Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Nov 8, 2018 16:32:19 GMT -5
Somnambule Ballad
by Federico García Lorca, 1924
Green, how much I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship upon the sea and the horse in the mountain. With the shadow on her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, hair of green, and eyes of cold silver. Green, how much I want you green. Beneath the gypsy moon, all things look at her but she cannot see them.
Green, how much I want you green. Great stars of white frost come with the fish of darkness that opens the road of dawn. the fig tree rubs the wind with the sandpaper of its branches, and the mountain, a filching cat, bristles its bitter aloes. But who will come? and from where? She lingers on her balcony, green flesh, hair of green, dreaming of the bitter sea.
—Friend, I want to change my horse for your house, my saddle for your mirror, my knife for your blanket, Friend, I come bleeding, from the passes of Cabra. —If I could, young man, this pact would be sealed. But I am no more I, nor is my house now my house. —Friend, I want to die decently in my bed, Of iron, if it be possible, with sheets of fine holland. Do you not see the wound I have from my breast to my throat? —Your white shirt bears three hundred dark roses. Your pungent blood oozes around your sash. But I am no more I, nor is my house now my house. —Let me climb at least up to the high balustrade: let me come! Let me come! up to the green balustrades. Balustrades of the moon where the water resounds.
Now the two friends go up towards the high balustrades. Leaving a trail of blood, leaving a trail of tears, Small lanterns of tin were trembling on the roofs. A thousand crystal tambourines were piercing the dawn.
Green, how much I want you green, green wind, green branches. The two friends went up. The long wind was leaving in the mouth a strange taste of gall, mint and sweet-basil. Friend! Where is she, tell me, where is your bitter girl? How often she waited for you! How often did she wait for you, cool face, black hair, on this green balcony!
Over the face of the cistern the gypsy girl swayed. Green flesh, hair of green, with eyes of cold silver. An icicle of the moon suspends her above the water. The night became as intimate as a little square. Drunken civil guards were knocking at the door. Green, how much I want you green, Green wind. Green branches. The ship upon the sea. And the horse on the mountain.
(translated by Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili)
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Nov 15, 2018 11:54:06 GMT -5
VI
Thirty years in this world
I wandered ten thousand miles,
By rivers, buried deep in grass,
In borderlands, where red dust flies.
Tasted drugs, still not Immortal,
Read books, wrote histories.
Now I’m back at Cold Mountain,
Head in the stream, cleanse my ears.
-Han Shan (translated by A.S. Kline)
|
|
|
POEMS
Nov 15, 2018 18:11:43 GMT -5
Post by Jean Luc de Lemur on Nov 15, 2018 18:11:43 GMT -5
You say the leg supports the body But have you never seen The seed in the ankle Whence the body grows?
You say (if you are the builder of bridges I think you are) each pose Must have its natural equilibrium But have you never seen Recalcitrant muscles of dancers Hold their unnatural own?
You say (is as rational As I hope you are) the biped’s evolution Was accomplished long ago But have you never seen The still miraculous sign A little in from the hip Predicting nine inches below Bodies fork in two?
Then let us look together (We who both know Light’s the go-between Of space and time) Let us look at this figure To verify I my goddess And you the stress.
Think in terms of bridges. See, the road of leg and back Hingeing at hip and shoulder Holds firm from palm to heel Single leg as pier Thigh above knee Cantilevering member.
Think in terms of bridges Over what men once called Lethe. See, the ordinary body we cross through Vulnerable, inhabited, warm Stands the strain too. Dead Load, Live Load And Longitudinal Drag.
So let the bridge this dancer arches for us Stand the strain of all old prejudice So let’s verify again, You my goddess And I the stress.
