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polishyouth

polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyWed Jan 18, 2017 12:06 pm

Zbigniew Herbert poetry, not my translation

Two drops
No time to grieve for roses, when the forests are burning - Juliusz Slowacki


The forests were on fire -
they however
wreathed their necks with their hands
like bouquets of roses

People ran to the shelters-
he said his wife had hair
in whose depths one could hide

Covered by one blanket
they whispered shameless words
the litany of those who love

When it got very bad
they leap into each other's eyes
and shut them firmly

So firmly they did not feel the flames
when they came up to the eyelashes

To the end they were brave
To the end they were faithful
To the end they were similar
like two drops
stuck at the edge of a face

Laments,
in memory of my mother


And now brown clouds of roots overhead
a rank lily of salt on her temples a rosary of sand
and salt on the bottom of a boat in a foamy mist

a mile away where their is a bend in the river
-visible-invisible-like the light on a wave
she is truly no different-abandoned like all of us
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polishyouth

polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyWed Jan 18, 2017 12:13 pm

I type them in from a book, sorry for any mistakes.

PEEBLE

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardor and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

-Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

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OhFortunae

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Jan 19, 2017 1:34 am

Beautiful heaven here to wander
No moon, so the darkness gives
More light from the stars to see
That the heaven is blind to what it gives
Not even a god can take what isn't his
Only care about what makes right
And see that the might of the sky
Is truth only a storm can hide
On the surface of a world apart
From the stars that die in the light
Of another day, or moonfulll night
The skies remain bright in death's breath
Not even a storms' sigh can hide
The truth of careless giving to those

But nevermind,
as a moons' half steals the life of all the sky
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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyFri May 05, 2017 6:48 pm

for polishyouth...


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Poetry  - Page 8 610

"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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polishyouth

polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyTue May 09, 2017 7:15 am

Thank you, he must have lived near me, geographically speaking, as many of the landscapes and their human-made elements are very much familiar to my memories and, without bragging, what has drawn his attention in specific time of the year/day/weather has often drawn inspiration or nostalgia out of my soul, maybe not identically in its causes and results, but I feel I can relate to his experience at least partially.

Take telegraph wires, a lonely moor,
And fit them together. The thing comes alive in your ear.

Towns whisper to towns over the heather.
But the wires cannot hide from the bad weather.

So oddly, so daintily made
It is picked up and played.

Such unearthly airs
The ear hears, and withers!

In the revolving ballroom of space
Bowed over the moor, a bright face

Draws out of telegraph wires the tones
That empty human bones.


This poem, is a good example. In South England(as I suspect in many other countries), there are long lines of tremendous wires passing through, mostly, rural and inhabbited areas that are turned into walking paths or cycling routes. I can imagine, given that I red a little about his life, how in times of deep trouble he seeked refuge away from people, away from home, in natures peaceful den that was within his reach on daily basis...the feeling he must have felt when walking through these completely human-free fields on a cold, windy day and then looking up to see the wires, used by people from one cosy settlement to contact another, more often than not with a good, sympathetic intention... and his momentary loneliness and coldness contrasted with the wires essence and ablity...maybe a sporadic raindrop hit his cheek waking his senses and firing his troubled thoughts to the forefront of his vision from being pushed onto the back due the momentary occupation...



https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moirai

This too, came to my mind.
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Kvasir

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySun Jul 02, 2017 2:13 am

All is Gained

In the world in between,
After the tide crashes,
There lies the respite of the impact,
A remembrance,
Of all civilizations past,
Of all the struggle past,
Into one steady, ever so steady moment of,
Suffering of glory,
Suffering of memory,
Suffering of comfort,
Suffering of Destiny.
The cloak of the owl’s gaze,
The silence of the promise of Gods dancing
In a circle of might and whispers,
A whispering end of death and toil,
Until the moment is long lost,
And the opened eyes,
Peering back into the chaos of purpose.
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySat Dec 23, 2017 9:54 am

Out they stand in orange
Screaming like blinded bats
Wrapped around in lintel
A mother’s angel sings:
Better were it, indeed, not to be born!
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Bardhë

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySat Feb 17, 2018 11:57 pm

You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
And each is the work of all.

There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many beautiful arms around us and the things we know.

See how those stars tramp over the heavens on their sticks
Of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue
Takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Ceasar
And Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall,
Look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.

You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search:
And each is the mission of all.

For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes
The built cart out; and where we go is reason.
But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.

How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love,
The grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow:
See how the great wooden eyes of the forrest
Stare upon the architecture of our innocence.

You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road:
And each is the work of all.

Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be
Wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag...
We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late
For the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.

Have you ever wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand?
Do you want to aquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?

There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
The crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
Over the walkers in the village; and there are
Many desperate arms about us and the things we know.

