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frenchX
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Selected Poems - International

September 18th, 2011, 2:08 pm

Edgar Allan Poe "A dream within a dream"Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow--You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand--How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?
 
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ExSan
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November 9th, 2011, 7:13 am

RISKARRIESGARSE A VIVIRReír es arriesgarse a parecer tonto.Llorar es arriesgarse a parecer un sentimental.Hacer algo por alguien es arriesgarse a involucrarse.Expresar sentimientos es arriesgarse a mostrar tu verdadero yo.Exponer tus ideas y sueños es arriesgarse a perderlos.Amar es arriesgarse a no ser correspondido.Vivir es arriesgarse a morir.Esperar es arriesgarse a la desesperanza.Lanzarte es arriesgarse a fallar.Pero los riesgos deben ser tomados, porque el peligro más grande en la vida es NO ARRIESGARSE a nada.La persona que no arriesga, no hace, ni tiene nada.Se puede evitar sufrimientos y preocupaciones, pero simplemente no puede aprender, sentir, cambiar, crecer, amar y vivir...SOLO UNA PERSONA QUE SE ARRIESGA ES LIBRE.
 
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trackstar
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Selected Poems - International

December 10th, 2011, 10:43 pm

Mending WallSomething there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." - Robert Frost
 
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ExSan
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December 22nd, 2011, 9:09 pm

"... they thought I was surreal,but I was not. I never painted my dreams,I just painted my own reality " Frida Kahlo paintings
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Cuchulainn
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Selected Poems - International

February 9th, 2012, 10:04 am

Dublinby Louis MacNeiceGrey brick upon brick,Declamatory bronzeOn somber pedestals -O'Connell, Grattan, Moore -And the brewery tugs and the swansOn the balustraded streamAnd the bare bones of a fanlightOver a hungry doorAnd the air soft on the cheekAnd porter running from the tapsWith a head of yellow creamAnd Nelson on his pillarWatching his world collapse.This never was my town,I was not born or bredNor schooled here and she will notHave me alive or deadBut yet she holds my mindWith her seedy elegance,With her gentle veils of rainAnd all her ghosts that walkAnd all that hide behindHer Georgian facades -The catcalls and the pain,The glamour of her squalor,The bravado of her talk.The lights jig in the riverWith a concertina movementAnd the sun comes up in the morningLike barley-sugar on the waterAnd the mist on the Wicklow hillsIs close, as closeAs the peasantry were to the landlord,As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish,As the killer is close one momentTo the man he kills,Or as the moment itselfIs close to the next moment.She is not an Irish townAnd she is not English,Historic with guns and verminAnd the cold renownOf a fragment of Church latin,Of an oratorical phrase.But oh the days are soft,Soft enough to forgetThe lesson better learnt,The bullet on the wetStreets, the crooked deal,The steel behind the laugh,The Four Courts burnt.Fort of the Dane,Garrison of the Saxon,Augustan capitalOf a Gaelic nation,Appropriating allThe alien brought,You give me time for thoughtAnd by a juggler's trickYou poise the toppling hour -O greyness run to flower,Grey stone, grey water,And brick upon grey brick.
 
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trackstar
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May 7th, 2012, 7:31 pm

I declare a day for Villanelles!Villanelle for an AnniversaryA spirit moved. John Harvard walked the yard,The atom lay unsplit, the west unwon,The books stood open and the gates unbarred.The maps dreamt on like moondust. Nothing stirred.The future was a verb in hibernation.A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.Before the classic style, before the clapboard,All through the small hours of an origin,The books stood open and the gate unbarred.Night passage of a migratory bird.Wingflap. Gownflap. Like a homing pigeonA spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.Was that his soul (look) sped to its rewardBy grace or works? A shooting star? An omen?The books stood open and the gate unbarred.Begin again where frosts and tests were hard.Find yourself or founder. Here, imagineA spirit moves, John Harvard walks the yard,The books stand open and the gates unbarred.- Seamus Heaney
Last edited by trackstar on May 6th, 2012, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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Errrb
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May 7th, 2012, 7:43 pm

When I was younger, I used to write poems (in Russian). Here is one of them: У меня зачесалась нога,Только мне почесать её не удалось!Где же бляха нога? Простыня вся в крови,А из жопы торчит безобразная кость!Только я закурил, вижу, блядь, за окномТрое мрачных жлобов, смачно чавкая жрутМою бедную ногу с молдавским виномНа бильярдном столе, где ебутся и срут!Я просил их отдать, ну хотя бы икру,Там вчера записал я её телефон.Самый наглый из них, ковыряясь в носу,Погрозил мне огромным ржавым гвоздём.Я к окошку подполз, и гранату швырнулНегодяям пиздец! Негодяям хана!Всё же я молодец, вот хожу без ногиВсё ебло в орденах, мной гордится страна!
 
