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Favorite Poems/Poets


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407 replies to this topic

#61 Jaqen the FatManderly

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Posted 12 March 2009 - 11:30 PM

Everything Saint-Exupery wrote is poetry, especially if it's prose.

"Où sont les hommes?" reprit enfin le petit prince. "On est un peu seul dans le désert... "
"On est seul aussi chez les hommes", dit le serpent.



I love Longfellow, like Coleridge, Herbert, Herrick, Burns, Macauley.... it's a long list.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.


Here war is simple like a monument:
A telephone is speaking to a man;
Flags on a map assert that troops were sent;
A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan

For living men in terror of their lives,
Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon,
And can be lost and are, and miss their wives,
And, unlike an idea, can die too soon.

But ideas can be true although men die,
And we can watch a thousand faces
Made active by one lie:

And maps can really point to places
Where life is evil now:
Nanking; Dachau.



#62 mashiara

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Posted 12 March 2009 - 11:35 PM

I posted this elsewhere on the board recently, I read it a few days ago and it still seems powerful in its simplicity.


"The Uses of Sorrow"
Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

#63 Jaqen the FatManderly

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Posted 12 March 2009 - 11:55 PM

Jumping on the Donne bandwagon. Since his love poems have had a turn in the sun, here's one of his Holy Sonnets:
...
ETA: Okay, my humble apologies, just one more - this post is longer than I planned. From Auden's As I Walked Out One Evening:

So I go back and read the thread and someone else has quoted the same Donne and another Auden in one post! :cheers:

#64 Prue

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Posted 14 March 2009 - 12:01 AM

Reklame (Ingeborg Bachmann, 1956)

Wohin aber gehen wir
OHNE SORGE SEI OHNE SORGE
wenn es dunkel und wenn es kalt wird
SEI OHNE SORGE
aber
MIT MUSIK
was sollen wir tun
HEITER UND MIT MUSIK
und denken
HEITER
angesichts eines Endes
MIT MUSIK
und wohin tragen wir
AM BESTEN
unsere Fragen und den Schauer aller Jahre
IN DIE TRAUMWÄSCHEREI OHNE SORGE SEI OHNE SORGE
was aber geschieht
AM BESTEN
wenn Todesstille
eintritt

---
translation (by me)

Advertisement

But wherever shall we go
DON'T WORRY JUST DON'T YOU WORRY
when it's growing dark and cold
DON'T YOU WORRY
but
WITH MUSIC
whatever shall we do
MERRILY AND WITH MUSIC
and think
MERRILY
facing an End
WITH MUSIC
and wherever shall we carry
BEST
our questions and the shivers of all our years
INTO THE LAUNDRY OF DREAMS DON'T WORRY JUST DON'T YOU WORRY
but whatever will happen
BEST
when the Stillness of Death
comes

Edited by Prue, 14 March 2009 - 01:45 AM.


#65 Sci-2

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Posted 05 February 2012 - 07:26 PM

Something TP said in General Chatter made me think of this:

"...We are insensate molecules,
assembled from the accidental
code engraved upon our genes.
Mud that sat up.
Chemicals mingle in our
sediment and in their
interactions and combustions
we suppose we feel
suppose we love.
We reproduce, mathematically
predictable as spores within
a petri dish.
We function briefly then
subside once more to the
unknowing silt.
We are a blind contingency,
an unimportant restlessness
of dirt and yet Rossetti
paints his dead Elizabeth,
head tilted back on her
impossibly slim throat, eyes
closed against the golden light surrounding her.
Clay looks on clay and
understands that it is
beautiful.
Through us, the cosmos gazes
on itself, adores itself,
breaks its own heart.
Through us, matter stares
slack-jawed at its own
star-dusted countenance
and knows, incredulously,
that it knows.
And knows that it is
universe."
- Alan Moore

#66 Alexia

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Posted 06 February 2012 - 11:51 AM

Julia de Burgos is my favorite poet, and this is probably my single favorite poem ever. English translation below...

Ay, ay, ay de la grifa negra

Ay, ay, ay, that am kinky-haired and pure black
kinks in my hair, Kafir in my lips;
and my flat nose Mozambiques.

