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Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 12:29 PM
I want this thread to celebrate European poetry. So post poems in your own language, they may belong to others or being your own composition.

Geminus
12-31-2011, 02:07 PM
A very beautiful poem from Rainer Maria Rilke: "Der Panther"

Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille –
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 05:15 PM
Ady Endre: Vihar és fa (Storm and Tree)
(early 20th century)

Kóbor gyermekem hazajött:
Kicsi Békességem
S a fák és a záporos vihar
Nagy egyességét nézem,
Csókos csatáját bámulom.

Hogy kelleti magát a fa,
Hajlong erre-arra
S hogy bízza rá magát odadón
Mégiscsak a viharra,
Ki zordan leplez vágyakat.

Békesség, kicsi gyermekem,
Maradjunk mi eggyütt:
Bomoljon a fa meg a vihar,
Mi csöndben leselkedjünk,
Hátha betoppan valaki.

Hátha vihart hoz valaki
Viharnál is jobban,
Lombosnak érzem a lelkemet
S az Élet szíve dobban
Ott künn és a szivemben is.

S ha elfutsz, kóbor gyermekem,
Újból visszavárlak,
Addig viharral ölelkezem
S nem árt ez igazi fának
S aztán itt maradsz: gyermekem.

HungAryan
12-31-2011, 05:17 PM
József Attila - Nem! Nem! Soha!

Szép kincses Kolozsvár, Mátyás büszkesége,
Nem lehet, nem, soha! Oláhország éke!
Nem teremhet Bánát a rácnak kenyeret!
Magyar szél fog fúni a Kárpátok felett!

Ha eljő az idő - a sírok nyílnak fel,
Ha eljő az idő - a magyar talpra kel,
Ha eljő az idő - erős lesz a karunk,
Várjatok, Testvérek, ott leszünk, nem adunk!

Majd nemes haraggal rohanunk előre,
Vérkeresztet festünk majd a határkőre
És mindent letiprunk! - Az lesz a viadal!! -
Szembeszállunk mi a poklok kapuival!

Bömbölve rohanunk majd, mint a tengerár,
Egy csepp vérig küzdünk s áll a magyar határ
Teljes egészében, mint nem is oly régen
És csillagunk ismét tündöklik az égen.

A lobogónk lobog, villámlik a kardunk,
Fut a gaz előlünk - hisz magyarok vagyunk!
Felhatol az égig haragos szózatunk:
Hazánkat akarjuk! vagy érte meghalunk.

Nem lész kisebb Hazánk, nem, egy arasszal sem,
Úgy fogsz tündökölni, mint régen, fényesen!
Magyar rónán, hegyen egy kiáltás zúg át:
Nem engedjük soha! soha Árpád honát!

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 05:27 PM
József Attila - Nem! Nem! Soha!

Szép kincses Kolozsvár, Mátyás büszkesége,
Nem lehet, nem, soha! Oláhország éke!
Nem teremhet Bánát a rácnak kenyeret!
Magyar szél fog fúni a Kárpátok felett!

Ha eljő az idő - a sírok nyílnak fel,
Ha eljő az idő - a magyar talpra kel,
Ha eljő az idő - erős lesz a karunk,
Várjatok, Testvérek, ott leszünk, nem adunk!

Majd nemes haraggal rohanunk előre,
Vérkeresztet festünk majd a határkőre
És mindent letiprunk! - Az lesz a viadal!! -
Szembeszállunk mi a poklok kapuival!

Bömbölve rohanunk majd, mint a tengerár,
Egy csepp vérig küzdünk s áll a magyar határ
Teljes egészében, mint nem is oly régen
És csillagunk ismét tündöklik az égen.

A lobogónk lobog, villámlik a kardunk,
Fut a gaz előlünk - hisz magyarok vagyunk!
Felhatol az égig haragos szózatunk:
Hazánkat akarjuk! vagy érte meghalunk.

Nem lész kisebb Hazánk, nem, egy arasszal sem,
Úgy fogsz tündökölni, mint régen, fényesen!
Magyar rónán, hegyen egy kiáltás zúg át:
Nem engedjük soha! soha Árpád honát!

