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Thread: Post poems of your native tongue

  1. #71
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    And one from my ancestral area in Lazio. Interesting to note that in this dialect there is no "v" sound, a holdover from Classical Latin.

    Sora nostra, by Luigi Conocchia

    Quanne la juna chiena esce redenne
    arret'a chiste circhie de mentagne
    e se specchia ent'a sciume e lle campagne
    agliumenate, comm'ì sole, rrenne,

    Sante Casteche, sule 'ncim' a tutte
    ficca la ciocca 'mmes' a lle serine,
    e pare n' giacante - Au' destrutte
    ogne ccòsa - isse dice - è uere cine,

    Ma, se resta de me sule 'na preta
    ì pozze sempe recuntà i' ualore
    del lla gente passata! - 'Ne pueta

    remaste a reuarda' 'ncim' glie ponte,
    diciarria ca la notte ciume e monte
    se scagnate 'ne bbace tutt'ammore!

    ----------------------------------------

    When the full moon rises laughing
    behind this ring of mountains
    and reflects off the river and the countryside
    it renders bright like the sun,

    Only San Casto* is above us all
    the top piercing the clear sky,
    and seems like a giant – They destroyed
    everything – he says – certainly it's true,

    But if you left me only a stone
    I will be able to tell of the virtues
    of the people of the past! – A poet

    which will stay looking out from the bridge,
    would say that the night and the river and the mountain
    exchange a kiss of true love!


    *San Casto is the name of the castle overlooking the town of Sora.

  2. #72
    Humanoid Mikula's Avatar
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    Czech poet Jan Neruda (9 July 1834 – 22 August 1891)
    was fascinated by atronomy and wrote book of poems named Cosmic Songs.
    US astronaut Andrew J. Feustel took a copy of "Cosmic Songs" with him on space shuttle mission STS-125.
    There is one of the poems from the book:

    Seděly žáby v kaluži,
    hleděly vzhůru k nebi,
    starý jim žabák učený
    odvíral tvrdé lebi.

    Vysvětloval jim oblohu,
    líčil ty světlé drtky,
    mluvil o pánech hvězdářích
    zove je "Světa krtky".

    Pravil, že jejich hvězdný zkum
    zvláštní je mírou veden,
    dvacet že milionů mil
    teprv jim loket jeden.

    Tedy že, řeknem pro příklad
    - věříme-li v ty krtky -,
    k Neptunu třicet loket je,
    k Venuši jen tři čtvrtky.

    Rozmluvil se pak o Slunci
    - žáby jsou divem němy -,
    ze Slunce že by nastrouhal
    na tři sta tisíc Zemí.

    Slunce že velmi slouží nám,
    paprskovými klíny
    štípajíc věčnost na rok a
    směnkové na termíny.

    O kometách že těžká řeč,
    rozhodnout že to nechce,
    míní však, že by nemělo
    soudit se příliš lehce.

    Nejsou snad všecky nešťastny,
    nejsou snad zhoubny všecky,
    o jedné ale vypráví
    sám rytíř Luběněcki:

    sotva se její paprsky
    odněkud k nám sem vdraly,
    vskutku se v glinské hospodě
    hanebně ševci sprali.

    O hvězdách potom podotknul,
    po nebi co jich všude,
    skoro že samá slunce jsou,
    zelené, modré, rudé.

    Vezmem-li pak pod spektroskop
    paprslek jejich světla,
    že v něm naleznem kovy tyž,
    z nichž se i Země spletla.

    Umlknul. Kolem horlivě
    šuškají posluchači.
    Žabák se ptá, zdaž o světech
    ještě cos zvědít ráči.

    "Jen bychom rády věděly,"
    vrch hlavy poulí zraky,
    "jsou-li tam tvoři jako my,
    jsou-li tam žáby taky!"


    --------------------------
    Translated to English by D.P. Stern:

    Frogs sat around a puddle
    And gazed at heavens high
    Frog teacher pounding into skulls
    The science of the sky.

    He spoke about the heavens
    Bright dots we see there burning
    And men watch them, "astronomers"
    Like moles they dig for learning.

    When these moles start to map the stars
    The large becomes quite small
    What's twenty million miles to us
    They call one foot, that's all.

    So, as those moles did figure out
    (If you believe their plan)
    Neptune is thirty feet away
    Venus, less than one.

