Harbringer
Your A One Flower Garden
Its direct and finite, whats there to evoke? It was clever I suppose, but lacks and kind of depth, everyone gets the same thing from it pretty much.
What is poetry?
- Thread starter Agent327
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Its direct and finite, whats there to evoke? It was clever I suppose, but lacks and kind of depth, everyone gets the same thing from it pretty much.
Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
metaphor is but one of several forms of figuration.
The epigram, in its modern form, because in its original Greek form it was an epitaph, carved on the gravestone, requires a point - and therefore wit. It also is supposed to be concise. Yet, without metaphor or figurative speech it can still be evocative.
Quem recitas meus est, o Fidentine, libellus:
sed male cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.
(Liber I, XXXVIII)
Again, Michie translates:
They're mine, but when a fool like you recites
my poems I resign the author's right.
And:
Nuper erat medicus, nunc est vispillo Diaulus:
quod vispillo facit, fecerat et medicus.
(Liber I, XLVII)
Diaulus, recently phycian,
has set up as mortician:
no change, though, in the clients' condition.
What does this evoke? Well, apart from the obvious wit, Martialis' epigrams evoke two things at least: life in Rome, as seen by a poet living off his reputation. Unlike the great epic of, say, Vergilius, Martialis is the master of the mundane. Nowadays we may think nothing much of it, but at his time Martialis ventured into a world neglected by the great poets of the age. He uses slander, gossip, ridicule and wit to paint a picture of his surroundings, mixing pseudonyms - he wasn't stupid - with the use of great names - Caesar features in his workl- though not in the same epigram, obviously.
How does he do it?
Nuper erat medicus, nunc est vispillo Diaulus:
quod vispillo facit, fecerat et medicus
Literally:
Recently was [a] doctor, now is [a] mortician Diaulus
what [the] mortician does, did also [the] doctor.
Yes, it's clever wordplay, but it's more than that: in two simple lines some society event is ridiculed. Now why would readers put up with that?
Basically, because it's funny: Martialis was the poetic equivalent of a stand-up comedian. No grand visions here: Martialis knows what he's good at and that's wording a keen observation with poetic wit. Feel free not to like it, but in the epigrammatic genre, Martialis is a master.
Another poem featured, like Yeats' A coat, on one of the walls in my hometown, is this ode:
O navis, referent in mare te novi
fluctus. O quid facis? fortiter occupa
portum, nonne vides ui
nudum remigio latus
et malus celeri saucius Africo
antemnaeque gemant ac sine funibus
vix durare carinae
possint imperiosius
sequor? Non tibi sunt integrae lintea,
non di, quos iterum pressa voces malo,
quamvis Pontica pinus,
silvae filia nobilis,
iactes et genus et nomen inutile:
nil pictis timidus navita puppibus
fidit. Tu nisi ventis
debes ludibrium, cave.
Nuper sollicitum quae mihi taedium,
nunc desiderium curaque non levis,
interfusa nientis
vites aequora Cycladas.
Horatius, Carmini libri I, XIV
In translation:
O ship, new waves will carry you back
to sea. O what do you do? Rather turn
to port. Do you not see how
denuded of oars the side is
and how mast and rigging moan
under a southwesterly storm, how the keel,
devoid of rope, can hardly
withstand the violent waves?
Nor your sail is whole,
nor the gods which you invoked against misfortune.
Though Pontian pine,
daughter of the famed forest,
name and proud heritage are useless:
a fearful sailor has no faith in the painted aft.
You, lest becoming
the winds' plaything , beware!
Recently my burden,
now my tender loving care,
stay clear of the sea spreading
around Cycladic shimmering.
Traditionally this ode's subject is seen as the ship of state; but it can also be read literally: Horatius addresses the ship, in peril at sea, as if it were a person - providing personification as a form of figuration.
O navis, referent in mare te novi
fluctus. O quid facis? fortiter occupa
portum, nonne vides ui
nudum remigio latus
et malus celeri saucius Africo
antemnaeque gemant ac sine funibus
vix durare carinae
possint imperiosius
sequor? Non tibi sunt integrae lintea,
non di, quos iterum pressa voces malo,
quamvis Pontica pinus,
silvae filia nobilis,
iactes et genus et nomen inutile:
nil pictis timidus navita puppibus
fidit. Tu nisi ventis
debes ludibrium, cave.