Written immediately after the unjust Trianon Dictate (in translation No! No! Never!). A poem that since then heats the never resting hearts of every Hungarian.

HungAryan
12-31-2011, 05:32 PM
Written immediately after the unjust Trianon Dictate (in translation No! No! Never!). A poem that since then heats the never resting hearts of every Hungarian.

I know this poem from the heart.
Even when woken up from my best dreams, I could recite it.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 05:39 PM
I know this poem from the heart.
Even when woken up from my best dreams, I could recite it.

Unfortunately I never had that good of a memory to memorize poems by heart. Of course I managed with shorter ones, but never with large ones. Though I love to read them, and meditate about their meaning, or simply to marvel in their beauty.

Pallantides
12-31-2011, 05:40 PM
xwl2vLc8HoY


Du mĺ ikke sove - Arnulf Řverland, 1937

Jeg vĺknet en natt av en underlig drřm,
det var som en stemme talte til mig,
fjern som en underjordisk strřm -
og jeg reiste mig op: Hvad er det du vil mig?


- Du mĺ ikke sove! Du mĺ ikke sove!
Du mĺ ikke tro, at du bare har drřmt!
Igĺr blev jeg dřmt.
I natt har de reist skafottet i gĺrden.
De henter mig klokken fem imorgen!


Hele kjelleren her er full,
og alle kaserner har kjeller ved kjeller.
Vi ligger og venter i stenkolde celler,
vi ligger og rĺtner i mřrke hull!


Vi vet ikke selv, hvad vi ligger og venter,
og hvem der kan bli den neste, de henter.
Vi střnner, vi skriker - men kan dere hřre?
Kan dere absolutt ingenting gjřre?


Ingen fĺr se oss.
Ingen fĺr vite, hvad der skal skje oss.
Ennu mer:
Ingen kan tro, hvad her daglig skjer!


Du mener, det kan ikke vćre sant,
sĺ onde kan ikke mennesker vćre.
Der fins da vel skikkelig folk iblandt?
Bror, du har ennu meget ĺ lćre!


Man sa: Du skal gi ditt liv, om det kreves.
Og nu har vi gitt det - forgjeves, forgjeves!
Verden har glemt oss! Vi er bedratt!
Du mĺ ikke sove mer i natt!


Du mĺ ikke gĺ til ditt kjřpmannskap
og tenke pĺ hvad der gir vinning og tap!
Du mĺ ikke skylde pĺ aker og fe
og at du har mer enn nok med det!


Du mĺ ikke sitte trygt i ditt hjem
og si: Det er sřrgelig, stakkars dem!
Du mĺ ikke tĺle sĺ inderlig vel
den urett som ikke rammer dig selv!
Jeg roper med siste pust av min stemme:
Du har ikke lov til ĺ gĺ der og glemme!


Tilgi dem ikke; de vet hvad de gjřr!
De puster pĺ hatets og ondskapens glřr!
De liker ĺ drepe, de frydes ved jammer,
de řnsker ĺ se vĺr verden i flammer!
De řnsker ĺ drukne oss alle i blod!
Tror du det ikke? Du vet det jo!


Du vet jo, at skolebarn er soldater,
som stimer med sang over torv og gater,
og opglřdd av mřdrenes fromme svig,
vil verge sitt land og vil gĺ i krig!


Du kjenner det nedrige folkebedrag
med heltemot og med tro og ćre -
du vet, at en helt, det vil barnet vćre,
du vet, han vil vifte med sabel og flag!


Og sĺ skal han ut i en skur av stĺl
og henge igjen i en piggtrĺdsvase
og rĺtne for Hitlers ariske rase!
Du vet, det er menneskets mening og mĺl!


Jeg skjřnte det ikke. Nu er det for sent.
Min dom er rettferdig. Min straff er fortjent.
jeg trodde pĺ fremgang, jeg trodde pĺ fred,
pĺ arbeid, pĺ samhold, pĺ kjćrlighet!
Men den som ikke vil dř i en flokk
fĺr prřve alene, pĺ břddelens blokk!


