Favorite Poems

[Comte Arnau]

Oh, que cansat estic de la meva
covarda, vella, tan salvatge terra,
i com m'agradaria d'allunyar-me'n,
nord enllà,
on diuen que la gent és neta
i noble, culta, rica, lliure,
desvetllada i feliç!
Aleshores, a la congregació, els germans dirien
desaprovant: "Com l'ocell que deixa el niu,
així l'home que se'n va del seu indret",
mentre jo, ja ben lluny, em riuria
de la llei i de l'antiga saviesa
d'aquest meu àrid poble.
Però no he de seguir mai el meu somni
i em quedaré aquí fins a la mort.
Car sóc també molt covard i salvatge
i estimo a més amb un
desesperat dolor
aquesta meva pobra,
bruta, trista, dissortada pàtria.

Oh, how tired am I of this
cowardly, old, so wild land of mine,
and how would I like to get away from it,
north and beyond,
where they say people are clean
and noble, educated, rich, free,
awake and happy!
Then, at the congregation,
brethren would say, disapprovingly:

"As the bird that leaves its nest,
so the man who leaves his place",

while I, already far away, would laugh
at the law and old wisdom
of this arid people of mine...
But I shall never dare follow my dream
and here will I remain until my death.
For I am also cowardly and wild
And above all, I love
with such a desperate pain
this poor,
dirty, sad, ill-fated land of mine.

Salvador Espriu, Catalan poet (1913-1985)

[Turkophagos]

A Cloud In Trousers


Your thoughts,
dreaming on a softened brain,
like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee,
with my heart's bloody tatters I'll mock again;
impudent and caustic, I'll jeer to superfluity.

Of Grandfatherly gentleness I'm devoid,
there's not a single grey hair in my soul!
Thundering the world with the might of my voice,
I go by -- handsome,
twenty-two-year-old.

Gentle ones!
You lay your love on a violin.
The crude lay their love on a drum.
but you can't, like me, turn inside out entirely,
and nothing but human lips become!

Out of chintz-covered drawing-rooms, come
and learn-
decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues.

and you whose lips are calmly thumbed,
as a cook turns over cookery-book leaves.

If you like-
I'll be furiously flesh elemental,
or - changing to tones that the sunset arouses -
if you like-
I'll be extraordinary gentle,
not a man, but - a cloud in trousers!


Vladimir Mayakovsky

[Robert]

I like Rainier Maria Rilke

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke

[The Lawspeaker]

'Remember the procession of the old-young men
From dole queue to corner and back again,
From the pinched, packed streets to the peak of slag
In the bite of the winters with shovel and bag,
With a drooping fag and a turned up collar,
Stamping for the cold at the ill lit corner
Dragging through the squalor with their hearts like lead
Staring at the hunger and the shut pit-head
Nothing in their pockets, nothing home to eat.
Lagging from the slag heap to the pinched, packed street.
Remember the procession of the old-young men,
It shall never happen again.'

Dylan Thomas
(about the effects of the Great Depression)

[Planeless Earhart]

The Little Vagabond
William Blake

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;
We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day;
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray,

Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at the Church,
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.

And God like a father rejoicing to see,
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.

[Planeless Earhart]

Visited Poe cottage today, so I'll share one of my favourite Poe poems.



The Sleeper


At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

O, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so fearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

[Partizan]

(this translate fully belongs to me)

Tanya
And Lenin!In his granite grave,
And his smile over snowy ground...

Enemies reached Yakroma,where is in north of Moscow,
And Tula on south.

And at end of November,
And at first of December,
Every reserves of army were spend,
over all field.
And at beginning of December,
The case was crytic at most.

And at beginning of December,
In Petrischchevo,near Vereya city,
Under a blue sky,as snow,
Germans hanged an 18 years old girl.
18 years old girls get arranged mostly but,
They hanged her.

She was from Moscow
She was young,she was a partizan.
(She)loved,understood and believed,
And she took action.
The kid who was hanged on rope,
Was a human with it's all nobility.