Nuper sollicitum quae mihi taedium,
nunc desiderium curaque non levis,
interfusa nientis
vites aequora Cycladas.
Horatius, Carmini libri I, XIV
In translation:
O ship, new waves will carry you back
to sea. O what do you do? Rather turn
to port. Do you not see how
denuded of oars the side is
and how mast and rigging moan
under a southwesterly storm, how the keel,
devoid of rope, can hardly
withstand the violent waves?
Nor your sail is whole,
nor the gods which you invoked against misfortune.
Though Pontian pine,
daughter of the famed forest,
name and proud heritage are useless:
a fearful sailor has no faith in the painted aft.
You, lest becoming
the winds' plaything , beware!
Recently my burden,
now my tender loving care,
stay clear of the sea spreading
around Cycladic shimmering.
Traditionally this ode's subject is seen as the ship of state; but it can also be read literally: Horatius addresses the ship, in peril at sea, as if it were a person - providing personification as a form of figuration.
Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There's still figuration in them. Again, metaphor does not exhaust figuration. There seems to be irony as well as synecdoche (in a wide sense).
While it is probable that names like Fidentinus, Diaulus and Naevia - like Catullus' Lesbia - merely figure as (arche-)types rather than actual persons, Martialis' observations most likely refer to social situations known to his fellow Roman citizens. Moreover, the figuration, by Martalis' time, had already itself developed into certain archetypes. For instance the southerly wind in Horatius' ode, although literally referring to Africa. The ode itself was also inspired by Greek examples (Greek being the language used by the Roman upper class), such as this from around 600 BC by Alkaios or Alcaeus:
No more can I tell the way the wind is blowing,
for now from the right the wave is coming,
then from the left, and we in the middle
go where the ship carries us,
battling hard against the force of the storm;
already water circles the foot of the mast
and the once mighty sail
is shredded into great pieces.
I cannot quote the Greek original here unfortunately, but from these verses it is already clear that Horatius' version is more vivid in detail, partly - or particularly - by his use of figuration. Where Alkaios paints the scene of a ship (perhaps, again, the ship of state) in danger, Horatius actually talks to the ship as to a friend in need.
The synecdoche (perhaps better known as pars pro toto) is much more clear in Horatius' use of the "Pontian pine" as a metaphore for the ship itself - being made of wood. Irony is ofcourse always present in Martialis' epigrams, mocking not only his fellow citizens, but occasionally his own person as well.
No more can I tell the way the wind is blowing,
for now from the right the wave is coming,
then from the left, and we in the middle
go where the ship carries us,
battling hard against the force of the storm;
already water circles the foot of the mast
and the once mighty sail
is shredded into great pieces.
I cannot quote the Greek original here unfortunately, but from these verses it is already clear that Horatius' version is more vivid in detail, partly - or particularly - by his use of figuration. Where Alkaios paints the scene of a ship (perhaps, again, the ship of state) in danger, Horatius actually talks to the ship as to a friend in need.
The synecdoche (perhaps better known as pars pro toto) is much more clear in Horatius' use of the "Pontian pine" as a metaphore for the ship itself - being made of wood. Irony is ofcourse always present in Martialis' epigrams, mocking not only his fellow citizens, but occasionally his own person as well.
Correspondances
La nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme une nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
Il est des parfums frais comme de chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.
(18211867)[/FONT]
La nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme une nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
Il est des parfums frais comme de chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.
Correspondences
Nature is a temple where living pillars
Let escape sometimes confused words;
Man traverses it through forests of symbols
That observe him with familiar glances.
Like long echoes that intermingle from afar
In a dark and profound unity,
Vast like the night and like the light,
The perfumes, the colors and the sounds respond.
There are perfumes fresh like the skin of infants
Sweet like oboes, green like prairies,
And others corrupted, rich and triumphant
That have the expanse of infinite things,
Like ambergris, musk, balsam and incense,
Which sing the ecstasies of the mind and senses.. . .