Jeg roper i mřrket - ĺ, kunde du hřre!
Der er en eneste ting ĺ gjřre:
Verg dig, mens du har frie hender!
Frels dine barn! Europa brenner!


Jeg skaket av frost. Jeg fikk pĺ mig klćr.
Ute var glitrende stjernevćr.
Bare en ulmende stripe i řst
varslet det samme som drřmmens rřst:


Dagen bakenom jordens rand
steg med et skjćr av blod og brand,
steg med en angst sĺ ĺndelřs,
at det var som om selve stjernene frřs!


Jeg tenkte: Nu er det noget som hender. -
Vĺr tid er forbi - Europa brenner!



English translation by Lars-Toralf:

I was awakened one morning, by the quaintest of dreams
‘twas like a voice, spoken to me
It sounded afar - like an underground stream,
I rose and said: Why do you call me?

Dare not to slumber! Dare not to sleep!
Dare not believe, it was merely a dream!
Yore I was judged.
The gallows were built in the court this evening,
They’ll come for me — 5’ in the morning

This dungeon is teeming,
And barracks stand dungeon by dungeon
we lie here, awaiting, in cold cells of stone,
We lie here, we rot, in these murky holes.

We know not ourselves, what does lie ahead
Who will be the next one they'll reach for.
We moan and we shriek: But do you take heed?
Is there none among you who’ll hearken?

No one can see us,
None know what befalls us.
Yet more:
None will believe - what the day will bring us!

And then You defy: This dare not be true!
That men can be utterly evil.
There has to be some one with merits pure
Oh, brother, you still have a great deal to learn

They said: You will give your life, if commanded
We’ve given it now, for naught it was handed
The world has forgotten, we’ve all been deceived
Dare not to sleep in this hour - this eve.

You oughtn’t go to your business hence,
Or think: What’s your loss – or what is your gain?
You oughtn’t attribute your fields and your kine,
Nor say you’ve enough - with all that is thine.

You oughn’t abide, sitting calm in your home
Saying: Dismal it is, poor they are, and alone
You cannot permit it! You dare not, at all.
Accepting that outrage on all else may fall!
I cry with the final gasps of my breath:
You dare not repose, nor stand and forget

Pardon them not - they know what they do!
They breathe on hate-glows, and evil pursue,
They fancy to slay, they revel with cries,
Their desire is to gloat, when our world is at fire!
In blood they are yearning to drown one and all!
Don’t you believe it? You’ve heard the call!

You know how infants will soldiers remain,
While dashing through streets, fields, chanting ‘bout pain
Aroused by their mothers‘ assurance of glory
They’ll shelter their land - and they’ll never worry

You know the fatality of the lies,
that glory and faith and honor abides
You discern the dauntless dreams of a child,
A saber, a banner, he’ll flaunt them so wild,

And then they’ll leave home for a rainfall of steel,
‘Till last they hang ragged on barbed wire will,
Decaying for Hitler's Aryan call,
That is what a man’s for - after all…

I couldn’t imagine – too late now it is
My sentence is just: The verdict's no miss
I believed in prosperity, dreamt about peace
In labor and fellowship; love’s fragrant kiss
Yet those who don’t die on the battlefield,
Their heads for the axeman, will certainly yield

I cry in the gloom - if only you’d knew
There is but one thing - befitting to do
Defend yourself, while your hands are still yearning,
Protect your offspring - Europe is burning.

***

I shook from the chill. To dress, up I rose
Without stars were shining, so far, yet so close
‘twere simply a brilliant ray in the east,
Admonishing warning from the dream that just ceased

The day that soared up from earths furthermost strand
Augmenting with blood — and with firebrand
It grew with terror - like a breath that was lost
It seemed like the starlight - was slain by the frost.

I weighed: Something is imminent - and it’s dire
Our era is over — Europe’s on fire!

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 05:48 PM
Norwegian is very underrated language. Very passionate.

Treffie
12-31-2011, 05:52 PM
Poems lose meaning when translated, but I think the following will need some sort of translation for there to be any meaning at all.

