in this story was that Platero died because he was old and his heart didn´t work well. Despite he was consulted by the vet, he couldn´t do anything. After that, his partner was very sad, he talked to Platero as if he was alive. He though Platero was in heaven seeing the Earth. He couldn´t believe Platero was dead. He talked to his friend his thoughts about...
Last edited by ExSan on June 10th, 2011, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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frenchX
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June 12th, 2011, 5:54 pm

Danton avant d'être guillotiné"Nous avons brisé la tyrannie des privilèges en abolissant ces pouvoirs auxquels n'avait droit aucun homme. Nous avons mis fin au monopole de la naissance et de la fortune dans tous ces grands offices de l'état, dans nos églises, dans nos armées, dant toutes les parties de ce grand corps magnifique de la France. Nous avons déclaré que l'homme le plus humble de ce pays est l'égal des plus grands. Cette liberté que nous avons acquise pour nous-mêmes nous l'avons affectée aux esclaves et nous confions au monde la mission de bâtir l'avenir sur l'espoir que nous avons fait naître. C'est plus qu'une victoire dans une bataille, plus que les épées et les canons et toutes les cavaleries de l'Europe et cette inspiration, ce souffle pour tous les hommes, partout en tout lieu, cet appétit, cette soif de liberté jamais personne ne pourra l'étouffer. "
 
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ExSan
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June 12th, 2011, 6:00 pm

C'est magnifique, alle la France
 
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frenchX
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June 12th, 2011, 6:03 pm

Gracias Exsan Each country has its own history, its own culture and we have to NOT forget.There is proverb which says "If you don't know where you are going just look at where you come from"
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frenchX
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June 12th, 2011, 6:31 pm

Robert Desnos: Demain"Âgé de cent-mille ans, j'aurais encore la forceDe t'attendre, o demain pressenti par l'espoir.Le temps, vieillard souffrant de multiples entorses,Peut gémir: neuf est le matin, neuf est le soir.Mais depuis trop de mois nous vivons à la veille,Nous veillons, nous gardons la lumière et le feu,Nous parlons à voix basse et nous tendons l'oreilleA maint bruit vite éteint et perdu comme au jeu.Or, du fond de la nuit, nous témoignons encoreDe la splendeur du jour et de tous ses présents.Si nous ne dormons pas c'est pour guetter l'auroreQui prouvera qu'enfin nous vivons au présent."english translation"A hundred thousand years old, I would still have the strength To wait for you, o tomorrow, premonition of hope. Time, an old man suffering from multiple ailments, May moan: The morning is new, new the evening.But for too many months we have been living at the brink, We stay awake, keep watch over light and fire, We speak in whispers and strain our ears At many sounds muffled and lost as in a game.Meanwhile, from the depths of night we still witness The splendor of the day and all its gifts. If we do not sleep, it is to watch for the dawn, Which will prove that at last we are living in the present."Written in 1942 by a resistant in France under the Nazi occupation. He was arrested in 1944 and deported in a camp. He was freed by the Russian in 1945 but died one month later.Paul Eluard gave this words to define him"Jusqu'à la mort, Desnos a lutté. Tout au long de ses poèmes l'idée de liberté court comme un feu terrible, le mot de liberté claque comme un drapeau parmi les images les plus neuves, les plus violentes aussi. La poésie de Desnos, c'est la poésie du courage. Il a toutes les audaces possibles de pensée et d'expression. Il va vers l'amour, vers la vie, vers la mort sans jamais douter. Il parle, il chante très haut, sans embarras. Il est le fils prodigue d'un peuple soumis à la prudence, à l'économie, à la patience, mais qui a quand même toujours étonné le monde par ses colères brusques, sa volonté d'affranchissement et ses envolées imprévues."Rest in Peace "Ombre parmi les ombres".
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June 17th, 2011, 11:57 am

Just Walking AroundWhat name do I have for you?Certainly there is no name for youIn the sense that the stars have namesThat somehow fit them. Just walking around,An object of curiosity to some,But you are too preoccupiedBy the secret smudge in the back of your soulTo say much and wander around,Smiling to yourself and others.It gets to be kind of lonelyBut at the same time off-putting.Counterproductive, as you realize once againThat the longest way is the most efficient way,The one that looped among islands, andYou always seemed to be traveling in a circle.And now that the end is nearThe segments of the trip swing open like an orange.There is light in there and mystery and food.Come see it.Come not for me but it.But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.- John Ashbery
 
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June 21st, 2011, 12:37 pm

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? - Sonnet 18Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate.Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date.Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - William Shakespeare
 
