Re: poetry thread

[Guest]

...oh dear...something more terrible than bad manners has just been discovered...BAD GRAMMAR!!!!

I just tried to delete the crybaby above when you added to the post asdf, and the picture was no longer appropriate...

this is what Information said:

Sorry, but you cannot delete posts who have been replied to.

...'who' have been replied to? Posts are now persons?

[Guest]

Dear Moony's latest post

for some obscure reason I'm not horrified

Take care
asdf... Vera Cruz... whoever

Edit: Am I starting raving?

[Guest]

...I obsess about words

...I'll find a poem

edit: no, but I think I am...that's why I'm posting poems

[Guest]

When I was one-and-twenty...
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

[Guest]

Into my heart an air that kills...
by A. E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

[Guest]

Others, I am not the first...
by A. E. Housman

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.

Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.
But from my grave across my brow
Plays no wind of healing now,
And fire and ice within me fight
Beneath the suffocating night.

[Guest]

[b]Oh, when I was in love with you...[/b
]by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite myself again.

[Guest]

Look not in my eyes, for fear...
by A. E. Housman

Look not in my eyes, for fear
They mirror true the sight I see,
And there you find your face too clear
And love it and be lost like me.
One the long nights through must lie
Spent in star-defeated sighs,
But why should you as well as I
Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,
One that many loved in vain,
Looked into a forest well
And never looked away again.
There, when the turf in springtime flowers,
With downward eye and gazes sad,
Stands amid the glancing showers
A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

[Guest]

I've copied this from the Pinter thread (thanks eddie)

'I'm Explaining a Few Things'
(an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda)

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!

[Guest]

I've copied this from the Pinter thread (thanks eddie)

'I'm Explaining a Few Things'
(an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda)

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!

EXPLICO ALGUNAS COSAS

PREGUNTARÉIS: Y dónde están las lilas?
Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas?
Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba
sus palabras llenándolas
de agujeros y pájaros?

Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.

Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.

Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.
......................................Mi casa era llamada
la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.
...................................................Raúl, te acuerdas?
Te acuerdas, Rafael?
...............................Federico, te acuerdas
debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?
...................................................Hermano, hermano!
Todo
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,
........................pescados hacinados,
contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.

Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo
y una mañana las hogueras
salían de la tierra
devorando seres,
y desde entonces fuego,
pólvora desde entonces,
y desde entonces sangre.
Bandidos con aviones y con moros,
bandidos con sortijas y duquesas,
bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo
venían por el cielo a matar niños,
y por las calles la sangre de los niños
corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.

Chacales que el chacal rechazaría,
piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,
víboras que las víboras odiaran!

Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre
de España levantarse
para ahogaros en una sola ola
de orgullo y de cuchillos!

Generales
traidores:
mirad mi casa muerta,
mirad España rota:
pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo
en vez de flores,
pero de cada hueco de España
sale España,
pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,
pero de cada crimen nacen balas
que os hallarán un día el sitio
del corazón.

Preguntaréis por qué su poesía
no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,
de los grandes volcanes de su país natal?

Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver
la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre
por las calles!

[Guest]

Explains a few things
by googletranslate

Ask: where are the lilacs?
And the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
And the rain repeatedly spattering
his words full
holes and birds?

I'll tell you what happened to me.

I lived in a neighborhood
Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

Since there was
dry face of Castille
like an ocean of leather.
My house was called ......................................
the house of flowers, because everywhere
geraniums burst: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and kids.
.................................................. . Raul, remember?
You remember, Rafael?
............................... Federico, do you remember
under the earth,
I remember my house with balconies where
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
.................................................. . Brother, brother!
All
were great voices, salt of goods,
throbbing crowds of bread,
my neighborhood markets Arguelles with its statue
as a pale inkwell among hake:
oil reached the spoons,
a deep beat
hand and foot filled the streets,
meters, liters, essence
acute life
Fish ........................ overcrowded
texture of roofs with cold sun in which
the arrow is fatigue,
delusional fine ivory of potatoes,
repeated tomatoes to the sea.

And one morning all was burning
and one morning the bonfires
out of the ground
devouring beings,
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
rings and duchesses, bandits,
bandits with black friars blessing
came from the sky to kill children
and in the streets the blood of children
simply ran like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would reject,
stones that the dry thistle would bite spitting,
snakes hate snakes!

In front of you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise
to drown in a single wave
of pride and knives!

General
traitors:
look at my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
but from every house burning metal dead leaves
in lieu of flowers,
but in each hole of Spain
sale Spain,
but from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
but from every crime bullets are born
that will one day find the site
the heart.