[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]Charles Baudelaire[/FONT][FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]Let escape sometimes confused words;
Man traverses it through forests of symbols
That observe him with familiar glances.
Like long echoes that intermingle from afar
In a dark and profound unity,
Vast like the night and like the light,
The perfumes, the colors and the sounds respond.
There are perfumes fresh like the skin of infants
Sweet like oboes, green like prairies,
And others corrupted, rich and triumphant
That have the expanse of infinite things,
Like ambergris, musk, balsam and incense,
Which sing the ecstasies of the mind and senses.. . .
(18211867)[/FONT]
From the old to the new; I've used Baudelaire's Correspondances because of the following fragment of C.P. Cavafy (in Greek: Kavafis or Kavefes Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης) (April 29, 1863–April 29,1933), the Alexandrine poet, which is quoted in The New York Review of Books of November 20, from Correspondences according to Baudelaire:
Do not believe only what you see.
The vision of poets is sharper still.
To them, Nature is a familiar garden.
In a shadowed paradise, those other
people grope along the cruel road...
Cavafy/Kavafis is a relatively modern Greek, living most of his life in Anglo-Egyptian Alexandria, whose subjects range from christianity and Graeco-Roman history to (his own) homosexuality; his poetry is characterized by, besides the use of the sonnet as well as more free verse, irony and a sustained melancholy. Here's an example in full:
Waiting for the barbarians
What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?
The barbarians are due here today.
Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?
Because the barbarians are coming today.
What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.
Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city’s main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.
Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.
Why don’t our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.
Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?
Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.
And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
At least those people were a solution.
Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard (corrected by me)
Do not believe only what you see.
The vision of poets is sharper still.
To them, Nature is a familiar garden.
In a shadowed paradise, those other
people grope along the cruel road...
Cavafy/Kavafis is a relatively modern Greek, living most of his life in Anglo-Egyptian Alexandria, whose subjects range from christianity and Graeco-Roman history to (his own) homosexuality; his poetry is characterized by, besides the use of the sonnet as well as more free verse, irony and a sustained melancholy. Here's an example in full:
Waiting for the barbarians
What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?
The barbarians are due here today.
Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?
Because the barbarians are coming today.
What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.
Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city’s main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.
Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.
Why don’t our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?
Because the barbarians are coming today
and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.
Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?
Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.
And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
At least those people were a solution.
Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard (corrected by me)Speaking of poets' vision, here's an example of Hölderlin, perhaps best described as a romantic mystic:
Sokrates und Alcibiades
Warum huldigest du, heiliger Sokrates,
diesem Junglinge stets? kennest du Größers nicht?
warum siehst mit Liebe,
wie auf Götter, dein Aug auf ihn?-
Wer das tiefste gedacht, liebt das Lebendigste,
hohe Jugend versteht, wer in die Welt geblickt,
und es neigen die Weisen
oft am Ende zu Schönem sich.
Socrates and Alcibiades
Why hallow, holy Socrates,
this young one constantly? Do you know nothing greater?
Why looketh with love,
as upon gods, thine eye ontoward him?
Whoever thought the deepest, loves the livingmost,
high youth understands, who's seen the world,
and the wise in the end
often turn to beauty.
To the modern reader this may appear as having a strong homosexual content; but that's not what it's about. Apart from the obvious admiration for the ancients ('holy Socrates'), Hölderlin is more concerned with beauty, which, in the case of Socrates, is obvious in the young, ambitious Alcibiades. 'Jungling' can also be translated as disciple, what might even be more accurate, seeing as the philosopher Socrates taught - and was condemned to death by the Spartan-instigated Athenian tyranny for the 'socratic' manner in which he did - the young, among which was Plato, who immortalized his socratic dialogues (although he used these in part to further his own philosophical thought).
Next up: another ancient Greek, introduced by an epigram ascribed to Plato, to be followed by a poem of Nietzsche.