Rhyfel (War) - by Hedd Wyn (he died at Passchendaele)

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O'i ol mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae swn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt,
Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw



Why must I live in this grim age,
When, to a far horizon, God
Has ebbed away, and man, with rage,
Now wields the sceptre and the rod?

Man raised his sword, once God had gone,
To slay his brother, and the roar
Of battlefields now casts upon
Our homes the shadow of the war.

The harps to which we sang are hung,
On willow boughs, and their refrain
Drowned by the anguish of the young
Whose blood is mingled with the rain

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 06:00 PM
Poems lose meaning when translated, but I think the following will need some sort of translation for there to be any meaning at all.

Rhyfel (War) - by Hedd Wyn (he died at Passchendaele)

Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O'i ol mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.

Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae swn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.

Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt,
Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw



Why must I live in this grim age,
When, to a far horizon, God
Has ebbed away, and man, with rage,
Now wields the sceptre and the rod?

Man raised his sword, once God had gone,
To slay his brother, and the roar
Of battlefields now casts upon
Our homes the shadow of the war.

The harps to which we sang are hung,
On willow boughs, and their refrain
Drowned by the anguish of the young
Whose blood is mingled with the rain

Esthetically it doesn't seem as beautiful to me, but I am sure if pronounced it sounds much better. Very interesting and unique language though. Is it Gaelic?

Treffie
12-31-2011, 06:05 PM
Esthetically it doesn't seem as beautiful to me, but I am sure if pronounced it sounds much better. Very interesting and unique language though. Is it Gaelic?

It's Welsh :shakefist :D As Welsh poems go, the English translation is pretty good.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 06:14 PM
It's Welsh :shakefist :D As Welsh poems go, the English translation is pretty good.

Which of the Celtic literature are the most vast and developed? I mean from which Celtic languages?

Mordid
12-31-2011, 06:24 PM
Adam Asnyk, 1838–1897

Do Mlodych

Szukajcie prawdy jasnego plomienia!
Szukajcie nowych, nie odkrytych drog...
Za kazdym krokiem w tajniki stworzenia
Coraz sie dusza ludzka rozprzestrzenia,
I wiekszym staje sie Bog!

Choc otrząśniecie kwiaty barwnych mitow,
Choc rozproszycie legendowy mrok,
Choc mgle urojen zedrzecie z blekitow,
Ludziom niebianskich nie zbraknie zachwytow,
Lecz dalej siegnie ich wzrok!

Kazda epoka ma swe wlasne cele
I zapomina o wczorajszych snach...
Niescie wiec wiedzy pochodnie na czele
I nowy udzial bierzcie w wiekow dziele,
Przyszlosci podnoscie gmach!

Ale nie depczcie przeszlosci oltarzy,
Choc macie sami doskonalsze wzniesc;
Na nich sie jeszcze swiety ogien żarzy
I milosc ludzka stoi tam na strazy,
I wy winniscie im czesc!

Ze swiatem, ktory w ciemnosc już zachodzi
Wraz z calą tęcza idealnych snow,
Prawdziwa mądrosc niechaj was pogodzi –
I wasze gwiazdy, o zdobywcy młodzi,
W ciemnosciach pogasna znow!

In English....:

TO THE YOUNG

The brightening flame of truth pursue,
Seek to discover ways no human knows.
With every secret now revealed to you,
The soul of man expands within the new.
And God still bigger grows!

Although you may the flowers of myths remove,
Although you may the fabulous dark disperse,
And tear the mist of fancy from above;
There’ll be no shortage of new things to love,
Farther in the universe.

Each epoch has its special goals in store,
And soon forgets the dreams of older days.
So, bear the torch of learning in the fore,
And join the making of new eras’ lore.
The House of the Future raise!

But trample not the altars of the past!
Although you shall much finer domes erect.
The holy flames upon the stones still last,
And human love lives there and guards them fast,
And them you owe respect!