    If we chopped up the Sun, he said
    (Awed frogs could only stare)
    We'd get three hundred thousand Earth's
    With still a few to spare

    The Sun helps us make use of time,
    It rolls round heaven's sphere
    And cuts a workday into shifts
    "Forever" to a year

    What comets are is hard to say
    A strange manifestation
    Though this is not a reason for
    Some idle speculation

    They are no evil sign, we hope
    No reason for great fright
    As in a story we got from
    Lubyenyetsky, great knight

    A comet there appeared, and when
    It rays were seen by all
    The cobblers in a tavern
    Began a shameful brawl

    He told them how the stars we see
    So many, overhead
    Are actually only suns
    Some green, some blue, some red

    And if we use the spectroscope
    Their light tells, in addition
    Those distant stars and our Earth
    Have the same composition

    He stopped. The frogs were overwhelmed.
    Their froggy eyeballs rolled.
    "What more about this universe
    Would you like to be told?"

    "Just one more thing, please tell us sir"
    A frog asked, "Is it true?
    Do creatures live there just like us
    Do frogs exist there too?"

  3. #73
    Super Moderator Mraz's Avatar
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    Thread put in sticky.

  4. #74
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    Kalipsa

    Plačem
    Zbog ljubavi tvoje što napravi me robom
    Zbog ljubavi što oslobodit me ne može
    Plačeš
    Calypso

    I cry
    Because of your love that makes a slave of me
    Because of the love that is not able to release me
    You cry

  5. #75
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    Poem written by Cyprian Kamil Norwid during his stay in the United States in 1854.

    In Polish

    Moja Piosnka II


    Do kraju tego, gdzie kruszynę chleba
    Podnoszą z ziemi przez uszanowanie
    Dla darów Nieba....
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    Do kraju tego, gdzie winą jest dużą
    Popsować gniazdo na gruszy bocianie,
    Bo wszystkim służą...
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    Do kraju tego, gdzie pierwsze ukłony
    Są, jak odwieczne Chrystusa wyznanie,
    "Bądź pochwalony!"
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    Tęskno mi jeszcze i do rzeczy innej,
    Której już nie wiem, gdzie leży mieszkanie,
    Równie niewinnej...
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    Do bez-tęsknoty i do bez-myślenia,
    Do tych, co mają tak za tak - nie za nie,
    Bez światło-cienia...
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    Tęskno mi owdzie, gdzie któż o mnie stoi?
    I tak być musi, choć się tak nie stanie
    Przyjaźni mojej...
    Tęskno mi, Panie...

    In English

    My Song II


    For that land where a scrap of bread is picked up
    From the ground out of reverence
    For Heaven's gifts...
    I am homesick, Lord!...

    For the land where it's a great travesty
    To harm a stork's nest in a pear tree,
    For storks serve us all...
    I am homesick, Lord!...

    For the land where we greet each other
    In the ancient Christian custom:
    "May Christ's name be praised!"
    I am homesick, Lord!...

    I long still for yet another thing, likewise innocent,
    For I no longer know where to find
    My abode...
    I am homesick, Lord!

    For worrying-not and thinking-not,
    For those whose yes means yes --- and no means no ---
    Without light-shadow...
    I am homesick, Lord!

    I long for that distant place, where someone cares for me!
    It must be thus, though my friendship
    Will never come to pass!...
    I am homesick, Lord!

  6. #76
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    Not a Polish poem, but Belarusian. Written by Maksim Bahdanovich in 1913, is also one of unofficial patriotic anthems of Belarus (patriotic = not_pro_Lukashenka).