Sokrates und Alcibiades
Warum huldigest du, heiliger Sokrates,
diesem Junglinge stets? kennest du Größers nicht?
warum siehst mit Liebe,
wie auf Götter, dein Aug auf ihn?-
Wer das tiefste gedacht, liebt das Lebendigste,
hohe Jugend versteht, wer in die Welt geblickt,
und es neigen die Weisen
oft am Ende zu Schönem sich.
Socrates and Alcibiades
Why hallow, holy Socrates,
this young one constantly? Do you know nothing greater?
Why looketh with love,
as upon gods, thine eye ontoward him?
Whoever thought the deepest, loves the livingmost,
high youth understands, who's seen the world,
and the wise in the end
often turn to beauty.
To the modern reader this may appear as having a strong homosexual content; but that's not what it's about. Apart from the obvious admiration for the ancients ('holy Socrates'), Hölderlin is more concerned with beauty, which, in the case of Socrates, is obvious in the young, ambitious Alcibiades. 'Jungling' can also be translated as disciple, what might even be more accurate, seeing as the philosopher Socrates taught - and was condemned to death by the Spartan-instigated Athenian tyranny for the 'socratic' manner in which he did - the young, among which was Plato, who immortalized his socratic dialogues (although he used these in part to further his own philosophical thought).
Next up: another ancient Greek, introduced by an epigram ascribed to Plato, to be followed by a poem of Nietzsche.
Perfection
The Great Head.
EXPLAIN "THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET" THEN, MR. SMARTY PANTS!
I'd like to remind posters this is a poetry thread. The - rhetorical* - question 'What is poetry?' needs to be answered by quoting poems, preferably in full, and discussion should focus on their content or the writers thereoff - which does not including the use of posts in capitals or attempts to insult fellow CFC members. Posters who cannot abide by forum rules will be reported. Thank you.
*Rhetorical because they are the first words of the first poem cited.
*Rhetorical because they are the first words of the first poem cited.
Anyway, there has been an allusion by Catullus, who translated one of her poems into Latin as in antiquity: Sappho was commonly regarded as the greatest, or one of the greatest, of lyric poets. An epigram in the Anthologia Palatina (9.506) ascribed to Plato states:
Some say the Muses are nine: how careless!
Look, there's Sappho too, from Lesbos, the tenth.
(Quoted from Wikipedia Sappho entry)
Her work survives in fragments, some larger, most just single lines or a couple of words at most. Here are two of them:
16
Some the army of cavalry, others of infantry
or of ships say upon this
dark earth
that is the fairest. But
I say fairest is that: whoever you love.
It's easy to make this
clear to all.
For she who far surpassed
all human beings in beauty, Helen
abandoned the finest man
and to Troy
sailed,
and neither her child nor
her beloved parents thought her, not for a moment [ ].
This made me now think of
Anaktoria, not being here anymore, Oh I wish I could see the enamoring step
and the shiny glare of her face, rather than Lydians' chariots and infantry's
battles and armor.
47
Love shook my soul, like on the mountain the wind upon the oaks falls.
φίλτατον Γαίας γένος Ὀρράνω τε
ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ΄ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιστον͵ ἔγω δὲ κῆν΄ ὄτ
τω τις ἔραται·
πά]γχυ δ΄ εὔμαρες σύνετον πόησαι
π]άντι τ[ο]ῦτ΄͵ ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περσκέθοισα
κάλλος [ἀνθ]ρώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τὸν [ ]στον
καλλ[ίποι]σ΄ ἔβα ΄ς Τροΐαν πλέοι[σα
κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων
πά[μπαν] ἐμνάσθη͵ ἀλλὰ παράγαγ΄ αὔταν
]σαν
]αμπτον γὰρ [
]κούφως τ[ ]οη[]ν
]με νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]νέμναι
σ΄ οὐ ] παρεοίσας͵
τᾶ]ς κε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα
κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα κἀν ὄπλοισι
[πεσδομ]άχεντας.
47
Ἔρος δ΄ ἐτίναξέ μοι φρένας͵ ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.
(From the Elpenor Anthology: Sappho, 8 fragments, translated by Elpenor and H.T. Wharton)
Some say the Muses are nine: how careless!
Look, there's Sappho too, from Lesbos, the tenth.
