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Poetry  - Page 8 Empty
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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Poetry  - Page 8 Empty
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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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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1. "Youth, oh, youth! | of whom then, youth, art thou born?
Say whose son thou art,
Who in Fafnir's blood | thy bright blade reddened,
And struck thy sword to my heart."


2. "The Noble Hart | my name, and I go
A motherless man abroad;
Father I had not, | as others have,
And lonely ever I live."
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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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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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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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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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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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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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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyFri Jun 29, 2018 10:02 pm


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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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The meek shall inherit the Earth, but the Noble shall take it.
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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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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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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Nov 08, 2018 10:22 am

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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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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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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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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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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Jul 18, 2019 2:52 pm

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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyThu Dec 12, 2019 7:21 pm

The Garden of Proserpine

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Here, where the world is quiet;
        Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
        In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
        A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
        And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
        For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
        And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
        And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
        Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
        And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
        No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
        Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
        For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
        In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
        All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
        Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
        He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
        Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
        In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
        Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
        With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
        From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
        She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
           The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
        And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
        The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
        And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
        Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
        And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
        Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
        Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
        From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
        Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
        Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
        Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
        Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
        In an eternal night.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySat Feb 08, 2020 9:34 pm

Behold! The moonset over the horizon! The messenger!
The cloying third eye of the sun,
Hanging over the center of my quiet rage,
The Time Whisperer,
Suffusing its brooding glow,
In the cosmic void of loss.

As it recedes, it radiates even more,
As if emitting a distant roar of agony,
From an aged old Titan moving mountains,
Conquered by its past, its glory, its timeless glimpse,
Into what was and what will never become.

It says to me simply, “You are what was,
And what will never be again.”
Pain as sharp as ice, and infinitely as cold as the void,
Like the sun, its light is constant,
But offers neither life or death,
Only that ancient reverie of the waning spirit,
Immortalized in the infinite loss,
Its last memory.

***********

The winter chill is the aftermath of a war unfought,
And the absence of the war which was, therein lies its wisdom;
Its calmness is the omen to the coming of a great war,
It’s silence, is the bringer of the Banshee,
A delayed quaking of earth, which lurks in its tranquility;
The subtle scent of posy, is the smell of blood,
The brisk wisps of wind, the battle cries,
The stillness, the dull aching of injuries,
The language of the future,
The resounding march of nature’s soldiers,
Promising only peace.
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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyWed May 27, 2020 11:58 am

The highest form of nobility is not that which wages war, or defends bloodlines, or seeds the greatest wisdom or creates the richest culture; but that which cherishes one's own being in the world, one's connection to thier duty to exist and suffer.
The duty to find beauty, to see value in the soil, to breath, to sit in peaceful solitude, to toil and labor without end, to laugh with the Gods of the wind and the sun and the rain, to listen to one's footsteps departing in time along the desolate path of unreason.
The path which is walked alone across time. The right path is one without fields of roses, or promises of power, or dancing nymphs, or fertile lands, but the one where only echoes of such things lurk, howling in the dark, beckoning in the light, flickering around one's shadow like the tail wisps of fire raging in the pitch dark of night.
The reason why comes only to those who do not question, only those who suffer in silence, but rejoice in darkness.


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptySun Jun 07, 2020 6:58 am



Art, as reaction to the world expressed and displayed, must be a product of excess - excess love or pain....preferably the second because only through suffering does the mind focus and become frugal.
If you create, whatever it is that you create, for a reason, like getting laid, or making money, or being appreciated, then you will fail.

Art, good art, must be a bubbling forth form the most inner parts of your own being - sometimes surprising even you with the secrets it reveals to your fragile ego.

Motive, intent, is what separates art from this post-modern crap I call fArt.



From great pain comes the probability, not the certainty, of great things.
What "does not kill me" does not necessarily make me stronger - it may shatter and break me to pieces - a tree crippled by the winds, living the rest of its existence sideways.
"What doesn't kill me only promises to make me stronger" it sets up the circumstances for it; it gives me the opportunity to prove myself worthy of it.


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PostSubject: Re: Poetry Poetry  - Page 8 EmptyMon Jun 08, 2020 7:41 pm

Friedrich Schiller wrote:

The Fugitive

The air is perfumed with the morning's fresh breeze,
From the bush peer the sunbeams all purple and bright,
While they gleam through the clefts of the dark-waving trees,
And the cloud-crested mountains are golden with light.

With joyful, melodious, ravishing, strain,
The lark, as he wakens, salutes the glad sun,
Who glows in the arms of Aurora again,
And blissfully smiling, his race 'gins to run.

All hail, light of day!
Thy sweet gushing ray
Pours down its soft warmth over pasture and field;
With hues silver-tinged
The meadows are fringed,
And numberless suns in the dewdrop revealed.

Young Nature invades
The whispering shades,
Displaying each ravishing charm;
The soft zephyr blows,
And kisses the rose,
The plain is sweet-scented with balm.

How high from yon city the smoke-clouds ascend!
Their neighing, and snorting, and bellowing blend
The horses and cattle;
The chariot-wheels rattle,
As down to the valley they take their mad way;
And even the forest where life seems to move,
The eagle, and falcon, and hawk soar above,
And flutter their pinions, in heaven's bright ray.

In search of repose
From my heart-rending woes,
Oh, where shall my sad spirit flee?
The earth's smiling face,
With its sweet youthful grace,
A tomb must, alas, be for me!

Arise, then, thou sunlight of morning, and fling
O'er plain and o'er forest thy purple-dyed beams!
Thou twilight of evening, all noiselessly sing
In melody soft to the world as it dreams!

Ah, sunlight of morning, to me thou but flingest
Thy purple-dyed beams o'er the grave of the past!
Ah, twilight of evening, thy strains thou but singest
To one whose deep slumbers forever must last!
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