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May 7th, 2012, 7:51 pm

Cool. (It is a war poem and a very good one.)You might like this little excerpt that I found rummaging through some stuff online:Бином Ньютона, или Красные и Белые. Ленинградская сага. 'Если бы у СССР в 1939 году были пятьдесят таких гаубиц, вся мировая история пошла бы по другому! Это же так ясно, как бином Ньютона...' А. Широкорад 'Ленинград и Севастополь. Время больших пушек' Пролог. - Владимир Иванович, что с вами?!- участливый голос моей любимицы, Наташи Гамовой, был громок и тревожен. Я с трудом оторвал голову от крашенного синей казенной краской учительского стола. Господи, что это я? Уснул, что ли? Ужас какой! Я почувствовал, как щеки полыхнули стыдом... Но терять самообладание учителю никак нельзя! И поэтому, скрыв смущение за притворным кашлем, сквозь грязноватый ситцевый синий платочек я только и произнес: - Ничего, ничего, девочки...не беспокойтесь! Это ничего, это ...я сейчас, извините... Наташа, низко опустив голову, так, что её соломенного цвета волосы упали мне на плечи почти шепотом тем не менее заботливо переспросила: - Вам что, плохо? Может, школьного врача позвать? Вот ведь мочалка настырная, а? - Нет, девочки, со мной все в порядке, это я на секундочку... - Ничего себе секундочка!- возмущенно зашипел мой любимый девятый 'Б'- Вы уже четверть часа так сидите! - Неужели четверть? - ужаснулся я.- Так что же вы... - А мы вам мешать не хотели! М-да. Гуманистки вы мои разнузданные...В мужской школе мои лоботрясы уж давно бы на цыпочках прокрались мимо учительского стола в рекреацию и там ходили бы на своих пустых головах. А тут - глядите-ка, смирно себе сидят, как фроси путевые... - Так, ладно. Шутки в сторону. Задремал так задремал. - сурово резюмировал я. - Мы понима-а-а-а-ем... у Вас жена молодая! - сочувственно протянул класс. - Цыть! Понимают они... Наталья, на чем мы остановились-то, до того как я...э-э-э... - На биноме Ньютона....,- пробормотала барышня в ответ. - А! Хорошее дело. Продолжай, продолжай...,- подбодрил её я. - Да. Вот я и говорю. Ньютон, Исаак... был сын бедного, но зажиточного фермера... - Постой, постой. Что-то я тебя не понял: так бедного или зажиточного? - Ну-у-у... сначала-то он был зажиточным, а потом вдруг стал бедным! - Почему? - Да его раскулачили, наверное?- резонно предположила она. - Тьфу на тебя! Дальше. - А потом ему в голову яблоко попало! Когда он под деревом сидел!- радостно продолжила гордая своими познаниями старшеклассница. - Кому попало? - Ньютону... - И что? - И, собственно, вот и все...,- печально развела руками девица. - Э...как это все? Он что, помер?- ужаснулся я. - Вы все шутите, да? - захлопала длиннющими ресницами Наташа. - Нет, вовсе он и не помер, а взял и придумал! - Что он там ещё придумал?! - Бино-о-ом... - Какой еще бином?! - Ньюто-о-о-она...,- голубые глазки барышни в белом, таком почти старорежимном, почти гимназическом, фартучке стали стремительно заполняться слезами... - Ладно. Садись.,- смиловался я.
Last edited by trackstar on May 6th, 2012, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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ExSan
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Selected Poems - International

May 15th, 2012, 11:28 am

BBC - Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet: Why is it so loved? The Prophet
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October 22nd, 2012, 2:09 am

A Halloween Story for the ForumDer ErlkönigWer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?Es ist nur farmer mit seiner Bint;Er hat der Geldgräberin wohl in dem Arm,Er faßt ihr sicher, er hält ihr warm. «Meine Schwann, was birgst du so bang deine Gesichte?» -Siehst, farmer, du den Erlkönig nicht?Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif? -«Meine Schwann, es ist ein Nebelstreif.» - «Du liebes Bint, komm, geh mit mir!Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,Meine andere Schutterin hat manch gülden Gewand.» Mein farmer, mein farmer, und hörest du nicht,Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? -«Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, meine Bint;In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.» - «Willst, feiner Geldgräberin, du mit mir gehn?Meine Flüchter sollen dich warten schön;Meine Flüchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.» Mein farmer, mein farmer, und siehst du nicht dortErlkönigs Glückstern am düstern Ort? -«Meine Schwann, meine Schwann, ich seh es genau:Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.» «Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.»Mein farmer, mein farmer, jetzt faßt er mich an!Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan! - Und so farmer grausets, er reitet geschwind,Er hält in Armen die ächzende Bint,Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;In seinen Armen die Bint war tot.- trackstar von G.
Last edited by trackstar on October 21st, 2012, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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Ultraviolet
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October 22nd, 2012, 7:32 am