Black of pure tint, I cry and laugh
the vibration of being a black statue;
a chunk of night, in which my white
teeth are lightning;
and to be a black vine
which entwines in the black
and curves the black nest
in which the raven lies.
Black chunk of black in which I sculpt myself,
ay, ay, ay, my statue is all black.

They tell me that my grandfather was the slave
for whom the master paid thirty coins.
Ay, ay, ay, that the slave was my grandfather
is my sadness, is my sadness.
If he had been the master
it would be my shame:
that in men, as in nations,
if being the slave is having no rights
being the master is having no conscience.

Ay, ay, ay wash the sins of the white King
in forgiveness black Queen.
Ay, ay, ay, the race escapes me
and buzzes and flies toward the white race,
to sink in its clear water;
or perhaps the white will be shadowed in the black.

Ay, ay, ay my black race flees
and with the white runs to become bronzed;
to be one for the future,
fraternity of America!

Her most famous poem is To Julia de Burgos and I quite like that one as well (it is quoted in my signature line). But I have a special love for this one, nonetheless.

And... I totally did not notice how old this thread is! Thread necromancy FTW. /wink.png' class='bbc_emoticon' alt=';)' />

Edited by Alexia, 06 February 2012 - 12:17 PM.


#67 Sci-2

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Posted 06 February 2012 - 02:51 PM

Great poem. I stumbled across this thread, and it seemed off on topic as opposed to where I saw TP's post in Love, Universe, Everything.

ETA: making sense.

Edited by sciborg2, 06 February 2012 - 02:52 PM.


#68 Mark Lawrence

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Posted 07 February 2012 - 07:26 AM

Morri Creech (a friend from undergrad):



Here's a dark poem by Morri:

http://www.nea.gov/f...er.php?id=07_03

The poem:


Very good, I thought.

#69 Minaku

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Posted 07 February 2012 - 12:46 PM

Scot, I am stunned by how good your friend's poetry is. Count me in as a fan!

I'm also on the John Donne bandwagon.

My favorite poet is eec, and my favorite poem of his (I have many) is somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond. eec at his romantic finest. Here is eec reading it: http://www.youtube.c...h?v=uWcuGo0rEFo

I don't love all of Sylvia Plath's work, but this one poem of hers struck me hard with its bitterness and desolation.

Lesbos


Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The bastard's a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet sex like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.


Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: "Through?
Gee baby, you are rare."
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.


O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.


Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and sucking, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. "Every woman's a whore.
I can't communicate."


I see your cute decor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.


Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.


#70 Sci-2

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Posted 10 February 2012 - 04:23 AM