Like following pages of "War and Peace" novel,
Hands of girl moved in snowy night
In Petrishchevo,phone connection got stopped,
Later,stabile of German army,with 17 horses,burnt.
Following day,partizan got caught

Following day,partizan got caught.
Suddenly,very tightly,from back.
Sky was fulled with stars,
Heart was with fastness,
Wrist was with pulse,
And bottle with benzine.
And match was about to fire,
And match didn't get fire but,
She tried to use pistol.
They jumped upon(her)
They took her and they took away
And later they brought her back.
Partizan stood straight up on the middle of room.
With her bag on her shoulder,
Her fur hat on her head,her cloak on her back.
Cotton trousers on her legs and haircloth boots.
Officers looked at partizan,closely.
It was like,how almond is in it's crust,
It was a slim girl,in haircloth and cotton.

Samovar is boiling on the table
There is a pistol on checkered blanket,
And a green bottle of Cognac.
On plate,there is salami and crumbs of bread.

Owners of home were sent to kitchen,
Lamb burnt out.
Kitchen was redly dark,with the fire of oven.
And it smelled like crushed cockroach.
Owners of home,one kid,one woman and one elder,
Hugged each other,
They were alone at a wild darkness,
In the other part of World,
They were defenceless against all wildness.

From near,voices come,
They ask:
Her answer is "I don't know"
They ask:
Her answer is "No".
They ask:
Her answer is "I'm not going to talk"
They ask and all response they get is:
"No","I don't know" and "I'm not going to talk".
And in the World,
The voice which forget everything except those three sentences,
Is smooth like a baby's skin,
And straight as the road between two points.

A whip snapped,
Partizan stood quite.
It was voice of a nude human skin,
Whips are snapping,next to next.
Snakes are whistling while falling down to Sun.
A young German officer came,
He sat down on chair.
He closed his ears with his fingers,
And his eyes were closed,
And he stood like that,until end of query.
Whips are snapping,next to next.
Owners of home count them,
200...
Query restarts,
They ask,
They ask:
Her answer is "I don't know"
They ask:
Her answer is "No".
They ask:
Her answer is "I'm not going to talk"
Voice is proudful.
But not sleek anymore.
It was hoarse like,
A bleeding fist.

Partizan was taken out,
With neither fur hat on her head,
Nor with cloak on her back,
Not with trousers and boots anymore either,
Just in underpants.
Her white teeth and her swollen mouth,
Blood in her legs,blood in her back,blood in her face,
Her arms are tied from back,
Her barefeet on snow,
There are two soldiers with bayonet and one partizan.
Partizan walked.

(To be contunied,it's too long.I'll share Nazım Hikmet's poems about Turkey,Kuvva-i-Milliye and love as well)

[Partizan]

(continued)
They put partizan into izba of Vasiliy Klulik,
She sat on wood desk.
She was in a crazy thoughtfulness,
She wanted water,
Sentinel didn't give it.
German soldiers came,
They flocked around her like bugs,
They assaulted her,
One of them,burned matches under her chin for several times,
Other of them rubbed a knive over her skin,
Until her back got bloody.
Later they went for sleep,
Sentinel took partizan out,just in front of his bayonet.

Blue,round eyed kid,looks at from outside.
World is in ice,
Street is alone,under snows.
In stars...

With his round and blue eyes,
A boy watches from outside.
He will forget what he has seen,
He will grow up,he will get married.
In a summer night,
Or maybe in a siesta,
The girl,who steps on stars on snow,
With her barefeet,
Will come into his dreams...

Under snow,from side to side,
Under snow,the alone street,
Under snow,the Partizan,
Her feet are bare,
And arms tied up from back,
With her underwear,
Walks in front of bayonet,
While coming from one side,to another side...

Sentinel felt cold,they backed into izba,
They went out after he felt warm enough.
It went on,until 22 o'clock.
And two sentinels changed,
And partizan stood on wooden desk,immobile.
Partizan,
18 years old.
Partizan,
Knows she is going to die.
Killing and getting killed,
The difference was slight,
On redness of the grudge.
And she was healthy,
And young enough,
To not fear about death.
She looked at her bare feet,
They were bare and swollen,
They were cracked and frozen,
Redly.
However,Partizan was out of pain.
And just like,how it is inside of her skin,
It was inside of her belief and anger,just like that.
She remembered her mother sometimes,
And her school books also came into her mind,
She remembers a polished pot,
Which stays on Ilyich's picture.
And blue,really blue flowers in them.
She remembers her childhood,
It is really close,
Even colours of short skirts are,
Just like they are close to her hand.
She remembers first air bombing.
And workers,who went into field.
They are passing the street,while singing!
And kids run back of them.
Time to time,she remembers a train station.
She said farewell to her mother,there.
She remembers a youth meeting,
It is that close,
The water glass,on the table with red blanket.
Even her voice,which speaks in snatches,
Is just like,you can feel it with your hand.
And she remembers her voice,
Her own voice,
Which is fearless against her enemies.
Her voice
Which says "No"
Which says "I'm not going to talk"
And the voice,which secrets her real name,
For not letting enemy know something right.