Now with the world that vanishes from view,
Dragging down the perfect rainbow of delight,
Be gently reconciled in wisdom true.
Your stars, oh, youthful conquerors, they, too,
Will fade into the night!

Treffie
12-31-2011, 06:27 PM
Which of the Celtic literature are the most vast and developed? I mean from which Celtic languages?

I should imagine that Irish and Welsh are the languages with most literature written. Don't have much in-depth knowledge of how the Irish system works, but in Welsh there is the Eisteddfod (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eisteddfod) which encourages people to excel in literature from a very young age. Cadeirio'r Bardd (Chairing of the Bard) is the award given to the best piece of poetry written during the year. It's taken very seriously and presented by people in very funny clothes :D

http://www.gorsethkernow.org.uk/images/gallery/eistpics/frisword.jpg

Damiăo de Góis
12-31-2011, 06:35 PM
[SONETO DO CARALHO POTENTE]

Porripotente heroe, que uma cadeira
Sustens na poncta do caralho teso,
Pondo-lhe em riba mais por contrapeso
A cappa de baetăo da alcoviteira:

Teu casso é como o ramo da palmeira,
Que mais se eleva, quando tem mais peso;
Si o năo conservas açaimado e preso,
É capaz de foder Lisboa inteira!

Que forças tens no horrido marsapo, [hórrido]
Que assentando a dysforme cachamorra
Deixa connos e cus feitos num trappo!

Quem ao ver-te o tesăo há năo discorra
Que tu năo podes ser sinăo Priapo,
Ou que tens um guindaste em vez de porra?

Bocage

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f6/Manuel_Maria_Barbosa_du_Bocage.jpg/200px-Manuel_Maria_Barbosa_du_Bocage.jpg

Logan
12-31-2011, 06:51 PM
I like Shakespeare, the English Romantics, and this fellow:


THE BLOSSOM.
by John Donne


LITTLE think'st thou, poor flower,
Whom I've watch'd six or seven days,
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,
Little think'st thou,
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.

Little think'st thou, poor heart,
That labourest yet to nestle thee,
And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,
And hopest her stiffness by long siege to bow,
Little think'st thou
That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with the sun and me a journey take.

But thou, which lovest to be
Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,
Alas ! if you must go, what's that to me?
Here lies my business, and here I will stay
You go to friends, whose love and means present
Various content
To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part ;
If then your body go, what need your heart?

Well then, stay here ; but know,
When thou hast stay'd and done thy most,
A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,
Is to a woman but a kind of ghost.
How shall she know my heart ; or having none,
Know thee for one?
Practice may make her know some other part ;
But take my word, she doth not know a heart.

Meet me in London, then,
Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see
Me fresher and more fat, by being with men,
Than if I had stay'd still with her and thee.
For God's sake, if you can, be you so too ;
I will give you
There to another friend, whom we shall find
As glad to have my body as my mind.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 06:58 PM
[SONETO DO CARALHO POTENTE]

Porripotente heroe, que uma cadeira
Sustens na poncta do caralho teso,
Pondo-lhe em riba mais por contrapeso
A cappa de baetăo da alcoviteira:

Teu casso é como o ramo da palmeira,
Que mais se eleva, quando tem mais peso;
Si o năo conservas açaimado e preso,
É capaz de foder Lisboa inteira!

Que forças tens no horrido marsapo, [hórrido]
Que assentando a dysforme cachamorra
Deixa connos e cus feitos num trappo!

Quem ao ver-te o tesăo há năo discorra
Que tu năo podes ser sinăo Priapo,
Ou que tens um guindaste em vez de porra?

Bocage

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f6/Manuel_Maria_Barbosa_du_Bocage.jpg/200px-Manuel_Maria_Barbosa_du_Bocage.jpg

I could swear I was reading a poem in Latin. I am curious if Portuguese changed much in form after Bocage, and the late 18th century?

Damiăo de Góis
12-31-2011, 07:02 PM
I could swear I was reading a poem in Latin. I am curious if Portuguese changed much in form after Bocage, and the late 18th century?

I posted that poem as a joke, it's about some guy's huge dick. But that poet is from my city so... :D
He has other more normal and serious poems.