Book of Isaiah

By Anne Carson

I.
Isaiah awoke angry.
Lapping at Isaiah’s ears black birdsong no it was anger.
God had filled Isaiah’s ears with stingers.
Once God and Isaiah were friends.
God and Isaiah used to converse nightly, Isaiah would rush into the garden.
They conversed under the Branch, night streamed down.
From the sole of the foot to the head God would make Isaiah ring.
Isaiah had loved God and now his love was turned to pain.
Isaiah wanted a name for the pain, he called it sin.
Now Isaiah was a man who believed he was a nation.
Isaiah called the nation Judah and the sin Judah’s condition.
Inside Isaiah God saw the worldsheet burning.
Isaiah and God saw things differently, I can only tell you their actions.
Isaiah addressed the nation.
Man’s brittleness! cried Isaiah.
The nation stirred in its husk and slept again.
Two slabs of bloody meat lay folded on its eyes like wings.
Like a hard glossy painting the nation slept.
Who can invent a new fear?
Yet I have invented sin, thought Isaiah, running his hand over the knobs.
And then, because of a great attraction between them—
which Isaiah fought (for and against) for the rest of his life—
God shattered Isaiah’s indifference.
God washed Isaiah’s hair in fire.
God took the stay.
From beneath its meat wings the nation listened.
You, said Isaiah.
No answer.
I cannot hear you, Isaiah spoke again under the Branch.
Light bleached open the night camera.
God arrived.
God smashed Isaiah like glass through every socket of his nation.
Liar! said God.
Isaiah put his hands on his coat, he put his hand on his face.
Isaiah is a small man, said Isaiah, but no liar.
God paused.
And so that was their contract.
Brittle on both sides, no lying.
Isaiah’s wife came to the doorway, the doorposts had moved.
What’s that sound? said Isaiah’s wife.
The fear of the Lord, said Isaiah.
He grinned in the dark, she went back inside.
II.
There is a kind of pressure in humans to take whatever is most beloved by them
and smash it.
Religion calls the pressure piety and the smashed thing a sacrifice to God.
Prophets question these names.
What is an idol?
An idol is a useless sacrifice, said Isaiah.
But how do you know which ones are useless? asked the nation in its genius.
Isaiah pondered the various ways he could answer this.
Immense chunks of natural reality fell out of a blue sky
and showers of light upon his mind.
Isaiah chose the way of metaphor.
Our life is a camera obscura, said Isaiah, do you know what that is?
Never heard of it, said the nation.
Imagine yourself in a darkened room, Isaiah instructed.
Okay, said the nation.
The doors are closed, there is a pinhole in the back wall.
A pinhole, the nation repeated.
Light shoots through the pinhole and strikes the opposite wall.
The nation was watching Isaiah, bored and fascinated at once.
You can hold up anything you like in front of that pinhole, said Isaiah,
and worship it on the opposite wall.
Why worship an image? asked the nation.
Exactly, said Isaiah.
The nation chewed on that for a moment.
Then its genius spoke up.
So what about Isaiah’s pinhole?
Ah, said Isaiah.
A memory fell through him as clear heat falls on herbs.
Isaiah remembered the old days, conversing with God under the Branch
and like an old butler waking in an abandoned house the day the revolution began,
Isaiah bent his head.
A burden was upon Isaiah.
Isaiah opened his mouth.
A sigh came from Isaiah’s mouth, the sigh grew into a howl.
The howl ran along the brooks to the mouth of the brooks
and tore the nets of the fishers who cast angle into the brooks
and confounded the workers in fine flax who weave networks
and broke their purpose.
The howl rolled like a rolling thing past slain men and harvests and spoils
and stopped in a ditch between two walls.
Then Isaiah unclamped his mouth from the howl.
Isaiah let his mouth go from the teat.
Isaiah turned, Isaiah walked away.
Isaiah walked for three years naked and barefoot with buttocks uncovered
to the shame of the nation.
All night you could see the Branch roaming against the sky like a soul.
III.
Isaiah walked for three years in the valley of vision.
In his jacket of glass he crossed deserts and black winter mornings.
The icy sun lowered its eyelids against the glare of him.
God stayed back.
Now Isaiah had a hole in the place where his howl had broken off.
All the while Isaiah walked, Isaiah’s heart was pouring out the hole.
One day Isaiah stopped.
Isaiah put his hand on the amputated place.
Isaiah’s heart is small but in a way sacred, said Isaiah, I will save it.
Isaiah plugged the hole with millet and dung.
God watched Isaiah’s saving action.
God was shaking like an olive tree.
Now or never, whispered God.
God reached down and drew a line on the floor of the desert in front of Isaiah’s feet.
Silence began.
Silence roared down the canals of Isaiah’s ears into his brain.
Isaiah was listening to the silence.
Deep under it was another sound Isaiah could hear miles down.
A sort of ringing.
Wake up Isaiah! said God from behind Isaiah’s back.
Isaiah jumped and spun around.
Wake up and praise God! said God smiling palely.
Isaiah spat.
God thought fast.
The nation is burning! God cried pointing across the desert.
Isaiah looked.
All the windows of the world stood open and blowing.
In each window Isaiah saw a motion like flames.
Behind the flames he saw a steel fence lock down.
Caught between the flames and the fence was a deer.
Isaiah saw the deer of the nation burning all along its back.
In its amazement the deer turned and turned and turned
until its own shadow lay tangled around its feet like melted wings.
Isaiah reached out both his hands, they flared in the dawn.
Poor flesh! said Isaiah.
Your nation needs you Isaiah, said God.
Flesh breaks, Isaiah answered. Everyone’s will break, There is nothing we can do.
I tell you Isaiah you can save the nation.
The wind was rising, God was shouting.
You can strip it down, start over at the wires, use lions! use thunder! use what you see—
Isaiah was watching sweat and tears run down God’s face.
Okay, said Isaiah, so I save the nation. What do you do?
God exhaled roughly.
I save the fire, said God.
Thus their contract continued.
IV.
When Isaiah came back in from the desert centuries had passed.
There was nothing left of Isaiah but a big forehead.
The forehead went rolling around the nation and spoke to people who leapt to their feet
and fled.
If the nation had taken Isaiah to court he could have proven his righteousness.
But they met in secret and voted to cut him off.
Shepherds! Chosen ones! Skinny dogs! Blood of a dog! Watchmen all! said Isaiah.
Isaiah withdrew to the Branch.
It was a blue winter evening, the cold bit like a wire.
Isaiah laid his forehead on the ground.
God arrived.
Why do the righteous suffer? said Isaiah.
Bellings of cold washed down the Branch.
Notice whenever God addresses Isaiah in a feminine singular verb something dazzling is
about to happen.
Isaiah what do you know about women? asked God.
Down Isaiah’s nostrils bounced woman words:
Blush. Stink. Wife. Fig. Sorceress—
God nodded.
Isaiah go home and get some sleep, said God.
Isaiah went home, slept, woke again.
Isaiah felt sensation below the neck, it was a silk and bitter sensation.
Isaiah looked down.
It was milk forcing the nipples open.
Isaiah was more than whole.
I am not with you I am in you, said the muffled white voice of God.
Isaiah sank to a kneeling position.
New pain! said Isaiah.
New contract! said God.
Isaiah lifted his arms, milk poured out his breasts.
Isaiah watched the milk pour like strings.
It poured up the Branch and across history and down into people’s lives and time.
The milk made Isaiah forget about righteousness.
As he fed the milk to small birds and animals Isaiah thought only about their little lips.
God meanwhile continued to think about male and female.
After all there are two words for righteousness, Isaiah could not be expected to untie this
hard knot himself.
First the masculine word TSDQ, a bolt of justice that splits the oak in two.
Then in the empty muscle of the wood, mushrooms and maggots and monkeys set up a
livelihood:
here is (the feminine word) TSDQH.
God grave the two words on Isaiah’s palms.
God left it at that.
And although it is true Isaiah’s prophecies continued to feature eunuch cylinders and
clickfoot woman shame.
And although it is true Isaiah himself knew several wives and begot a bastard son.
Still some nights through his dreams slipped a river of milk.
A river of silver, a river of pity.
He slept, the asters in the garden unloaded their red thunder into the dark.