—John Berger
|
|
|
POEMS
Nov 29, 2018 6:45:15 GMT -5
Trurl likes this
Post by Prole Hole on Nov 29, 2018 6:45:15 GMT -5
Reposting from the Things I Saw Outside Today thread, in regard of the Forth Bridge and in the style of William McGonagall:
I set off in darkness, and drive down a road, Leaving behind my fair cosy abode. Onwards and onwards the tress will slide past, As I motor down streets both first and last. I head for the silvery water, and on, There to employment on the other side yon. For as I drive onwards out there to my work, I see something looming out of the murk. A broad and proud structure, and glittering red, In dawn's early sunlight, it straddles the thread, Of silvery water, the Forth down below, The trains rumble over, you know where they go. Coming from Edinburgh, heading to Fife, Bringing your husband, son, daughter, or wife. Oh noble structure, from 19th century, You let all us fair Scots roam this country free, Well not quite free coz it's fucking expensive, But at least we travel this land so expansive. And see all the sights of fair Caledonia, To the Forth Bridge we owe it, seeing places afar. Then it passes by and slips behind my fair car, The beautifully designed engineering star, So impressive a span, you're the representation. Of the engineering genius of this, our fair nation.
- Prole Hole
|
|
|
Post by Gamblin' Telly on Nov 29, 2018 7:09:57 GMT -5
No toilet within miles or so Boy, I'm lucky I don't have to go
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2018 23:31:09 GMT -5
Need
What do we need for love—a midnight fire Flinging itself by fistfuls up the chimney In soft bright snatches? Do we need the snow, Gentle as silence, covering the scars Of weeks of hunger, years of shabby having? Summer or winter? A heaven of stars? A room? The smiling mouth, the sadness of desire Are everywhere the same. If lovers go Along an unknown road, they find no less What is familiar. Let them stay at home, And all will still be strange. This they know Who with each heartbeat fight the fear of change.
-Babette Deutsch
|
|
Crash Test Dumbass
AV Clubber
ffc what now
Posts: 7,058
Gender (additional): mostly snacks
|
POEMS
Dec 9, 2018 20:21:39 GMT -5
Post by Crash Test Dumbass on Dec 9, 2018 20:21:39 GMT -5
Families when a child is born Hope it will be born intelligent. I, through intelligence Having wrecked my whole life, Only hope the baby will prove Ignorant and stupid. Then he'll be happy all his days And grow into a Cabinet Minister.
Su Dongpo, 1094 CE
|
|
dwarfoscar
TI Forumite
it's complicated
Posts: 503
|
Post by dwarfoscar on Dec 23, 2018 22:40:27 GMT -5
It was not good in my garden that year It was not good in my garden I am not brave I am a merchant My trade was bad for me But for my family And for my fearful son Drake It sure looked like bravery But it was not good in my garden that year It was not good in my garden
|
|
|
Post by Roy Batty's Pet Dove on Feb 11, 2019 19:37:42 GMT -5
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
POEMS
Mar 10, 2019 11:52:09 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2019 11:52:09 GMT -5
Creation Myth
Say you grew here, your mother a restless gust rising and falling into tangles of bare branches
Say your first word was “light” and your father tried to make you a paper god, all blonde hair and endless ignition
Say the words behind you beat back a ragged silence, winding roads into the shattered heart of the world
Say the horizon curves and bends people back, here, beside you, waiting for the sign to begin
|
|
|
Post by Mr. Greene's October Surprise on Mar 11, 2019 6:23:11 GMT -5
One fragrant memory may mould a destiny; One regret may dim life's sunshine. Those precious moments, cherished through the years, Cause hearts to sigh, through their tears...
Love, your magic spell is everywhere; Love, I knew you well, and found you fair -- Then you left me and I laughed at fate; Now, I ask... "Is it too late?"
Love, your melody is in the air -- Yet I call you, and you are not there! Come, here is my heart! My soul, to mate; Make me forget the voice that whispers... "Wait!"
|
|
patbat
TI Forumite
OK です か
Posts: 2,396
|
Post by patbat on Mar 21, 2019 13:47:59 GMT -5
Bloody Orkney
This bloody town's a bloody cuss No bloody trains, no bloody bus, And no one cares for bloody us In bloody Orkney.
The bloody roads are bloody bad, The bloody folks are bloody mad, They'd make the brightest bloody sad, In bloody Orkney.