    In Belarusian

    Пагоня


    Толькі ў сэрцы трывожным пачую
    За краіну радзімую жах, —
    Ўспомню Вострую Браму сьвятую
    I ваякаў па грозных канях.
    Ў белай пене праносяцца коні, —
    Рвуцца, мкнуцца і цяжка хрыпяць...
    Старадаўняй Літоўскай Пагоні
    Не разьбіць, не спыніць, не стрымаць.
    У бязьмерную даль вы ляціце,
    А за вамі, прад вамі — гады.
    Вы за кім у пагоню сьпяшыце?
    Дзе шляхі вашы йдуць і куды?
    Мо яны, Беларусь, панясьліся
    За тваімі дзяцьмі уздагон,
    Што забылі цябе, адракліся,
    Прадалі і аддалі ў палон?
    Бійце ў сэрцы іх — бійце мячамі,
    Не давайце чужынцамі быць!
    Хай пачуюць, як сэрца начамі
    Аб радзімай старонцы баліць...
    Маці родная, Маці-Краіна!
    Не усьцішыцца гэтакі боль...
    Ты прабач, Ты прымі свайго сына,
    За Цябе яму ўмерці дазволь!..
    Ўсё лятуць і лятуць тыя коні,
    Срэбнай збруяй далёка грымяць...
    Старадаўняй Літоўскай Пагоні
    Не разьбіць, не спыніць, не стрымаць.


    Transliteration

    Pahonia

    Toĺki ŭ sercy tryvožnym pačuju
    Za krainu radzimuju žach -
    Ŭspomniu Vostruju Bramu śviatuju
    I vajakaŭ na hroznych kaniach.

    Ŭ bielaj pienie pranosiacca koni,
    Rvucca, mknucca i ciažka chrypiać...
    Staradaŭniaj Litoŭskaj Pahoni
    Nie raźbić, nie spynić, nie strymać.

    U biaźmiernuju daĺ vy liacicie,
    A za vami, prad vami - hady.
    Vy za kim u pahoniu śpiašycie?
    Dzie šliachi vašy jduć i kudy?

    Mo jany, Bielaruś, paniaślisia
    Za tvaimi dziaćmi ŭzdahon,
    Što zabyli ciabie, adraklisia,
    Pradali i addali ŭ palon?

    Bicie ŭ sercy ich - bicie miačami,
    Nie davajcie čužyncami być!
    Chaj pačujuć, jak serca načami
    Ab radzimaj staroncy balić...

    Maci rodnaja, Maci-Kraina!
    Nia ŭścišycca hetaki boĺ...
    Ty prabač, Ty prymi svajho syna,
    Za Ciabie jamu ŭmierci dazvoĺ!..

    Ŭsio liatuć i liatuć tyja koni,
    Srebnaj zbrujaj dalioka hrymiać...
    Staradaŭniaj Litoŭskaj Pahoni
    Nie raźbić, nie spynić, nie strymać.


    In English

    Pahonia

    Whensoever my anxious heart , trembling
    With fear for our land, starts to bleed,
    The Vostraja Gate* I remember,
    And the warriors on their dread steeds.

    Flecked with white foam, those steeds, onward straining,
    Gallop and charge, grimly snort…
    Pahonia of Old Lithuania,
    None can conquer them, stay them or halt.

    Into measureless distances flying,
    Behind you, before, years extend…
    After whom do ye chase, swiftly hieing,
    Where lie your paths, whither they wend?

    Maybe, Belarus, they are racing
    After thy sons, neglectful of thee,
    Who forgot thee, thy memory effacing,
    Sold, betrayed thee into slavery.

    Strike them deep in the heart with swords brandished!
    Let them not into foreigners turn!
    Let them feel in the night their hearts’ anguish
    For their true native land ache and burn…

    My dear Mother, my own Mother-Country,
    Let there never be end to that ache…
    Forgive! Take back thy son in thy bounty,
    Permit him to die for thy sake!

    The steeds fly and fly, onward straining,
    Silver harness resounds in assault,
    Pahonia of Old Lithuania,
    None can conquer them, stay them or halt.
    _____________________________

    * Gate of Dawn in Vilnius, Lithuania

  7. #77
    Junior Member Gromosław's Avatar
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    DO TRUPA
    Jan Andrzej Morsztyn

    Leżysz zabity i jam też zabity,
    Ty – strzałą śmierci, ja – strzałą miłości,
    Ty krwie, ja w sobie nie mam rumianości,
    Ty jawne świece, ja mam płomień skryty,

    Tyś na twarz suknem żałobnym nakryty,
    Jam zawarł zmysły w okropnej ciemności,
    Ty masz związane ręce, ja wolności
    Zbywszy mam rozum łańcuchem powity.

    Ty jednak milczysz, a mój język kwili,
    Ty nic nie czujesz, ja cierpię ból srodze,
    Tyś jak lód, a jam w piekielnej śreżodze.