#71 Angalin

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Posted 10 February 2012 - 06:03 PM

I found this poem by Frank O'Hara at this blog, which also links to a video of O'Hara reading it.

Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
Frank O’Hara


One of the things I like about O'Hara's own reading is that he doesn't use what a friend calls "poetry voice", that wispy, dreamy, indeterminate tone that poets often employ when reading their work aloud.

#72 Grunkins

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Posted 11 February 2012 - 11:32 AM

Disilluionment of Ten O'clock by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.

#73 dog-days

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Posted 14 February 2012 - 03:30 PM

For the bitter and lovelorn, and for the people who have these lines playing in their head on repeat, because Shakespeare can get stuck there almost as well as Crazy Frog, and for the people who don't want this thread to leave the front page for long:


To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine:


Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.


By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do't, if they come to't;
By Cock, they are to blame.


Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis'd me to wed:
So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.

Edited by dog-days, 14 February 2012 - 03:36 PM.


#74 cseresz.reborn

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Posted 18 February 2012 - 12:30 PM

Cavafy: Long Ago

I’d like to speak of this memory...
but it’s so faded now... as though nothing is left—
because it was so long ago, in my early adolescent years.

A skin as though of jasmine...
that August evening—was it August?—
I can still just recall the eyes: blue, I think they were...
Ah yes, blue: a sapphire blue.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard



József Attila: With a pure heart

Without father without mother
without God or homeland either
withour crib or coffin-cover
without kisses or a lover

for the third day - without fussing
I have eaten next to nothing.
My store of power ere my years
I sell all my twenty years.

Perhaps, if no one else will
the buyer will be the devil.
With a pure heart - that’s a job:
I may kill and I shall rob.

