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  1. #271
    Senior Member Wolfie's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2012
    4w5 so


    Quote Originally Posted by Vasilisa View Post

    by William Butler Yeats

    Sweetheart, do not love too long:
    I loved long and long,
    And grew to be out of fashion
    Like an old song.

    All through the years of our youth
    Neither could have known
    Their own thought from the other's,
    We were so much at one.

    But O, in a minute she changed--
    O do not love too long,
    Or you will grow out of fashion
    Like an old song.
    Hey! I just came in here to post one of his..

    Before the World Was Made

    by William Butler Yeats

    If I make the lashes dark
    And the eyes more bright
    And the lips more scarlet,
    Or ask if all be right
    From mirror after mirror,
    No vanity's displayed:
    I'm looking for the face I had
    Before the world was made.

    What if I look upon a man
    As though on my beloved,
    And my blood be cold the while
    And my heart unmoved?
    Why should he think me cruel
    Or that he is betrayed?
    I'd have him love the thing that was
    Before the world was made.
    ( . )( . )

  2. #272
    Senior Member Ism's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008


    Ah, Shel Silverstein! I like to think of it outside of a romantic context as well, since it could apply. It is still very simple and cute - definitely one of my favorites.

  3. #273
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    Idealism and realism by Gustav Fröding, unfortunately I cannot translate it into good English, but I'll give it a try anyway.

    Here I stand at the schism of time
    between earth and stars.
    Our idealism and realism
    split our minds.

    Lies are told when portrayed gravel
    gets a name like art and beauty
    A vision, which floats nice and bright
    In the sky, is a true mirage.

    But nonsense is nonsense, and snuff, snuff,
    although in golden boxes,
    and roses in a cracked vase
    are still always roses.
    Last edited by Within; 08-07-2012 at 08:15 PM. Reason: Translation

  4. #274


    My first thought was, he lied in every word,
    That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
    Askance to watch the working of his lie
    On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
    Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
    Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.


    What else should he be set for, with his staff?
    What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
    All travellers who might find him posted there,
    And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
    Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
    For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,


    If at his counsel I should turn aside
    Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
    Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
    I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
    Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
    So much as gladness that some end might be.


    For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
    What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
    Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
    With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
    I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
    My heart made, finding failure in its scope.


    As when a sick man very near to death
    Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
    The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
    And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
    Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,
    ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')


    While some discuss if near the other graves
    Be room enough for this, and when a day
    Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
    With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
    And still the man hears all, and only craves
    He may not shame such tender love and stay.


    Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
    Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
    So many times among ``The Band''---to wit,
    The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
    Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best,
    And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?


    So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
    That hateful cripple, out of his highway
    Into the path he pointed. All the day
    Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
    Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
    Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.


    For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
    Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
    Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
    O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
    Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
    I might go on; nought else remained to do.


    So, on I went. I think I never saw
    Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
    For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove!
    But cockle, spurge, according to their law
    Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
    You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.


    No! penury, inertness and grimace,
    In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See
    ``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,
    ``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
    ``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
    ``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''


    If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
    Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
    Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
    In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
    All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
    Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.


    As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
    In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
    Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
    One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
    Stood stupefied, however he came there:
    Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!


    Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
    With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
    And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
    Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
    I never saw a brute I hated so;
    He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


    I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
    As a man calls for wine before he fights,
    I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
    Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
    Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art:
    One taste of the old time sets all to rights.


    Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
    Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
    Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
    An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
    That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
    Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.


    Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands
    Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
    What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
    Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands
    Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
    Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!


    Better this present than a past like that;
    Back therefore to my darkening path again!
    No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
    Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
    I asked: when something on the dismal flat
    Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.


    A sudden little river crossed my path
    As unexpected as a serpent comes.
    No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
    This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
    For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath
    Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.


    So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
    Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
    Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
    Of route despair, a suicidal throng:
    The river which had done them all the wrong,
    Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.


    Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared
    To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
    Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
    For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
    ---It may have been a water-rat I speared,
    But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.


    Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
    Now for a better country. Vain presage!
    Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
    Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
    Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
    Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage---


    The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
    What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
    No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
    None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
    Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
    Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.


    And more than that---a furlong on---why, there!
    What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
    Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel
    Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
    Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
    Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.


    Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
    Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
    Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
    Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
    Changes and off he goes!) within a rood---
    Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.


    Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
    Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
    Broke into moss or substances like boils;
    Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
    Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
    Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.


    And just as far as ever from the end!
    Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
    To point my footstep further! At the thought,
    great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
    Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
    That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought.


    For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
    'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
    All round to mountains---with such name to grace
    Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
    How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you!
    How to get from them was no clearer case.


    Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
    Of mischief happened to me, God knows when---
    In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
    Progress this way. When, in the very nick
    Of giving up, one time more, came a click
    As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den!


    Burningly it came on me all at once,
    This was the place! those two hills on the right,
    Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
    While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
    Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
    After a life spent training for the sight!


    What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
    The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
    Built of brown stone, without a counter-part
    In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
    Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
    He strikes on, only when the timbers start.


    Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day
    Came back again for that! before it left,
    The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
    The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
    Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,---
    ``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!''


    Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
    Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
    Of all the lost adventurers my peers,---
    How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
    And such was fortunate, yet, each of old
    Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.


    There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
    To view the last of me, a living frame
    For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
    I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
    Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
    And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''

    ....... and then came King.

  5. #275
    ornery ornithologist captain curmudgeon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2010
    631 sp


    Two more from Wendell Berry:

    "What We Need Is Here"

    Geese appear high over us,
    pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
    as in love or sleep, holds
    them to their way, clear
    in the ancient faith: what we need
    is here. And we pray, not
    for new earth or heaven, but to be
    quiet in heart, and in eye,
    clear. What we need is here.

    "The Hidden Singer"

    The gods are less for their love of praise.
    Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
    but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
    It has made all things by dividing itself.
    It will be whole again.
    To its joy we come together --
    the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
    the lover and the loved.
    In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
    not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
    but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
    who sings quietly and waits, and sings.
    Jarlaxle: fact checking this thread makes me want to go all INFP on my wrists

    "I'm in competition with myself and I'm losing."
    -Roger Waters

    ReadingRainbows: OMG GUYS
    ReadingRainbows: GUESS WHAT EXISTS FOR ME
    hel: fairies?
    Captain Curmudgeon: existential angst?

    Johari Nohari

  6. #276
    Blah Orangey's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2008


    Buddha in Glory - Rainer Maria Rilke

    Center of all centers, core of cores,
    almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet--
    all this universe, to the furthest stars
    all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

    Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
    your vast shell reaches into endless space,
    and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
    Illuminated in your infinite peace,

    a billion stars go spinning through the night,
    blazing high above your head.
    But in you is the presence that
    will be, when all the stars are dead.

    Also, I'm going to go ahead and give another nod to man's Life is Very Pain.
    Artes, Scientia, Veritasiness

  7. #277
    wholly charmed Spartacuss's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2008


    this poem is haunted
    - T. Cole Rachel

    we spend most of our lives this way, governed
    by the rules of avoidance, narrowly scraping past
    unavoidable pains, folding up the quilts
    we can't sleep under any more, listening
    for the rattling of chains, waiting for the things we break
    to come back to us—the underwater sounds
    of those we have drowned, whose faces
    it might have been better to never have loved.
    Ti (43); Ne (41.8); Te (33.7); Fi (30.5); Ni (27.5); Se (24.7); Si (21.5); Fe (17.3)
    The More You Know the Less You Need. - Aboriginal Saying

  8. #278
    Senior Member Wolfie's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2012
    4w5 so


    Refrain by Allen Ginsberg

    The air is dark, the night is sad,
    I lie sleepless and I groan.
    Nobody cares when a man goes mad:
    He is sorry, God is glad.
    Shadow changes into bone.

    Every shadow has a name;
    When I think of mine I moan,
    I hear rumors of such fame.
    Not for pride, but only shame,
    Shadow changes into bone.

    When I blush I weep for joy,
    And laughter drops from me like a stone:
    The aging laughter of the boy
    To see the ageless dead so coy.
    Shadow changes into bone.

    Incidentally, this poem was also made into one of my favorite songs.
    ( . )( . )

  9. #279
    Senior Member LEGERdeMAIN's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2009


    I like bits and pieces of this one. I don't like whole poems very much, they aren't mine. zombie threads running amok.

    Pablo Neruda

    I have scarcely left you
    When you go in me, crystalline,
    Or trembling,
    Or uneasy, wounded by me
    Or overwhelmed with love, as
    when your eyes
    Close upon the gift of life
    That without cease I give you.

    My love,
    We have found each other
    Thirsty and we have
    Drunk up all the water and the
    We found each other
    And we bit each other
    As fire bites,
    Leaving wounds in us.

    But wait for me,
    Keep for me your sweetness.
    I will give you too
    A rose.
    “Some people will tell you that slow is good – but I’m here to tell you that fast is better. I’ve always believed this, in spite of the trouble it’s caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba…”

  10. #280
    Unlimited Dancemoves ® AgentF's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2010
    7w6 sx/so


    Spanish poetry is so lovely. it is a pity poems like this are like a flaccid balloon when translated into English.

    this is one of my favorite Neruda poems:


    rosa pequeña,
    a veces,
    diminuta y desnuda,
    que en una mano mía
    que así voy a cerrarte
    y llevarte a mi boca,
    de pronto
    mis pies tocan tus pies y mi boca tus labios, has crecido,
    suben tus hombros como dos colinas,
    tus pechos se pasean por mi pecho,
    mi brazo alcanza apenas a rodear la delgada
    línea de luna nueva que tiene tu cintura:
    en el amor como agua de mar te has desatado:
    mido apenas los ojos más extensos del cielo
    y me inclino a tu boca
    para besar la tierra.
    I may be kindly, I am ordinarily gentle, but in my line of business I am obliged to will terribly what I will at all.
    ~ Catherine the Great

    7w6 ❣ sx/so ❤ physical touch ❥ sanguine 70%, choleric 30% ❦


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