Am surprised no- one's mentioned the love poems of Pablo Neruda. Here are a couple of my favourites, (in translation from Spanish):
LOVE SONNETS
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
Your hands, the colour of a savage harvest,
Hunger for the pale stones of your finger nails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
The sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
And I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
Hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
If I die, survive me with such sheer force
That you waken the Furies of the pallid and the cold,
From south to south lift your indelible eyes,
I don't want your laughter or your steps to waver,
I don't want my heritage of joy to die.
Don't call upon my person. I am absent.
Live in my absence as if in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
That inside you will pass through its walls
And hang pictures in the air.
Absence is a house so transparent
That I, lifeless, will see you living,
That if you suffer, my love, I will die again.
Favourite Poetry
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fable
- Posts: 30676
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- Location: The sun, the moon, and the stars.
- Contact:
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name;
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
----William Butler Yeats
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name;
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
----William Butler Yeats
To the Righteous belong the fruits of violent victory. The rest of us will have to settle for warm friends, warm lovers, and a wink from a quietly supportive universe.
Blake
How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
...And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
...Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
...And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
...And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
...And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
...Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
...And mocks my loss of liberty.
And one i forgot the author of:
While chopping a spring onion,
She made a mental note...
You know it's love, for real
When you dream of slitting his throat
How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
...And tasted all the summer's pride,
'Till I the prince of love beheld,
...Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He shew'd me lilies for my hair,
...And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
...And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
...And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
...Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
...And mocks my loss of liberty.
And one i forgot the author of:
While chopping a spring onion,
She made a mental note...
You know it's love, for real
When you dream of slitting his throat
"Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas"
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
ELEVATION
Above the ponds, beyond the valleys,
The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas,
Farther than the sun, the distant breeze,
The spheres that wilt to infinity
My spirit, you move with agility
And, like a good swimmer who swoons in the wave
You groove the depths immensity gave,
The inexpressible and male ecstasy.
From this miasma of waste,
You will be purified in superior air
And drink a pure and divine liqueur,
A clear fire to replace the limpid space
Behind this boredom and fatigue, this vast chagrin
Whose weight moves the mists of existence,
Happy is he who vigorously fans the senses
Toward serene and luminous fields—wincing!
The one whose thoughts are like skylarks taken wing
Across the heavens mornings in full flight
—Who hovers over life, understanding without effort
The language of flowers and mute things.
Charles Baudelaire
Above the ponds, beyond the valleys,
The woods, the mountains, the clouds, the seas,
Farther than the sun, the distant breeze,
The spheres that wilt to infinity
My spirit, you move with agility
And, like a good swimmer who swoons in the wave
You groove the depths immensity gave,
The inexpressible and male ecstasy.
From this miasma of waste,
You will be purified in superior air
And drink a pure and divine liqueur,
A clear fire to replace the limpid space
Behind this boredom and fatigue, this vast chagrin
Whose weight moves the mists of existence,
Happy is he who vigorously fans the senses
Toward serene and luminous fields—wincing!
The one whose thoughts are like skylarks taken wing
Across the heavens mornings in full flight
—Who hovers over life, understanding without effort
The language of flowers and mute things.
Charles Baudelaire
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
THE SORROWS OF THE MOON
This evening, the moon dreams more of laziness
Than beauty; on cotton cushions she rests,
Her discreet hand gives a slight caress,
Before going to sleep, to the contour of her breasts,
On the back of satin avalanches, she dies,
Surrendering herself in long, slow swoons,
And running her eyes over azure skies,
The white visions rising like blooms.
When, sometimes over this globe, in her languor
She lets out a furtive tear,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep, comes,
And in the hollow of his hand takes her pale tears,
Like fragments of opal from her iris mirrors,
And hides them in his heart, far from the eyes of the sun.
Charles Baudelaire
This evening, the moon dreams more of laziness
Than beauty; on cotton cushions she rests,
Her discreet hand gives a slight caress,
Before going to sleep, to the contour of her breasts,
On the back of satin avalanches, she dies,
Surrendering herself in long, slow swoons,
And running her eyes over azure skies,
The white visions rising like blooms.