They’ll catch me, hang me high
in blessed earth I shall lie,
and poisonous grass will start
to grow on my beautiful heart.

Source of the quotation 1976, Hundred Hungarian Poems, Albion Editions, Manchester



Nemes Nagy Ágnes: Lazarus

As slowly he sat up the ache suffused
his whole left shoulder where his life lay bruised,
tearing his death away like gauze, section by section
since that is all there is to resurrection.

Szirtes, George


http://www.babelmatr...L%C3%A1z%C3%A1r


Pilinszky János: On the Wall of a KZ Lager

Where you’ve fallen, you will stay.
In the whole universe this one
and only place is the sole place
which you have made your very own.

The country runs away from you.
House, mill, poplar – every thing
is struggling with you here, as if
in nothingness mutating.

But now it’s you who won’t give up.
Did we fleece you? You’ve grown rich.
Did we blind you? You watch us still.
You bear witness without speech.

English version by Clive Wilmer and George Gömöri



Radnóti Miklós:The Terrifying Angel

The terrifying angel is invisible and silent
inside me, he doesn't scream today.
But then I hear a slight noise,
no louder than a grasshopper's jump.
I look around and don't find anything.
It's him. But he's cautious now. He's getting ready.
Save me, Oh you who love me, love me bravely.
He hides when you're here. But as soon as you leave
he's back. He rises from the bottom of the soul,
screaming. And screaming he accuses me.
This insanity works inside me like poison.
He doesn't sleep much, lives both in and outside of me,
and when the moon is out, and in the white darkness,
he runs through the meadow in whistling sandals.
He searches my mother's grave and wakes her up.
"Was it worth it?" "Was it worth it?"
He whispers to her about rebellion, about giving in.
"You gave birth to him and he dies of it!"
Looking at me, sometimes he tears off
the pages of the calendar too soon.
"How long" and "where to"
depend on him forever now. Last night
his words fell into my heart
the way stones fall into water,
forming rings, wobbling, and spinning.
I was just going to bed, you were already asleep.
I stood there naked when he came in
and started to argue with me quietly.
There was a weird smell, his
breath chilled my ear. "Go ahead!"
He urged. "Skin shouldn't cover you.
You're raw meat and bare nerves.
Tear it off! After all, bragging about skin
is like bragging about prison, it's crazy.
That thing all over you is only an illusion.
Here, here's the knife.
It doesn't hurt. It only takes a second, there's only a hiss!"

And the knife woke up on the table and flashed.


Translated by Steven Polgar, S. Berg and S.J. Marks



Kosztolányi Dezső: I dream of coloured inks. Of every kind.

The yellow is the finest. Reams and reams
of letters could I write in yellow ink
to her, the little schoolgirl of my dreams.
I'd scrawl something that looks like Japanese,
then try a bird, most intricately scrolled.
And I want other colours, many more,
like bronze and silver, emerald and gold,
and then I want a hundred more, a thousand,
or rather, I will have a million:
dumb-charcoal, funny-lilac, drunken-ruby,
enamoured, chaste or brash vermilion.
I ought to have some mournful violet,
a palish blue, a brick-red-like maroon,
like shadows seeping through a stained glass window
against a black vault, in August, at noon.
In reds I want a blazing, burning one,
and blood-red, like the blood-stained setting sun
and then I'd go on writing: with a blue
to my young sister, mother will get gold,
I'd write a prayer in gold ink to my mother,
a golden dawn with golden words re-told.
I'd go on writing, in an ancient tower.
My colour set, so fine and exquisite,
would make me happy, oh my God, so happy.
I want to colour in my life with it.