Our language changed somewhat compared to that. Some words are now written very differently and others don't exist at all. Still i understand 100% of it.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 07:04 PM
I like Shakespeare, the English Romantics, and this fellow:

I also like this period of the English language, 16-17th centuries, when basically Modern English was shaped. It has an untouched charm to it, more politeness, and fancy display of expressions.

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 07:07 PM
Adam Asnyk, 1838–1897

Do Mlodych

Szukajcie prawdy jasnego plomienia!
Szukajcie nowych, nie odkrytych drog...
Za kazdym krokiem w tajniki stworzenia
Coraz sie dusza ludzka rozprzestrzenia,
I wiekszym staje sie Bog!

Choc otrząśniecie kwiaty barwnych mitow,
Choc rozproszycie legendowy mrok,
Choc mgle urojen zedrzecie z blekitow,
Ludziom niebianskich nie zbraknie zachwytow,
Lecz dalej siegnie ich wzrok!

Kazda epoka ma swe wlasne cele
I zapomina o wczorajszych snach...
Niescie wiec wiedzy pochodnie na czele
I nowy udzial bierzcie w wiekow dziele,
Przyszlosci podnoscie gmach!

Ale nie depczcie przeszlosci oltarzy,
Choc macie sami doskonalsze wzniesc;
Na nich sie jeszcze swiety ogien żarzy
I milosc ludzka stoi tam na strazy,
I wy winniscie im czesc!

Ze swiatem, ktory w ciemnosc już zachodzi
Wraz z calą tęcza idealnych snow,
Prawdziwa mądrosc niechaj was pogodzi –
I wasze gwiazdy, o zdobywcy młodzi,
W ciemnosciach pogasna znow!

In English....:

TO THE YOUNG

The brightening flame of truth pursue,
Seek to discover ways no human knows.
With every secret now revealed to you,
The soul of man expands within the new.
And God still bigger grows!

Although you may the flowers of myths remove,
Although you may the fabulous dark disperse,
And tear the mist of fancy from above;
There’ll be no shortage of new things to love,
Farther in the universe.

Each epoch has its special goals in store,
And soon forgets the dreams of older days.
So, bear the torch of learning in the fore,
And join the making of new eras’ lore.
The House of the Future raise!

But trample not the altars of the past!
Although you shall much finer domes erect.
The holy flames upon the stones still last,
And human love lives there and guards them fast,
And them you owe respect!

Now with the world that vanishes from view,
Dragging down the perfect rainbow of delight,
Be gently reconciled in wisdom true.
Your stars, oh, youthful conquerors, they, too,
Will fade into the night!

As in my commentary to the Welsh poem, this must definitely sound much better spoken, than in written form. Those who put down the laws of written Polish didn't cared much about the esthetics it seems to me.

Waidewut
12-31-2011, 07:21 PM
Kā gulbji balti padebeši iet by Eduards Veidenbaums

Kā gulbji balti padebeši iet,
Tiem vēlētos es līdzi tālu skriet—
Tur tālumā, kur ziemas nepazīst,
Kur rozes mūžam zied un nenovīst.—
Kam velti laimību kāro tu, sirds?
Met projām reiz cerības tumšajā kapā:
No saulainām lejām ir mirstīgais šķirts,
Tam jādzīvo asaru dūksnājā slapjā,
Kur dzelži un cirvji bez rimšanās klaudz,
Pēc maizes, pēc pārtikas vergi kur sauc,
No stiprākā samīts kur vājākais lūzt,
Un asins un sviedri ik dienas kur plūst

Sagitta Hungarica
12-31-2011, 07:27 PM
Kā gulbji balti padebeši iet by Eduards Veidenbaums

Kā gulbji balti padebeši iet,
Tiem vēlētos es līdzi tālu skriet—
Tur tālumā, kur ziemas nepazīst,
Kur rozes mūžam zied un nenovīst.—
Kam velti laimību kāro tu, sirds?
Met projām reiz cerības tumšajā kapā:
No saulainām lejām ir mirstīgais šķirts,
Tam jādzīvo asaru dūksnājā slapjā,
Kur dzelži un cirvji bez rimšanās klaudz,
Pēc maizes, pēc pārtikas vergi kur sauc,
No stiprākā samīts kur vājākais lūzt,
Un asins un sviedri ik dienas kur plūst

Interestingly I was reminded of Polish, Lithuanian, Estonian, Latin when reading this.