Kenneth Patchen
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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyTue Mar 13, 2018 9:46 pm

Reject me not if I should say to you
I do forget the sounding of your voice,
I do forget your eyes that searching through
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.

Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
Under the pallid moonlight’s fingering,
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
My eyes from diligent work, malingering.

Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.

And I do lift my aching arms to you,
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
And I do weep for very pain of you,
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.

And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.

god this is so beatiful of a prose...
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Satyr
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyFri Jun 29, 2018 10:02 pm


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Impulso Oscuro

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySat Jun 30, 2018 1:23 pm

Satyr wrote:

Maud Gonne wrote:
Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you.

She was only half-right, Poets should never marry women like her. In the end, Yeats found a true Pagan woman in the end that served to be a far better inspiration and mother than Gonne ever was.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySat Jun 30, 2018 6:25 pm

I like this reading.


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Satyr
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyWed Aug 29, 2018 5:50 pm


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyWed Aug 29, 2018 6:12 pm


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Aug 30, 2018 6:53 am

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyTue Sep 25, 2018 3:19 pm


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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Nov 08, 2018 10:22 am

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polishyouth

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Nov 08, 2018 10:29 am

Look at how anglo-saxons celebrate ww1, unlike any other place in europe, the thought of throwing europe into chaos and dismantling european structures and burning its old bones and spilling its young blood is almost orgasmic to them...
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Nov 08, 2018 11:22 am

This infection is (((Anglo-Saxon - Protestantism))).
They find in each other a kindred spirit, a shared (self)hatred for European man.

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Kvasir

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyMon Feb 11, 2019 8:36 pm

Charles Baudelaire wrote:

One must have courage as strong
As Sisyphus, lifting this weight!
Though the heart for the work may be great,
Time is fleeting, and Art is so long!

Far from the tombs of the brave
Toward a churchyard obscure and apart,
Like a muffled drum, my heart
Beats a funeral march to the grave.

But sleeping lies many a gem
In dark, unfathomed caves,
Far from the probes of men;

And many a flower waves
And wastes its sweet perfumes
In desert solitudes.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyMon Mar 04, 2019 8:41 pm








Wage Slaves are the slaves who finance their own chains.


Negroes, in the US are just now awakening to this fact.
After centuries of contact with Europeans a few - mostly of mixed blood - are beginning to glean something known, to their masters, for thousands of years.
For them it comes as an 'epiphany' just like their selective sampling of European art, reducing it to their own inferior variation, is mistaken for their 'creative genius'.
Most remain as obtuse as they always have been, and always will be - always seeking to blame another for their predicament....just like White trash, the refuse of European dominance - its genetic pollution.



How many centuries will it be before they realize that 'freedom' has a price few are willing to constantly pay for...a payment made in blood and sweat.
From atheism to fatalism...slavery has its benefits. Peace of mind, ironically. You always know where you stand in regards to your master. You don't owe nothing to nobody, because you own nothing...not even your own self.
It's always conscious and rational, even if your master is the abstraction called 'money'.

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Kvasir

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySun Apr 14, 2019 2:29 am

Michelangelo Buonarroti wrote:
The smith when forging iron uses fire,
To match the beauty shaped within his mind;
And fire alone will help the artist find
A way so to transmute base metal higher
To turn it gold; the phoenix seeks its pyre
To be reborn; just so I leave mankind
But hope to rise resplendent, new-refined,
With souls whom death and time will never tire.
And transforming fire good fortune brings
By burning out my life to make me new
Although among the dead I then be counted.
True to its element the fire wings
Its way to heaven, and to me is true
By taking me aloft where love is mounted.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyTue Apr 16, 2019 9:28 pm


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Kvasir

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyTue Jun 11, 2019 10:18 pm

There are but only glints of purpose that remain,
Reflecting off those diminutive remnants of the World Tree.
They capture our eyes from the crevices of grit and grim,
No darkness; but only senseless light.
The darkness has receded beneath the oppression of the blinding light,
It has returned back into the peace and silence from
Which we were cast from.
The light has become monstrous and the darkness
Has lost its contrast to it.

These miniscule charms of what was,
These songs of Sappho,
These honorable terrors,
These skulking spirits of the good.
Yes, the good.

Buried are they under the heap of happiness,
Dulled by the hum of verbosity,
Swept away by the ferocity of nothingness.
Cradled and pampered with meticulous snares of weakness.
The light has been possessed by this rapacity,
It has been hijacked and been made to put out our eyes,
With indignities and sickness and mediocrity.
For which these grains of meaning glint at us,
For the measure of our suffering,
Is the measure of our wisdom.
To remind us to recollect was is forgotten,
But not lost,
The light which was cut from darkness,
That we may see the light there again.
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