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June 27th, 2011, 5:01 pm

Au LecteurLa sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan TrismégisteQui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,Et le riche métal de notre volontéEst tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mangeLe sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestinQue nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumonsDescend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,N'ont pas encor brondé de leurs plaisants dessinsLe canevas banal de nos piteux destins,C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débrisEt dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;C'est l'Ennui!- l'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,- Hypocrite lecteur,- mon semblable, - mon frère!To the Reader Folly, depravity, greed, mortal sinInvade our souls and rack our flesh; we feedOur gentle guilt, gracious regrets, that breedLike vermin glutting on foul beggars' skin.Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, faint.We take a handsome price for our confession,Happy once more to wallow in transgression,Thinking vile tears will cleanse us of all taint.On evil's cushion poised, His Majesty,Satan Thrice-Great, lulls our charmed soul, untilHe turns to vapor what was once our will:Rich ore, transmuted by his alchemy.He holds the strings that move us, limb by limb!We yield, enthralled, to things repugnant, base;Each day, towards Hell, with slow, unhurried pace,We sink, uncowed, through shadows, stinking, grim.Like some lewd rake with his old worn-out whore,Nibbling her suffering teats, we seize our slydelight, that, like an orange - withered, dry -We squeeze and press for juice that is no more.Our brains teem with a race of Fiends, who frolicthick as a million gut-worms; with each breath,Our lungs drink deep, suck down a stream of Death -Dim-lit - to low-moaned whimpers melancholic.If poison, fire, blade, rape do not succeedIn sewing on that dull embroideryOf our pathetic lives their artistry,It's that our soul, alas, shrinks from the deed.And yet, among the beasts and creatures all -Panther, snake, scorpion, jackal, ape, hound, hawk -Monsters that crawl, and shriek, and grunt, and squawk,In our vice-filled menagerie's caterwaul,One worse is there, fit to heap scorn upon -More ugly, rank! Though noiseless, calm and still,yet would he turn the earth to scraps and swill,swallow it whole in one great, gaping yawn:Ennui! That monster frail! - With eye whereinA chance tear gleams, he dreams of gibbets, whileSmoking his hookah, with a dainty smile. . .- You know him, hypocrite reader,- my double, - my twin!- Charles Baudelaire, from Les Fleurs du mal
Last edited by trackstar on June 26th, 2011, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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Powerpuff
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June 27th, 2011, 6:34 pm

The Dunciad: Book IVYet, yet a moment, one dim ray of lightIndulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night!Of darkness visible so much be lent,As half to show, half veil, the deep intent.Ye pow'rs! whose mysteries restor'd I sing,To whom time bears me on his rapid wing,Suspend a while your force inertly strong,Then take at once the poet and the song.Now flam'd the Dog Star's unpropitious ray,Smote evry brain, and wither'd every bay;Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bow'r.The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour:Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night,To blot out order, and extinguish light,Of dull and venal a new world to mould,And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold.Alexander Pope (excerpt)
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frenchX
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July 5th, 2011, 7:00 pm

Tamtrum (french gothic band) "My fall""Une grande tour d'argent et de verre Se dresse devant moi Je me dois de la gravir Atteindre mon but Toucher le ciel ...Ce Ciel! Mon premier pas est lourd Il écrase une marche Mon second essaye de faire oublier le premier Ce long escalier qui me jauge a l'air complice avec le ciel et l'infini Marche après marche, je monte cet enfer Le vent glacial cisaille ma peau et viole mon antre Que vais-je trouver en haut? L'amour, la force la vaillance Ou peut-être l'espoir, la haine Peu importe je dois monter Je dois monter J'aperçois un aigle Il grave son nom dans les nuages Il a l'air libre Je veux l'atteindre Je dois l'atteindre Les gouttes de sueur qui perlent sur mon front Me rappellent que je ne suis qu'un tas d'os Un tas d'os et d'eau Je ne peux plus me reposer Je ne dois plus m'arreter Si je veux trouver la paix Je dois monter Cent jours ont passé Je suis enfin au sommet Ici tout est plus clair Tout est plus beau Je surplombe les nuages Et les anges... Rien ni personne ne m'y attendait Ou peut-être, le repos Je m'assieds doucement Mes chevilles craquent, Je tombe Mes yeux se ferment, la fatigue A présent, je me sens mourir Et je sais pourquoi je suis venu Jusqu'ici "I will post the translation later but it's simply beautifull (at least in french) here the song and the english translation
Last edited by frenchX on July 4th, 2011, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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rmax
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July 5th, 2011, 7:15 pm

Extract from the Prisoner of Chllion by Lord Byron It might be months, or years, or days? I kept no count, I took no note?I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote;At last men came to set me free; I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where;It was at length the same to me,Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair.And thus when they appear'd at last,And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage?and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home:With spiders I had friendship madeAnd watch'd them in their sullen trade,Had seen the mice by moonlight play,And why should I feel less than they?We were all inmates of one place,And I, the monarch of each race,Had power to kill?yet, strange to tell!In quiet we had learn'd to dwell;My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tendsTo make us what we are:?even IRegain'd my freedom with a sigh.
 
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ExSan
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July 5th, 2011, 9:40 pm

INVICTUS William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.
 
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Traden4Alpha
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July 5th, 2011, 10:20 pm

I rarely haunt this exalted thread but just had to share a recently read bit verse from "The Pickwick Papers" by Charles Dickens:Quote '"Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!"' Quote '"Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!"'
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