Sui Generis
09-18-2016, 10:56 AM
Lavinia

Sana gitme demeyeceğim.
Üşüyorsun ceketimi al.
Günün en güzel saatleri bunlar.
Yanımda kal.

Sana gitme demeyeceğim.
Gene de sen bilirsin.
Yalanlar istiyorsan yalanlar söyleyeyim,
İncinirsin.

Sana gitme demeyeceğim,
Ama gitme, Lavinia.
Adını gizleyeceğim
Sen de bilme, Lavinia.

Özdemir Asaf (http://www.cs.rpi.edu/~sibel/poetry/poems/ozdemir_asaf/english/index.html)

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

Translate (http://www.cs.rpi.edu/~sibel/poetry/poems/ozdemir_asaf/english/lavinia.html)

I shall not ask you not to go.
You're cold, take my coat.
These are the loveliest hours of the day.
Stay at my side.

I shall not ask you not to go.
Still, you know best.
Lies if you wish, lies I shall tell.
Your feelings would be hurt.

I shall not ask you not to go,
But do not go Lavinia.
I shall keep your name..
You too, don't know, Lavinia.

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

"I shall keep your name..
You too, don't know, Lavinia."

Lavinia is a nickname was given by poet for girl his liked.

One song for this poem


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ3Ff-wUDz0

Lestat-De-Lioncourt
09-30-2016, 10:40 PM
One of my favourite poems.


Es-tu brune ou blonde ?
Sont-ils noirs ou bleus,
Tes yeux ?
Je n'en sais rien, mais j'aime leur clarté profonde,
Mais j'adore le désordre de tes cheveux.

Es-tu douce ou dure ?
Est-il sensible ou moqueur,
Ton cœur ?
Je n'en sais rien, mais je rends grâce ŕ la nature
D'avoir fait de ton cœur mon maître et mon vainqueur.

Fidčle, infidčle ?
Qu'est-ce que ça fait.
Au fait ?
Puisque, toujours disposé ŕ couronner mon zčle
Ta beauté sert de gage ŕ mon plus cher souhait.

Paul Verlaine


Translate:

Are you blonde or brunette?
Are they black or blue,
Your eyes ?
I do not know, but I love their deep clarity,
But I love the mess of your hair.
Are you soft or hard?
Is it sensible or mocking,
Your heart ?
I do not know, but I give thanks to nature
To have done with your heart my teacher and winner.
Faithful, unfaithful?
What does it do.
By the way ?
Since, always willing to crown my zeal
Your beauty is a pledge to my dearest wish.


Paul Verlaine

ЛыSSый
09-30-2016, 10:53 PM
http://cs8.pikabu.ru/post_img/2016/09/30/10/14752559681481303.png


http://cs9.pikabu.ru/post_img/big/2016/09/26/6/147487771013453756.jpg


http://cs8.pikabu.ru/post_img/2016/01/18/7/1453117864120341861.jpg


http://s.pikabu.ru/post_img/big/2013/10/16/11/1381945706_200305879.jpg

Dick
09-30-2016, 10:55 PM
ROSES ARE RED
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
GO FUCK YOURSELF

♥ Lily ♥
10-01-2016, 07:40 AM
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/45/33/06/45330606e96f93afc6cd3766f5bdac11.jpghttps://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d9/50/dc/d950dc63639d9f78e67a6c0f98472a46.jpg

She Walks in Beauty
(Lord Byron)

'She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!'

https://i.ytimg.com/vi/73w3wWYjcDk/hqdefault.jpg
http://media3.giphy.com/media/YUduK6FeJm3ug/giphy.gif

Skjaldemjřden
10-01-2016, 08:11 AM
I love this poem. It's a 19th century parody about one guy's unrequited love leading to the death of dozens of people in town. I heard Kim Larsen perform it live once.