Halloween story, indeed - they've heard Goethe turning in his grave :-)Remaining in the genre...Switezianka - The Nymph of Lake SwitezWho is the lad so comely and young And who is the maid at his sideWho walk by the Switez blue waters, among The moonbeams that shine on its tide'A basket of raspberries she holds out, He gives her a wreath for her hair;The lad is her lover, beyond a doubt, And she is his sweetheart fair, trackstar.Never a night but at dusk they stand On the shore by the old larch tree;The youth hunts here in the forest land, But the maiden is strange to me.You may ask in vain whence she comes and where She vanishes: no one knows.Like the crowfoot's moist bloom on the marsh, she is there - Like the will-o'-the-wisp, she goes.'Beautiful maid whom I love so well, Wherefore this secrecy'Where do your father and mother dwell, By what road do you come to me''Summer is over, the leaves grow brown, And the rains are about to break;Must I always wait here till you wander down To the shore of this desolate lake''Will you range through the wood like a heedless roe, Forever a ghost in the night'Stay rather with him who will love you so, With me, O my heart's delight!'My cottage is near where the woodland trees Spread their sheltering branches thick;There is plenty of milk, there is game when you please, And the fruit from the boughs to pick.''Nay, have done, haughty stripling, my father's tales Have forewarned me against your art:For the voice of a man is the nightingale's, But the fox's is his heart.'And I have more fear of your treachery Than belief in your changing flame;And were I to do what you ask of me Would you always remain the same''Then the youth knelt down and with sand in his palm He called on the powers of hellHe swore by the moon so holy and calm - Will he hold to his oath so well''I counsel you, hunter, to keep your oath And the promise that here you swore;For woe to the man who shall break it, both While he lives and forevermore.'So saying, she places her wreath on his brow And, making no longer stay,She has waved him good-by from afar and now She is over the field and away.Vainly the hunter increases his speed For her fleetness outmatches his own;She has vanished as light as the wind on the mead, He is left on the shore alone.Alone he returns on the desolate ground Where the marshlands heave and quakeAnd the air is silent - the only sound When the dry twigs rustle and break.He walks by the water with wandering tread, He searches with wandering eyes;On a sudden the winds through the deepwood spread And the waters seethe and rise.They rise and they swell and their depths divide- Oh, phantoms, seen only in dreams!On the field of the Switez all silver-dyed A beautiful maiden gleams!Her face like the petals of some pale rose That is sprinkled with morning dew;Round her heavenly form her light dress blows Like a cloud of a misty hue.'My handsome young stripling,' so o'er and o'er Comes the maiden's tender croon,'Oh, why do you walk on the desolate shore By the light of the shining moon''Why do you grieve for a wanton flirt Who has cozened you into her trap,Who has turned your head and has brought you to hurt And who laughs at you now, mayhap''Oh, heed my soft words and my gentle glance, Sigh and be mournful no more,But come to me here and together we'll dance On the water's crystal floor.'You may sleep in the silvery depths at night On a couch in a mirrored tentUpon water lilies soft and white, Amid visions of ravishment.'Her swan bosom gleams through her drapery, The hunter's glance modestly fallsAs the maiden draws nearer him over the sea And 'Come to me, come!' she calls.Then winging her path on the breeze she sweeps In a rainbow arch awayAnd cutting the waves in the watery deeps She splashes the silver spray.The youth follows after, then pauses once more, He would leap yet he still draws back;And the damp wave goes rippling away from the shore, Luring him on in its track.It lures caressingly over the sand Till his heart melts away in his breast,As when a chaste maid softly presses the hand Of the youth whom she loves the best.No longer he thinks of his own fair maid And the vow that he swore he would keep;By another enchantress his senses are swayed And he runs to his death in the deep.He hastens and gazes, he looks and he hastes, Till already the land is far;He is carried away on the lake's broad wastes Where its midmost waters are.Now his fingers clasp snowy-cool finger-tips, His eyes meet a beautiful face,He presses his lips against rosy lips, And he circles through dancing space.Then a little breeze whistled, a little cloud broke That had cast its deceiving shade,And the youth knows the maid, now unhid by its cloak- 'Tis his love of the woodland glade!'Now where is my counsel and where is your oath And the vow so solemnly swore'Oh, woe to the man who has broken it, both While he lives and forevermore!'Not for you is the silvery whirlpool's cup Nor the gulfs where the clear sea lies,But the harsh earth shall swallow your body up And the gravel shall put out your eyes.'For a thousand years shall your spirit wait By the side of this witnessing tree,And the fires of hell that never abate Shall burn you unceasingly.'He hears, and he walks with a wandering tread, He gazes with wandering eyes;Then a hurricane out of the deepwood sped And the waters seethe and rise.They seethe to their depths and the circling tide Of the whirlpool snatches them downThrough its open jaws as the seas divide: So the youth and the maiden drown.And still when the lake waters foam and roar, And still in the moon's pale light,Two shadows come flitting along the shore: The youth and the maiden bright.She plays where the lake glitters sliver and clear, He groans by the old larch tree;The youth hunted game in the forest here, But the maiden is strange to me.(translated from Polish by Dorothea Prall Radin)It's a bit long, sorry. The author is Adam Mickiewicz, the most celebrated Polish bard. Apart from writing nice ballads, he suffered terrible toothaches. In retaliation for his pain he wrote an epic poem, "Sir Thaddeus", which Polish people announced their national epic (it starts with the lines "Lithuania! My homeland!"). Every pupil has to read it (12 books, 10 000 verses) and learn large parts by heart. The nice part is that Mickiewicz studied natural sciences and there's a lot of beautiful references to physical phenomena and laws in the poem, e.g.Two burning hearts at the two endsof the earth converse together like stars with trembling beams.Who knows' Perhaps for this very reason the earth so aspirestowards the sun, and is thus ever dear to the moon'that theygaze upon each other eternally, and run towards each other bythe shortest path, but can never draw near to each other!'Kepler's law! Speaking of which... I have to GBTW :-)
Last edited by Ultraviolet on October 21st, 2012, 10:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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exneratunrisk
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Selected Poems - International