    Ty się rozsypiesz prochem w małej chwili,
    Ja się nie mogę, stawszy się żywiołem
    Wiecznym mych ogniów, rozsypać popiołem.

    TO A CORPSE
    translated by Jarek Zawadzki

    In death reposest thou, and I in death repose.
    Thou slain by an arrow, I am poisoned by desire.
    While thou art full of blood, my cheek has lost its rose.
    Bright candles by thy side, in me a secret fire.

    In a shroud of mourning liest thou among the woes,
    My senses in a horrid darkness trapped expire.
    Thy hands are bound, my freedom’s gone; eternal throes
    Of death have chained my mind upon a funeral pyre.

    Thou speakest not, I cannot cease to moan all day.
    Thy senses gone, I suffer from a dreadful pain.
    Thou cold as ice, my entrails burn with flames insane.

    Thy body soon will turn and into ash decay,
    But I, a goad of my eternal blaze of lust,
    Cannot disintegrate and simply turn to dust.

  8. #78
    In Corpore Sardo Mens-Sarda's Avatar
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    Antioco Casùla (in Italian) Antiògu Casùla (in Sardinian) known as "Montanaru" (Mountaneer) 1878-1957, was one of the most famous poets of Sardinia, he composed dozens of poems in Sardinian Logudorese language, his work is still today seen as an inspiration for nowadays Sardinian traditional poets.

    Hierru

    (de Antiògu "Montanaru" Casùla)

    Càrrigu de nieddas temporadas
    Bènit s’hierru, betzu, tristu e canu,
    E chenz'ervas est tristu su pianu,
    E sas forestas pàren brujadas.

    No puzònes qui allègren su manzanu
    Cun sas milli pibìas delicadas,
    Su 'entu mùinat intro sas foràdas
    E tristos corvos càntan a luntanu.

    Gai est s’humanu istadu; rie, rie
    Fùit s’amare, fùit su cuntentu;
    Passat sa juventude cudda die

    Comente una die ’e Maju chenza 'entu.
    Ma su dolore, simile a su nie
    Fàlat continuu, frittu e lentu lentu.

    Winter
    (by Antiògu "Montanaru" Casùla)

    Laden of black storms
    Comes the winter, old, grim and white haired,
    And without grasses is grim the plain,
    And the forests look like burnt.

    Not birds to make the morning happy
    With the thousand delicate ladybirds,
    The wind whistles into the gorges
    And grim crows sing in the distance.

    So is the human state : laugh, laugh
    Flees the love, flees the happiness;
    Passes the youth that day

    Like a day of May without wind
    But the pain, like snow
    Falls continuous, cold and slowly


    Last edited by Mens-Sarda; 01-17-2017 at 10:01 PM.
    Non Auro, Sed Ferro, Recuperanda Est Patria (Not by Gold, But by Iron, Is the Nation to be Recovered) - Marcus Furius Camillus (Roman General)

  9. #79
    Junior Member Nederburg's Avatar
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    My favourite poem by Georg Trakl:


    „Am Abend, wenn die Glocken Frieden läuten,
    Folg ich der Vögel wundervollen Flügen,
    Die lang geschart, gleich frommen Pilgerzügen,
    Entschwinden in den herbstlich klaren Weiten.

    Hinwandelnd durch den dämmervollen Garten
    Träum ich nach ihren helleren Geschicken
    Und fühl der Stunden Weiser kaum mehr rücken.
    So folg ich über Wolken ihren Fahrten.

    Da macht ein Hauch mich von Verfall erzittern.
    Die Amsel klagt in den entlaubten Zweigen.
    Es schwankt der rote Wein an rostigen Gittern,

    Indes wie blasser Kinder Todesreigen
    Um dunkle Brunnenränder, die verwittern,
    Im Wind sich fröstelnd blaue Astern neigen.“
    „Wenn man ein Wozu des Lebens hat, erträgt man jedes Wie."
    Friedrich Nietzsche

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    Veteran Member wvwvw's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Ice View Post
    Sanma şâhım herkesi sen sâdıkâne yâr olur
    Herkesi sen dost mu sandın belki ol ağyâr olur
    Sâdıkâne belki ol bu âlemde dildâr olur
    Yâr olur ağyâr olur dildâr olur serdâr olur

    - Selim I
    What happened to you and became from Turkic, Pontic Greek?

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