All bloody clouds, and bloody rains, No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains, The Council's got no bloody brains, In bloody Orkney.
Everything's so bloody dear, A bloody bob, for bloody beer, And is it good? - no bloody fear, In bloody Orkney.
The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old, The bloody seats are bloody cold, You can't get in for bloody gold In bloody Orkney.
The bloody dances make you smile, The bloody band is bloody vile, It only cramps your bloody style, In bloody Orkney.
No bloody sport, no bloody games, No bloody fun, the bloody dames Won't even give their bloody names In bloody Orkney.
Best bloody place is bloody bed, With bloody ice on bloody head, You might as well be bloody dead, In bloody Orkney
There's nothing greets your bloody eye But bloody sea and bloody sky, 'Roll on demob!' we bloody cry In bloody Orkney.
--Hamish Blair
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Mar 26, 2019 11:38:03 GMT -5
Here's a belated 100th birthday poetry thread tribute to one of my all-time favorite poets.
A Coney Island of the Mind, 28
Dove sta amore
Where lies love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
In lyrical delight
Hear love’s hillsong
Love’s true willsong
Love’s low plainsong
Too sweet painsong
In passages of night
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
--Lawrence Ferlinghetti
|
|
patbat
TI Forumite
OK です か
Posts: 2,396
|
Post by patbat on Mar 27, 2019 12:54:59 GMT -5
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone, Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws The only shadow that the Desert knows:— "I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone, "The King of Kings; this mighty City shows "The wonders of my hand."— The City's gone,— Naught but the Leg remaining to disclose The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder,—and some Hunter may express Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace, He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess What powerful but unrecorded race Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
--Horace Smith
|
|
|
Post by Jean Luc de Lemur on Mar 29, 2019 15:47:29 GMT -5
The official guardians’ axes have spread through a thousand hills, At the Works Department’s order hacking rafter-beams and billets. Of ten trunks cut in the woodlands’ depths, only one gets hauled away. Ox-teams strain at their traces—till the paired yoke-shafts break, Great-girthed trees of towering height lie blocking the forest tracksm A tumbled confusion of lumber, as flames on the hillside crackle, Not even the last remaining shrubs are safeguarded from destruction; Where once the mountain torrents leapt—nothing but rutted gullies. Timbers, not yet seasoned or used, left immature to rot; Proud summits and deep-sunk gorges—now brief hummocks of naked rock.
—Liu Zongyuan (don’t know the translator, but this one of the earliest descriptions—and political critiques—of anthropogenic environmental change, from the Tang Dynasty)
|
|
|
Post by Jean Luc de Lemur on Apr 3, 2019 1:41:45 GMT -5
Fire on shore, a lone boat spends the night, Fishermen’s houses, there evening birds return. Vast and empty, Heaven and Earth grow dark, The heart calm as the broad stream.
—Wang Wei
|
|
Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
|
Post by Deleted on Apr 18, 2019 12:41:20 GMT -5
Spring
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
|
|
|
Post by songstarliner on Apr 18, 2019 18:49:19 GMT -5
The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
-Philip Larkin
|
|
patbat
TI Forumite
OK です か
Posts: 2,396
|
Post by patbat on Jun 14, 2019 19:57:59 GMT -5
the South speaks her mind (a draft)
Stop talking about me like I'm not here.