Her name was ZOE,
She said it was TANYA.

(OK,OK I won't be able to translate the rest for now...See you after forum re-opens )

[Partizan]

(going on,I must finish translating before Apricity freezes down )

Tanya,
Your picture is in front of me,
In the prison of Bursa.
Probably you have never even heard name of Bursa,
Bursa is a soft and green land.
Your picture is in front of me,
In the prison of Bursa.
It isn't 1941 anymore.
It is 1945.
Your comrades,my comrades
And comrades of all honourable people in the World,
Are fighting on gates of Berlin now.
Not on gates of Moscow anymore.

Tanya,
As much as,
You love your motherland,
I love mine as well.

They hanged you,because you loved your motherland.
And I'm in prison,because I love my country as well.
But I live,
But you died,
You aren't around for a long time,
Anyway how much time you have ever spend?
18 years?
You didn't even feel hotness of sun,at all...

Tanya,
You hanged partizan,
I,poet in prison
You,my daughter.
You,my comrade.
I'm looking at your picture at the moment.
Your brows are thin,
Your eyes are just in almond shape.
But of course it's impossible,
To understand their colours,from this picture.
As I heard,
They were dark brown.
In my country,
We have many people with those eyes also.
Tanya,
How short is your hair?
Not longer than my son Memet's.
Your forehead is wide,
Like shining moon.
It relaxes me and makes me fall into a dream.
Your face is long and thin,
Your ears are a little bit big.
Your neck...
Is neck of a child,yet.
I understand that,
A man's arm have never hugged it.
And,there is something on your collar...
You sweet,little fancy lady!

I called my friends,they are looking at your picture...
-Tanya!
I have a daughter in your age.
-Tanya!
My darling is same aged with you.
Our country is warm,
There,girls become womans faster.
-Tanya!
We are friends of same aged girls with you.
In schools,in factories,in farms.
-Tanya!
You died!
How many honorable people died!
And getting killed.
But me?
I live in prison.
I can't put my life into danger,
I live perfectly,despite I'm in prison!

At morning,
They dressed Tanya.
But without her cloak,her fur hat and her boats.
They appropriated all.
They brought her bag:
Benzine bottles,match,bullet,salt and sugar.
They hanged bottles on her neck,
And they wrote something on her chest:
PARTIZAN.

Gallows established on center of village.
Cavaliers draw their swords,
Infantries sided as circle,
They forced villagers to come,
Come and watch!

Two boxes,on each other.
Two macaroni boxes.
On the boxes,
Rope was waving.

Partizan stood up,on her throne.
Partizan,
Her arms are tied from back,
Stoods straight,
In front of rope.

They tied rope,on her thin and long neck.

One officer,who is interested on taking photos,
One officer,with Kodak in his hands.
One officer,will take a picture.
Tanya screamed to people of Kolhoz:
"Comrades,don't be sad!
Day,is day of bravery!
Don't let fascists breathe!
Burn,sack and kill!"

One Kraut punched on her mouth.
Blood,blood shed on her chin.
But Partizan turned to soldiers and said:
"We are two hundred millions of people!
Can you hang all of two hundred of us all?
I might go!
But our comrades will come!
Surrender,you still have time!"

People of Kolhoz,were crying.
Hangman,pulled the rope.

Her petite neck,was suffocating.
But Partizan,stood up.
And she was talking to the Life,itself:
"Comrades!
Good bye!
Comrades!
This fight is eternal!
I'm hearing,clops of Red Army!
Ours are coming!

Hangman,kicked boxes.
They rolled around.
And Tanya,
Was vawing on rope..

Nazım Hikmet Ran

[Linet]

Great poem ...i really loved it...but i m sorry for the girl....