When, sometimes over this globe, in her languor
She lets out a furtive tear,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep, comes,
And in the hollow of his hand takes her pale tears,
Like fragments of opal from her iris mirrors,
And hides them in his heart, far from the eyes of the sun.
Charles Baudelaire
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dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
@Scayde,
You are welcome, *hug*
Baudelaire is one of my favourite poets... His work, like Chan's, is beautiful.. dark... intense...
You are welcome, *hug*
Baudelaire is one of my favourite poets... His work, like Chan's, is beautiful.. dark... intense...
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fable
- Posts: 30676
- Joined: Wed Mar 14, 2001 12:00 pm
- Location: The sun, the moon, and the stars.
- Contact:
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--William Butler Yeats
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
--William Butler Yeats
To the Righteous belong the fruits of violent victory. The rest of us will have to settle for warm friends, warm lovers, and a wink from a quietly supportive universe.
-
Georgi
- Posts: 11288
- Joined: Sat Apr 21, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: Can't wait to get on the road again...
- Contact:
The Rider
Hooves thundered down the cobbled street,
Behind locked doors, men took afright,
The rider not a soul did greet,
But onward plunged into the night.
His path led on, without delay,
Beyond all thought of time or place,
Save for one task; the burden stays
Etched grimly on the rider's face.
The cruel wind lashed his weary form,
Against his cheek it whipped the rain,
This rider, no more than a pawn
In ancient gods' abandoned game.
Pitch black the hood that masked the man,
A visage few would e'er behold,
While beads of sweat unheeded ran
Over his brow both grave and bold.
A heavy torc of tarnished bronze
Hangs round his neck, his former pride,
But now it weighs him down, he longs
To cast it off and turn aside.
The sight that haunts the rider's mind,
On battlefield in distant lands,
when searching, his king for to find,
A fallen man stretched out his hands.
From bloodstained earth he lifts a crown,
Caked in mud, but no less royal,
Upon the head he sets it down,
The actions of a soldier loyal.
Brief recognition in those eyes,
A last command is whispered low,
A final rasping breath he sighs,
Leaving nought but tales of woe.
A moment more the man kneels there,
Then bids farewell to comrades brae,
These tidings ill are his to bear,
O'er craggy rock and crashing wave.
The enemy had proved too strong,
Their victory horns around him crowed,
As bards would later tell in song,
He sprang upon his horse and rode.
A speck on the horizon grows,
Offering hope of long-earned rest,
With every step, the rider knows
He nears the end of his long quest.
Yet drawing close, the rider slows,
Uncomprehending of the sight,
While high above there circle crows,
O'er ruins, in the waxing light.
The crumbled walls of olden court,
Assailed by the centuries' rage,
The city which the rider sought,
Now remnants of a bygone age.
The news he brought of king's demise,
from far abroad, where none yet roam,
Is scant concern to one who lies
Entombed beneath the grass of home.
His gaze alights upon a grave,
All but choked by weeds and moss,
The death of which no word he gave,
Is mourned here; the kingdom's loss.
His eye then spies a second tomb,
Drawn hither by a glint of bronze,
Adorning the stone which seals his doom,
That torc now famed in epic song.
Past and present merge as one,
Beyond the grasp of dawn's harsh light,
The rider's battle never won,
E'ermore he passes through the night.
Hooves thundered down the cobbled street,
Behind locked doors, men took afright,
The rider not a soul did greet,
But onward plunged into the night.
His path led on, without delay,
Beyond all thought of time or place,
Save for one task; the burden stays
Etched grimly on the rider's face.
The cruel wind lashed his weary form,
Against his cheek it whipped the rain,
This rider, no more than a pawn
In ancient gods' abandoned game.
Pitch black the hood that masked the man,
A visage few would e'er behold,
While beads of sweat unheeded ran
Over his brow both grave and bold.
A heavy torc of tarnished bronze
Hangs round his neck, his former pride,
But now it weighs him down, he longs
To cast it off and turn aside.
The sight that haunts the rider's mind,
On battlefield in distant lands,
when searching, his king for to find,
A fallen man stretched out his hands.
From bloodstained earth he lifts a crown,
Caked in mud, but no less royal,
Upon the head he sets it down,
The actions of a soldier loyal.