(Quoted from Wikipedia Sappho entry)
Her work survives in fragments, some larger, most just single lines or a couple of words at most. Here are two of them:
16
Some the army of cavalry, others of infantry
or of ships say upon this
dark earth
that is the fairest. But
I say fairest is that: whoever you love.
It's easy to make this
clear to all.
For she who far surpassed
all human beings in beauty, Helen
abandoned the finest man
and to Troy
sailed,
and neither her child nor
her beloved parents thought her, not for a moment [ ].
This made me now think of
Anaktoria, not being here anymore, Oh I wish I could see the enamoring step
and the shiny glare of her face, rather than Lydians' chariots and infantry's
battles and armor.
47
Love shook my soul, like on the mountain the wind upon the oaks falls.
φίλτατον Γαίας γένος Ὀρράνω τε
ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ΄ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν
ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιστον͵ ἔγω δὲ κῆν΄ ὄτ
τω τις ἔραται·
πά]γχυ δ΄ εὔμαρες σύνετον πόησαι
π]άντι τ[ο]ῦτ΄͵ ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περσκέθοισα
κάλλος [ἀνθ]ρώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα
τὸν [ ]στον
καλλ[ίποι]σ΄ ἔβα ΄ς Τροΐαν πλέοι[σα
κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδος οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων
πά[μπαν] ἐμνάσθη͵ ἀλλὰ παράγαγ΄ αὔταν
]σαν
]αμπτον γὰρ [
]κούφως τ[ ]οη[]ν
]με νῦν Ἀνακτορί[ας ὀ]νέμναι
σ΄ οὐ ] παρεοίσας͵
τᾶ]ς κε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα
κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προσώπω
ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα κἀν ὄπλοισι
[πεσδομ]άχεντας.
47
Ἔρος δ΄ ἐτίναξέ μοι φρένας͵ ὠς ἄνεμος κὰτ ὄρος δρύσιν ἐμπέτων.
(From the Elpenor Anthology: Sappho, 8 fragments, translated by Elpenor and H.T. Wharton)
Perfection
The Great Head.
I am implicitly quoting poetry here (The Man from Nantucket is a quite famous poem), it's only because of its graphic content that avoid posting it in full here.
The ALLCAPS and "insult" are just for humor value, everybody knows that Fifty and I are soulmates and hold each other in upmost regard.
Really, my point is that figurative language might not be the best characteristic of poetry, an extremely effective figurative passage can not be poetry if it doesn't appeal to the sensual qualities of the spoken word. Poetry isn't written, it's spoken.
The oral or vocal tradition is older than the literal tradition obviously. For instance, it is improbable that Homer was the actual author of the Iliad and Odyssey, rather the collector of various oral traditions. Anyway, more poetry, as stated. Here's an example of Nietzsche (put to music powerfully in Mahler's 9th symphony, by the way), explicity quoted:
O Mensch! Gib acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
"Ich schlief, ich schlief -,
aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht: -
Die Welt ist tief,
und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh -,
Lust - tiefer noch als Herzeleid:
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit -,
- will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!"
(Also sprach Zarathustra, IV, Das Trunkene Lied)
O Man! Take heed!
What says deep midnight?
"I slept, I slept -,
woke up up from deep dream: -
the world is deep,
and deeper than the day had thought.
Deep is her pain -,
desire - deeper still than heartbreak:
Pain says: Go away!
But all desire wants eternity -,
- wants deep, deep eternity!"
(Thus spoke Zarathustra, IV, The drunken song)
Not a profound poem by any standard - despite the recurrence of the word deep - and perhaps not what one would expect by a philologist turned philosopher. It's clear that Nietzsche isn't known as a great poet, though he has written quite a few poems. But ofcourse I've taken this example out of context, which is the narrative of Thus spoke Zarathustra and it is quite rightly known as The drunken song.
O Mensch! Gib acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
"Ich schlief, ich schlief -,
aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht: -
Die Welt ist tief,
und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh -,
Lust - tiefer noch als Herzeleid:
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit -,
- will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!"
(Also sprach Zarathustra, IV, Das Trunkene Lied)
O Man! Take heed!