Stop stroking my hair and wrapping your lips around my darlins and honeys while you tell me you know what's best for me, I will bless my own heart, thank you very much
Stop assuming I am white and complacent, stop running your mouth about my level of education, stop joking that you should have let me secede, that I'm what happens when sisters and brothers breed
I am not a rape joke, not your cousin who's "a little slow," I have been carving a path through these mountains and turning herbs into blood from vagina since before you could pronounce the word abortion
This porch in muggy mosquito weather is for talking strategy, not gossip, licking resistance off my fingers from my vegan jackfruit barbeque - don't act surprised
Your two cents is worth about as much as the sugar packets you give me for your cold unsweet tea, it's not my fault you don't understand solubility,
You wear your condescension like a sombrero on Cinco de Mayo, scoffing at me until you want some good biscuits or a backroad photo op,
I am not your fairweather friend, I am not one of those pennies smashed into a souvenir, imprinted with what is quaint and what you'd like to remember,
My accent is not "cute," it is imbued with folk wisdom and freedom songs, do you know how much paper and marker is plastered on the walls of church fellowship halls, scribbles in the shape of ideas you think you taught us,
We can hear you talking behind our backs, but not over our heads, would you hand me the bug spray, sweetheart, so I can protect myself from your bloodsucking,
You're just like these damn mosquitos, taking what tastes good, sucking it through a self-righteous reusable straw, and leaving nothing but a swollen, useless itch.
--Summer Awad
|
|
|
Post by St. Sextquisite on Aug 27, 2019 15:52:16 GMT -5
Mitigated by the manner of his speech. Diminished, dulled, a weapon blunted. My voice is a Claymore, rusted, faded. Demoralized, detained in its scabbard. Defenestration, disenfranchised. dour. Dire is a malady, affliction, most grim. My approach is dialectical, a weakness. Detachment is met with craven threat. Depressed, despondent, demoralized. Determined to battle to the bitter end.
- St. Exquisite
|
|
|
Post by St. Sextquisite on Apr 10, 2020 0:29:36 GMT -5
Fortuna Fights Her Final Campaign
Windows closed by burnt siena shades reveals an acrid glow. Incense stained with mildew and car grease linger in the flow. The cards are shuffled not once but six times, you prefer to drink. Its not a game, nor a time to gamble with your coat of mink. But these cards revealed to you are anything but mere frivolity. They are the tarot, special clues that help shape or mold destines to unfold If you are dealt the right set of cards, you may find fate breaking the mold You take another drink and light your Cuban, pondering unto all.
Old souls are idling about, a feeling not felt since the last days of Gaul. Ancient rites reborn, tears are seen rhapsodically trinkling down your face. Will the Wheel of Fortune find fate affixed to your lingering hope. But Death and the Tower appear and now I fear all is mope. These are now visions of family and friends dying alone in medical wards They are thrown into mass graves that are reminiscent of London 1666, o' lords Please dealer, please be kind, deal them a card so they'll find better times, better places. But the card is never dealt and the tarot now have blank faces. They soon go all up in flames and you solemnly continue to drink and smoke And you drink and you smoke, And you drink and you smoke, and watch them all march off to die. A parade of Dying God's at Twilight's Midnight Hour.
|
|
|
Post by Desert Dweller on Apr 20, 2020 1:19:30 GMT -5
I'm loving a book of Octavio Paz poetry that someone gave me at Christmas. This version has the Spanish and English translations. Wonderful.
As One Listens To The Rain
Listen to me as one listens to the rain, not attentive, not distracted, light footsteps, thin drizzle, water that is air, air that is time, the day is still leaving, the night has yet to arrive, figurations of mist at the turn of the corner, figurations of time at the bend in this pause, listen to me as one listens to the rain, without listening, hear what I say with eyes open inward, asleep with all five senses awake, it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables, air and water, words with no weight: what we are and are, the days and years, this moment, weightless time and heavy sorrow, listen to me as one listens to the rain, wet asphalt is shining, steam rises and walks away, night unfolds and looks at me, you are you and your body of steam, you and your face of night, you and your hair, unhurried lightning, you cross the street and enter my forehead, footsteps of water across my eyes, listen to me as one listens to the rain, the asphalt's shining, you cross the street, it is the mist, wandering in the night, it is the night, asleep in your bed, it is the surge of waves in your breath, your fingers of water dampen my forehead, your fingers of flame burn my eyes, your fingers of air open eyelids of time, a spring of visions and resurrections, listen to me as one listens to the rain, the years go by, the moments return, do you hear the footsteps in the next room? not here, not there: you hear them in another time that is now, listen to the footsteps of time, inventor of places with no weight, nowhere, listen to the rain running over the terrace, the night is now more night in the grove, lightning has nestled among the leaves, a restless garden adrift-go in, your shadow covers this page.