Zollman, Peter



Radnóti Miklós: How others see…

How others see this region, I cannot understand:
to me, this little country is menaced motherland
engulfed by flames, the world of my childhood swaying far,
and I am grown from this land as tender branches are
from trees. And may my body sink into this soil in the end.
When plants reach out towards me, I greet them as a friend
and know their names and flowers. I am at home here, knowing
the people on the road and why and where they are going --
and how I know the meaning when, by a summer lane,
the sunset paints the walls with a liquid flame of pain!
The pilot cannot help seeing a war map from the sky,
he can’t tell below the home of Vörösmarty Mihály;
what can he identify there? grim barracks and factories,
but I see steeples, oxen, farms, grasshoppers and bees;
his lens spies out the vital production plants, the fields,
but I can see the worker, afraid below, who shields
his labour, a singing orchard, a vineyard and a wood,
among the graves a granny mourning her widowhood;
and what may seem a plant or a rail line that must be wrecked
is just a signal-house with the keeper standing erect
and waving his red flag, lots of children around the guard;
and a shepherd dog might roll in the dust in a factory yard;
and there’s the park with the footprints of past loves and the
flavour of childhood kisses -- the honey, the cranberry I still savour,
and on my way to school, by the kerbside, to postpone
a spot-test one certain morning, I stepped upon a stone:
look! There’s the stone whose magic the pilot cannot see
for no instrument would merge it in his topography.

True, guilty are we all here, our people as the rest,
we know our faults, we know how and when we have transgressed,
but there are blameless lives too of toil and poetry and passion,
and infants also, with infinite capacity for compassion --
they will protect its glow while in gloomy shelters until
once more our land is marked out by the finger of peace, then they will
respond to our muffled words with new voices fresh and bright.

Spread your vast wings above us, protective cloud of night.



Illyés Gyula: A sentence on tyranny

Where seek out tyranny?
There seek out tyranny,
Not just in barrels of guns,
Not just in prisons,

Not in the cell alone
Where third degree goes on,
Hot in the night without
Challenged by sentry-shout,

Not where in deathbright smoke
Prosecutors’ words provoke,
Not just in the emphasis
Of wall-tapped morse messages,

Not in confession told,
Not in the judge’s cold
Death-sentence: ‘Guilty!’
Not in the military

‘Halt!’ and the snapped-out ‘Aim!’
‘Fire!’ and the drums of shame
Scattering the squad as it
Drags the corpse to the pit,

Not in the furtively
Guarded, and fearfully
Breathed words the message bore
Passed through half-open door,

Not in the ‘Ssh!’ revealed
On mouth by finger sealed,
Nor confine tyranny yet
To rigid features set,

Peering through bars that still
Show, through that iron grille,
Cries that dumb throats retract
Stopped in the cataract

Or inarticulate tears
Deepening the silent fears
In pupils griefs dilate
Darkened by looming fate,

Not only in ‘Viva!’ cries
Track down all tyrannies,
Surging on tiptoe, strong,
In the acclaiming song.

Where seek out tyranny?
There seek out tyranny,
Not just in mustered bands,
Tirelessly clapping hands,

Fanfares, and opera-stalls;
Just as crude, just as false,
Monuments, art-galleries,
Though cast in stone, speak lies;

Yes, each framed lie can crush.
Even in the painter’s brush,
Or in the car with slight
Noise gliding through the night,

Where it draws up and waits
Throbbing in front of gates,
There omnipresently,
More than your ancient God,

There seek out tyranny,
In school, in nursery,
In father’s counselling rule
And in the mother’s smile,

In, where a stranger puts
Questions that touch the roots,
Answering the stranger’s gaze,
What the child always says;

Not just where barbed wire twines,
Not just between book-lines,
More than in barbed wire, in
Slogans that stun you:

There, more discreet, it is
In a wife’s parting kiss,
Near you and at your back:
‘When, dear, will you be back?’

In words that folk repeat,
‘How d’you do’s in the street,
In the then suddenly softer
Handshake a moment after

Making your lover’s face
Found in the meeting-place
Freeze on the instant
Because it is present,

Not only in the interrogation
But, too, in love’s confession,
In the words’ sweet wine
Like a fly in the wine,

For even in your dreams
You are preceded:
In the bridal bed
And in the desire it bred;

Nothing you think fair
But it has already claimed;
Your bed it did share
Even when love was named;

It is in the plate, the glass,
In the nose and the mouth,
It is in the cold and the dark,
In the outer air and in your house;

As if through an open window
Came the reek of carrion
Or somewhere in the house
There was a leak of gas.

Talk to yourself and hear
Tyranny your inquisitor;
You have no isolation,
Not even in imagination.