What says deep midnight?
"I slept, I slept -,
woke up up from deep dream: -
the world is deep,
and deeper than the day had thought.
Deep is her pain -,
desire - deeper still than heartbreak:
Pain says: Go away!
But all desire wants eternity -,
- wants deep, deep eternity!"
(Thus spoke Zarathustra, IV, The drunken song)
Not a profound poem by any standard - despite the recurrence of the word deep - and perhaps not what one would expect by a philologist turned philosopher. It's clear that Nietzsche isn't known as a great poet, though he has written quite a few poems. But ofcourse I've taken this example out of context, which is the narrative of Thus spoke Zarathustra and it is quite rightly known as The drunken song.
I'd hoped to find a New Year's Day poem - I did not. (I did find a poetic recipe for writing a New Year's poem.) So instead, some 'light verse', beginning with an
Epitaphe
Here lies Simplicius: all he did,
meant and where he went in the end
with four words one can easily commend:
he slept, he ate, he drank, he died.
P.G. Witsen Geysbeek (1774-1833)
followed by a
Rhyme
As example God created
the industrious ant.
His second creation, even better:
the anteater.
A.H. Kossmann (1922-2003)
and concluding with:
A cricket, really?
This night of winterly frost
a brave little voice.
Issa
Epitaphe
Here lies Simplicius: all he did,
meant and where he went in the end
with four words one can easily commend:
he slept, he ate, he drank, he died.
P.G. Witsen Geysbeek (1774-1833)
followed by a
Rhyme
As example God created
the industrious ant.
His second creation, even better:
the anteater.
A.H. Kossmann (1922-2003)
and concluding with:
A cricket, really?
This night of winterly frost
a brave little voice.
Issa
From Russia:
Love
Now, like a little snake, it curls into a ball,
bewitching your heart,
then for days it will coo like a dove
on the little white windowsill.
Or it will flash as bright frost,
drowse like a gillyflower...
But surely and stealthily it will lead you away
from joy and tranquillity.
It knows how to sob so sweetly
in the prayer of a yearning violin,
and how fearful to divine it
in a still unfamiliar smile.
November 24, 1911
Tsarskoye Selo
A poem by Anna Akhmatova (translation Judith Hemschemeyr, from the Complete poems edition), with Osip Mandelstam co-founder of the acmeist movement, to set themselves apart from the symbolists. She wasn't allowed to publish from 1922-1940, but was later rehabilitated.
Love
Now, like a little snake, it curls into a ball,
bewitching your heart,
then for days it will coo like a dove
on the little white windowsill.
Or it will flash as bright frost,
drowse like a gillyflower...
But surely and stealthily it will lead you away
from joy and tranquillity.
It knows how to sob so sweetly
in the prayer of a yearning violin,
and how fearful to divine it
in a still unfamiliar smile.
November 24, 1911
Tsarskoye Selo
A poem by Anna Akhmatova (translation Judith Hemschemeyr, from the Complete poems edition), with Osip Mandelstam co-founder of the acmeist movement, to set themselves apart from the symbolists. She wasn't allowed to publish from 1922-1940, but was later rehabilitated.
Bigfoot3814
Deity
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!
"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Sept 28th, 1841
I like this poem because it tells a story and it reflects on the power of the human spirit et cetera.
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!
"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Sept 28th, 1841
I like this poem because it tells a story and it reflects on the power of the human spirit et cetera.
That is the best piece of poetry so far quoted.
Poetry must have rhyme and meter.
Poetry must have rhyme and meter.
http://etext.virginia.edu/stc/Coleridge/poems/Rime_Ancient_Mariner.html
Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Jeelen I want you to know that I appreciate this thread very much and looked forward to participating in it further but comments like these:
from other posters make me feel insulted and as a result I will no longer post in this thread.
EXPLAIN "THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET" THEN, MR. SMARTY PANTS!
from other posters make me feel insulted and as a result I will no longer post in this thread.
I'm sorry to hear that, as I intend to correct posters who do not take this thread seriously. (As I have done with named post.) I take poetry very seriously and would ask you to reconsider, as I really appreciate your support.