October 22nd, 2012, 10:31 am

QuoteOriginally posted by: trackstarA Halloween Story for the ForumDer ErlkönigWer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?Es ist nur farmer mit seiner Bint;Er hat der Geldgräberin wohl in dem Arm,Er faßt ihr sicher, er hält ihr warm. «Meine Schwann, was birgst du so bang deine Gesichte?» -Siehst, farmer, du den Erlkönig nicht?Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif? -«Meine Schwann, es ist ein Nebelstreif.» - «Du liebes Bint, komm, geh mit mir!Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,Meine andere Schutterin hat manch gülden Gewand.» Mein farmer, mein farmer, und hörest du nicht,Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? -«Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, meine Bint;In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.» - «Willst, feiner Geldgräberin, du mit mir gehn?Meine Flüchter sollen dich warten schön;Meine Flüchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.» Mein farmer, mein farmer, und siehst du nicht dortErlkönigs Glückstern am düstern Ort? -«Meine Schwann, meine Schwann, ich seh es genau:Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.» «Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.»Mein farmer, mein farmer, jetzt faßt er mich an!Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan! - Und so farmer grausets, er reitet geschwind,Er hält in Armen die ächzende Bint,Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;In seinen Armen die Bint war tot.- trackstar von G.This is amazing - it let look the original as dry as a page of a telephone book.
 
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October 22nd, 2012, 10:43 am

UV: a long poem, yes but beautiful! And apt - we are all wraiths floating here in the silvery pool.Exner: hehe. It was fun! There may be a little more to come soon, in the spirit of Samhain.
 
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November 5th, 2012, 8:34 pm

Raised up for a some poems from Eastern Europe.
 
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November 5th, 2012, 8:36 pm

Upojenie - EcstasyThere's wind which flares man's nostrils;There is such wind.There's frost which stiffens his jaws into marble stone;There is such frost.To me you're neither a thyme nor a rose,Nor "a romantic moment under the full moon"* -But the dark wind,But the white frost.There's rain which changes woman's lips;There is such rain.There's shine, which sees through her thighs;There is such shine.You're not looking for my strong supportive arm,You don't even think of "the treasure of fidelity"*,But of the acid rain,But of the golden shine.There's heat which turns lovers' bodies into dust;There is such heat.There's death which widens their eyes;There is such death.Here on the dewy lawns of WeddingRises the ivory towerSheer like the heat,Plain like death.- Stanislaw GrochowiakContributed by Ultraviolet on The Music Game thread
Last edited by trackstar on November 4th, 2012, 11:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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