Original:
Óyeme como quien oye llover, ni atenta ni distraída, pasos leves, llovizna, agua que es aire, aire que es tiempo, el día no acaba de irse, la noche no llega todavía, figuraciones de la niebla al doblar la esquina, figuraciones del tiempo en el recodo de esta pausa, óyeme como quien oye llover, sin oírme, oyendo lo que digo con los ojos abiertos hacia dentro, dormida con los cinco sentidos despiertos, llueve, pasos leves, rumor de sílabas, aire y agua, palabras que no pesan: lo que fuimos y somos, los días y los años, este instante, tiempo sin peso, pesadumbre enorme, óyeme como quien oye llover, relumbra el asfalto húmedo, el vaho se levanta y camina, la noche se abre y me mira, eres tú y tu talle de vaho, tú y tu cara de noche, tú y tu pelo, lento relámpago, cruzas la calle y entras en mi frente, pasos de agua sobre mis párpados, óyeme como quien oye llover, el asfalto relumbra, tú cruzas la calle, es la niebla errante en la noche, es la noche dormida en tu cama, es el oleaje de tu respiración, tus dedos de agua mojan mi frente, tus dedos de llama queman mis ojos, tus dedos de aire abren los párpados del tiempo, manar de apariciones y resurrecciones, óyeme como quien oye llover, pasan los años, regresan los instantes, ¿oyes tus pasos en el cuarto vecino? no aquí ni allá: los oyes en otro tiempo que es ahora mismo, oye los pasos del tiempo inventor de lugares sin peso ni sitio, oye la lluvia correr por la terraza, la noche ya es más noche en la arboleda, en los follajes ha anidado el rayo, vago jardín a la deriva entra,
tu sombra cubre esta página.
|
|
patbat
TI Forumite
OK です か
Posts: 2,396
|
Post by patbat on May 13, 2020 16:55:07 GMT -5
Stubborn Ounces
You say the little efforts that I make will do no good: they never will prevail to tip the hovering scale where Justice hangs in the balance.
I don't think I ever thought they would. But I am prejudiced beyond debate in favor of my right to choose which side shall feel the stubborn ounces of my weight.
--Bonaro Overstreet
|
|
|
POEMS
Jun 4, 2020 14:17:17 GMT -5
Post by St. Sextquisite on Jun 4, 2020 14:17:17 GMT -5
David Lynch Dreams of Apnea - St. Exquisite My hand is on the steering wheel My right hand is gripping the wheel My left hand intimates the feel The journey ahead is calculable, finite. It stretches out for minute distances And then it languidly tightens the screws When you've reached terminal midnite Emotionally, physically, psychically You begin to feel the unseen cracks
My hand is on the steering wheel My right hand rests gently on the wheel Fading in, fading out. seeking to espy truth My left hand turns on the cruising speed Simple tasks soon become insurmountable The picture you make is a flickering feed And the scenes were erroneously crafted You find moments of dreams interspersed ..in media res of your own car crash.
|
|
billy
TI Forumite
"Coming for you...and your family!"
Posts: 157
|
POEMS
Jan 26, 2024 12:30:23 GMT -5
Post by billy on Jan 26, 2024 12:30:23 GMT -5
I stopped to listen, but he did not come. I began again with a sense of loss. As this sense deepened I heard him again. I stopped stopping and I stopped starting, and I allowed myself to be crushed by ignorance. This was a strategy, and didn’t work at all. Much time, years were wasted in such a minor mode. I bargain now. I offer buttons for his love. I beg for mercy. Slowly he yields. Haltingly he moves toward his throne. Reluctantly the angels grant to one another permission to sing. In a transition so delicate it cannot be marked, the court is established on beams of golden symmetry, and once again I am a singer in the lower choirs, born fifty years ago to raise my voice this high, and no higher.
(Leonard Cohen, Poem 1 from “Book of Mercy)
|
|