Brief recognition in those eyes,
A last command is whispered low,
A final rasping breath he sighs,
Leaving nought but tales of woe.
A moment more the man kneels there,
Then bids farewell to comrades brae,
These tidings ill are his to bear,
O'er craggy rock and crashing wave.
The enemy had proved too strong,
Their victory horns around him crowed,
As bards would later tell in song,
He sprang upon his horse and rode.
A speck on the horizon grows,
Offering hope of long-earned rest,
With every step, the rider knows
He nears the end of his long quest.
Yet drawing close, the rider slows,
Uncomprehending of the sight,
While high above there circle crows,
O'er ruins, in the waxing light.
The crumbled walls of olden court,
Assailed by the centuries' rage,
The city which the rider sought,
Now remnants of a bygone age.
The news he brought of king's demise,
from far abroad, where none yet roam,
Is scant concern to one who lies
Entombed beneath the grass of home.
His gaze alights upon a grave,
All but choked by weeds and moss,
The death of which no word he gave,
Is mourned here; the kingdom's loss.
His eye then spies a second tomb,
Drawn hither by a glint of bronze,
Adorning the stone which seals his doom,
That torc now famed in epic song.
Past and present merge as one,
Beyond the grasp of dawn's harsh light,
The rider's battle never won,
E'ermore he passes through the night.
Who, me?!?
-
Vicsun
- Posts: 4547
- Joined: Mon Dec 25, 2000 12:00 pm
- Location: liberally sprinkled in the film's opening scene
- Contact:
You feel adequate to the demands of this position?
What qualities do you feel you
Personally have to offer?
Ah
Let us consider your aplication form.
Your qualifications, though impressive are
Not, we must admint, precisely what
We had in mind. Would you care
To defend their relevance?
Indeed
Now your age. Perhaps you feel able
To make your own comment about that
Too? We are concious ourselves
Of the need for a candidate with precisely
The right degree of immaturity
So glad we agree
And now a delicate matter: your looks.
You do appreciate this work involves
Contact with the actual public? Might they,
Perhaps, find your appearance
Disturbing?
Quite so
And your accent. That is the way
You have always spoken, is it? What
Of your education? Were
You educated? We mean, of course,
Where were you educated?
And how
Much of a handicap is that to you,
Would you say?
Married, children,
We see. The usual dubious
Desire to perpetuate what had better
Not have happened at all. We do not
Ask what domestic disasters shimmer
Behind that vaguely unsuitable adress.
And you were born - ?
Yes. Pity.
So glad we agree.
-UA Fanthorpe
What qualities do you feel you
Personally have to offer?
Ah
Let us consider your aplication form.
Your qualifications, though impressive are
Not, we must admint, precisely what
We had in mind. Would you care
To defend their relevance?
Indeed
Now your age. Perhaps you feel able
To make your own comment about that
Too? We are concious ourselves
Of the need for a candidate with precisely
The right degree of immaturity
So glad we agree
And now a delicate matter: your looks.
You do appreciate this work involves
Contact with the actual public? Might they,
Perhaps, find your appearance
Disturbing?
Quite so
And your accent. That is the way
You have always spoken, is it? What
Of your education? Were
You educated? We mean, of course,
Where were you educated?
And how
Much of a handicap is that to you,
Would you say?
Married, children,
We see. The usual dubious
Desire to perpetuate what had better
Not have happened at all. We do not
Ask what domestic disasters shimmer
Behind that vaguely unsuitable adress.
And you were born - ?
Yes. Pity.
So glad we agree.
-UA Fanthorpe
Vicsun, I certainly agree with your assertion that you are an unpleasant person. ~Chanak
I can't be bothered to post the entire "The Hunting of The Snark", so instead I present...
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
Ozymandias
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
Here where the flattering and mendacious swarm
Of lying epitaths their secrets keep,
At last incapable of further harm
The lewd forefathers of the village sleep.
Of lying epitaths their secrets keep,
At last incapable of further harm
The lewd forefathers of the village sleep.
Ah poetry - dear to my heart yet I have not given it much time these past few years. I enjoy several American poets - but Galway Kinnell has always been a favorite:
Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
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