You will ask why his poetry
not speak of dreams, leaves,
of the great volcanoes of his native country?

Come and see the blood in the streets,
Come and see
blood in the streets,
Come and see the blood
the streets!

[Guest]

Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.

Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.
......................................Mi casa era llamada
la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.
...................................................Raúl, te acuerdas?
Te acuerdas, Rafael?
...............................Federico, te acuerdas
debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?
...................................................Hermano, hermano!
Todo
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,
........................pescados hacinados,
contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.

I lived in a neighborhood
In Madrid with church bells
And clock towers and trees.

From there you could see
The dry face of Castille
Like a sea of leather
My house was called
“The house with the flowers” because around it
Geraniums exploded. It was
A beautiful house
With dogs and kids.

Raúl, do you remember?
Frederico, do you still remember
Under the ground?
Do you remember my house with the balconies
Where the June light soaked your mouth with
The taste of flowers?
Brother! Brother!
The market place of Arguelles, my neighborhood
With its statue like a pale inkwell among
The fish stalls.
It was all
Loud voices, salty commerce,
A deep rumble
Of feet and hands filled the streets,
Meters and liters,
The sharp essence of life,
Fish stacked up,
The texture of roofs in the cold sun in which
The weather-vane grows tired.
Fine, crazily carved ivory of potatoes
Lines of tomatoes to the sea.


Raul is Raul González Tuñón
Federico is Federico García Lorca
Rafael is Rafael Alberti
"All of them victims of the war dead or in exile"

[Guest]

ESE GENERAL

-Aquí está el general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
- Una espada desea el general.
-Ya no existen espadas, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Un caballo desea el general.
-Ya no existen caballos, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Otra batalla quiere el general.
-Ya no existen batallas, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Una amante desea el general.
-Ya no existen amantes, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Un gran tonel de vino desea el general.
Ya no hay tonel ni vino, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Un buen trozo de carne desea el general.
-Ya no existen ganados, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Comer yerbas desea el general.
-Ya no existen los pastos, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Beber agua desea el general.
-Ya no existe más agua general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Dormir en una cama desea el general.
-Ya no hay cama ni sueño, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Perderse por la tierra desea el general.
-Ya no existe la tierra, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
-Morirse como un perro desea el general.
-Ya no existen los perros, general.
¿Qué quiere el general?
¿Qué quiere el general?
Parece que está mudo el general.
Parece que no existe el general.
Parece que se ha muerto el general.
que ya, ni como un perro, se ha muerto el general,
que el mundo destruido, ya sin el general,
va a empezar nuevamente, sin ese general.

By Rafael Alberti


(I'll try to translate it... but it loses so much)

THAT GENERAL

-Here the general is.
What would the general like?
- A sword the general would like.
- There are no swords anymore, general.
What would the general like?
- A horse the general would like.
- There are no horses anymore, general.
What would the general like?
Another battle the general would like.
- There are no battles anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-A lover the general would like.
-There are no lovers anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-A large cask of wine the general would like.
There is no barrel or wine anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-A good piece of meat the general would like.
-There are no cattle anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-To eat grass the General would like.
-There are no pastures anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-To drink water the general would like.
- There is no water anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-To sleep in a bed the general would like.
-There is no bed or sleep, general.
What would the general like?
-To get lost in the land the general would like.
-There is no land anymore, general.
What would the general like?
-To die like a dog the general would like.
-There are no dogs anymore, general.
What would the general like?
What would the general like?
It seems the general is dumb.
It seems there is no general anymore.
It seems the general is dead.
Already, not even like a dog, the general died,
destroyed the world, with no general anymore,
will start again without that general.

[eddie]

Into my heart an air that kills...
by A. E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

I've already posted this one, but I suppose you can't have too much of a good thing.

[Guest]

...I was thinking about the film 'Walkabout' and the poem is read at the end of it.

[eddie]

...I was thinking about the film 'Walkabout' and the poem is read at the end of it.

Is it? Crikey. Great film, but I don't remember that.

[Guest]

...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk

[Guest]

When is it later?

I want my avocadoes now...

[Guest]

That was a lie. I don't want your avocadoes.

[Guest]

I do want your avocadoes but I don't like the deal.

[Guest]

...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk

[Guest]

Now I don't know if
I've had a lucky escape
or lost a golden opportunity

[Guest]

...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk
...I will not post when I'm drunk

[Guest]

[Guest]

...but it's still a very good title for a poem

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