The Milky Way through it becomes
A frontier terrain, scoured by beams,
A minefield, and the star
A spy-hole in a war;

The swarming canopy of the sky
Is a monstrous labour-camp:
The Orator Tyranny
Speaks from bells on the ramp;

From the priest to whom you confess,
From his sermon no less,
Church, Parliament, these
And the rack, are but stage properties:

Open and close your eyes;
Still its scrutiny lies
Upon you like a sickness,
Following you with memory’s quickness.

Harks at the wheels of the train;
This is their refrain:
‘You are taken prisoner, prisoner’;
On the hill, by the sea, you inhale the same reminder.

In the lightning flash it is seen
In every unforeseen
Little noise; its dart
Lights up your astonished heart.

Where you rest, there it is
In boredom’s manacles,
In showers that forge nearby
Bars that reach up the sky,

In the snow, whose fall
Sheer as a cell wail
Hides you while it looks
Through the eyes of your dog,

For it is in all you intend,
In Your to-morrow it is at hand,
Before your thoughts it is aware,
In your every movement it is there;

As water cleaves the river-bed
You follow and form it; but instead
Of peering from that circle anew,
Out of the glass it looks at you,

In vain you try to escape its wrath:
Prisoner and jailer, you are both;
It works its own corrosive way
Into the taste of your tobacco,

Into the very clothes you wear –
It penetrates you to the marrow;
You detach your sense from it, only to find
No other thought will come to your mind.

You look about, but what prompts your gazing?
You use your eyes, but what do they catch?
Already a forest fire is blazing
Fanned into flame by the stick of a match

Where carelessly you threw it down
As you walked, and forgot to tread it in,
And now it guards you in the town,
In field and home and the factories’ din;

No longer you feel what it is to live;
Bread and meat, you do not know them;
You cannot have desire, nor love;
To stretch out your arms is now denied you.

Thus does the slave forge with care
The fetters he himself must wear;
You nourish tyranny when you eat;
You beget your child for it.

Where seek tyranny? Think again:
Everyone is a link in the chain;
Of tyranny’s stench you are not free:
You yourself are tyranny.

Like a mole on a sunny day
Walking in his blind, dark way,
We walk and fidget in our rooms
Making a Sahara of our homes;

Because, where tyranny is,
Everything is in vain,
Every creation, even this
Poem I sing turns vain,

Because it is standing
From the first at your grave,
Your own biography branding,
And even your ashes are its slave.

Watkins, Vernon


Source of the quotation 1976, Hundred Hungarian Poems, Albion Editions, Manchester

#75 cseresz.reborn

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Posted 18 February 2012 - 12:36 PM

+1:

Ady Endre: I guard your eyes

With my old man's wrinkled hand,
with my old man's squinting eyes,
let me hold your lovely hand,
let me guard your lovely eyes.

Worlds have tumbled, through their fall
like a wild beast chased by fright
I came, and I on you did call
scared, I wait with you inside.

With my old man's wrinkled hand,
with my old man's squinting eyes,
let me hold your lovely hand,
let me guard your lovely eyes.

I do not know why, how long
can I thus remain for you -
but I hold your lovely hand
and I guard your lovely eyes.

Makkai, Adam

#76 Sci-2

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Posted 19 February 2012 - 11:31 PM

"Loving humans
Means
Writing poems & songs
Novels & plays, slogans, chants
& protest signs
Our critics
Want
To stone
Us for
While
We think of
Them
As people
Under different
Circumstances
We might
Be able
To help.
There is
Indeed
A Buddha
In
Every one
Of us
Loving humans
With all
Our clear &
Unmistakable
Reluctance
To evolve
Makes this hard
For most humans
To see.
But not you."
-Alice Walker

#77 peterbound

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Posted 19 February 2012 - 11:35 PM

Smooth.. heh.. yep..
Heheheh.. remix..

Just waking up in the mornin gotta thank God
I don't know but today seems kinda odd
No barkin from the dogs, no smog
And momma cooked a breakfast with no hog
I got my grub on, but didn't pig out
Finally got a call from a girl I wanna dig out
Hooked it up for later as I hit the do'
Thinkin will I live, another twenty-fo'
I gotta go cause I got me a drop top
And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop
Had to stop, at a red light
Lookin in my mirror and not a jacker in sight
And everything is alright
I got a beep from Kim, and she can fuck all night
Called up the homies and I'm askin y'all
Which park, are y'all playin basketball?
Get me on the court and I'm trouble
Last week fucked around and got a triple double
Freakin niggas everyway like M.J.
I can't believe, today was a good day

That's right..

Creep to the pad and hit the showers
Didn't even get no static from the cowards
Cause just yesterday them fools tried to blast me
Saw the police and they rolled right past me
No flexin, didn't even look in a brother's direction
as I ran the intersection
Went to $hort Dog's house, they was watchin Yo! MTV Raps
What's the haps on the craps?
Shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em
Roll 'em in a circle of homies and watch me break 'em
with the seven, seven-eleven, seven-eleven
Seven even back do' Lil' Joe
Picked up the cash flow
Then we played bones, and I'm yellin domino
Plus nobody I know got killed in South Central L.A.
Today was a good day

Hehe..

Left my homie's house paid
Picked up a girl been tryin to do since the twelve grade
It's ironic, I had the brew she had the chronic
The Lakers beat the Supersonics
Felt on the big fat fanny
Pulled out the jammy, and killed the punanny
And my jimmy runs deep, so deep
So deep put her butt to sleep
Woke her up around one
She didn't hesitate, to call Ice Cube the top gun
Drove her to the pad and I'm coastin
Took another sip of the potion hit the three-wheel motion
I was glad everything had worked out
Dropped her butt off and then chirped out
Today was like one of those fly dreams
Didn't even see a berry flashin those high beams
No helicopter lookin for the murder
Two in the mornin got the Fatburger
Even saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp
And it read, "Ice Cube's a pimp"
Drunk as hell but no throwin up
Half way home and my pager still blowin up
Today I didn't even have to use my A.K.
I gotta say it was a good day

The Warrior-Poet Ice Cube.

Edited by peterbound, 19 February 2012 - 11:35 PM.


#78 Sci-2

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Posted 19 February 2012 - 11:38 PM

ETA:

The Warrior-Poet Ice Cube.


Ha.

=-=-=

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Edited by sciborg2, 19 February 2012 - 11:40 PM.


#79 Sci-2

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Posted 28 February 2012 - 07:23 PM

Smells of opium smoke
and musk and dried flowers
The ancient moon shedding it's skin of light
becoming young again
A red curtain parts, beaded with sweat
I'm tasting her precious waters and liqueurs
Time is all wrong
I'm afraid of Her
Cannibal Queen of extinction
I love Her
She's the Destroyer
The Spider-Dancer on the Funeral Pyre of Time and Space...I...
God Help Me
She's like an ocean
A Virgin rising from the menstrual foam
Corpse-Goddess stinking of Death and Lust and -
The Thunderbolt Strikes The Bell
Fire snake ripping through the spinal channels
Detonations ascending the royal road
Unfolding into a thousand petalled lotus
The Universal Engine
The Light of a Million Moons
In Her
In Me
In
-Grant Morrison

#80 Vhagar

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Posted 28 February 2012 - 09:09 PM

I can't believe there is no Yeats love, or at least I didn't find it!

HE BIDS HIS BELOVED BE AT PEACE
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.

Then of course, the great ee cummings:

she being Brand
she being Brand
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her and (having
thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.
K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her
up,slipped the
clutch (and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell) next
minute i was back in neutral tried and
again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my
lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning) just as we turned the corner of Divinity
avenue i touched the accelerator and give
her the juice,good
(it
was the first ride and believe I we was
happy to see how nice and acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens I slammed on
the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
breaks Bothatonce and
brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.
stand-
;Still)

WH Auden...did I miss him in this list? Oh, how i love Auden, though I've not read him in years.

As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.
‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.
‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
‘O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
By W.H. Auden


And Leonard Cohen:
"Dance Me To The End Of Love"


Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love


Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love


They're lyrics, really, so there is some repetition but the parts that are poetry are...poetry. Love.

Sorry, i don't know how to do the cool quotey thing!

There is some great stuff on here!

Edited by Vhagar, 28 February 2012 - 09:13 PM.