Adolf var af stand velbĺren
men han elsked' Thora uden held
Sĺ sprang han lige ud fra Rundetĺrn
og slog sig rent forskrćkkeligt ihjel.

Thora sad og grćd ved nĺlen
Da hun fik at vide Adolfs dřd
gik hun hen og drak af vitriolen
og dřde af den slemme drik hun nřd.

Adolfs fader tĺlte ikke
at hans sřn sĺ skrćkkelig omkom.
Traurig hćngte han sig i en strikke
da fřrst han havde drukket flasken tom.

Moderen fik knap fornummen
at de andre sĺdan vandred' bort
fřr hun tog en snaps af opiummen
og sov sig dřd, ak livets fryd er kort.

Thoras far var dřd, men mo'ren
troede Thora mored' sig pĺ bal.
Da hun hřrte Thora var kreporen
hun droned' sig i Fredrik'holms kanal.

Thoras onkel, ham sergenten,
da han fatted' Thora var ej mer'
skřd han sig og elve břrn og tanten
med rřgfrit krudt fra et rep'tergevćr

Deres skrćdder var af slagsen,
da han mćrked' Thora var ej mer,
myrded' han sig samme dag med saksen.
Da konen sĺ det dřde hun af skrćk.

Og en mand der kom fra Fy-en,
skřnt han ingen af dem havde kendt,
da han sĺ hvor galt det var i byen
sĺ skřd han sig ved Thoras hus omtrent.

Jeg, som drejer denne kasse,
jeg er ked af livet, ser I vel,
men jeg vil ikke dř som denne masse,
nej, jeg vil langsomt drikke mig ihjel.

Danaan
10-01-2016, 08:59 AM
We have some great poems but the translations are not so great quite often, so it's a little meaningless to post them. So, I will post a French sonnet with it's English and Greek translations.
It's more of an anti-romanticist statement. That's why it's great imo.

Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique

Que le soleil est beau quand tout frais il se lčve,
Comme une explosion nous lançant son bonjour!
— Bienheureux celui-lŕ qui peut avec amour
Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un ręve!

Je me souviens!... J'ai vu tout, fleur, source, sillon,
Se pâmer sous son oeil comme un coeur qui palpite...
— Courons vers l'horizon, il est tard, courons vite,
Pour attraper au moins un oblique rayon!

Mais je poursuis en vain le Dieu qui se retire;
L'irrésistible Nuit établit son empire,
Noire, humide, funeste et pleine de frissons;

Une odeur de tombeau dans les ténčbres nage,
Et mon pied peureux froisse, au bord du marécage,
Des crapauds imprévus et de froids limaçons.

— Charles Baudelaire

Ρομαντικό Ηλιοβασίλεμα

Πόσο ο ήλιος είναι ωραίος όταν ολόδροσος ανατέλλει,
σαν μια έκρηξη μας εκτοξεύει την καλημέρα του!
- Πανευτυχής εκείνος - εκεί που μπορεί μαζί με τον έρωτα
να χαίρεται την δύση του πιο δοξασμένη κι απ' όνειρο!

Θυμάσαι! Όλα τα είδα, λουλούδι, πηγή, αυλάκι,
να λιγώνονται κάτω απ' το μάτι του σαν καρδιά που πάλλει...
- Ας τρέξουμε προς τον ορίζοντα, είν' αργά, ας τρέξουμε γρήγορα,
για να αδράξουμε τουλάχιστον της δύσης την ηλιαχτίδα.

Αλλά μάταια κυνηγώ τον Θεό που αποσύρεται,
Η ακάθεκτη Νύχτα εγκαθιστά το βασίλειο της,
μαύρη, υγρή, απαίσια, γεμάτη ανατριχίλες.

Μια μυρωδιά τάφου μες της νύχτας τα σκοτεινά πέπλα επιπλέει,
και το πόδι μου φοβισμένο συνθλίβει, στου βάλτου την όχθη,
απρόβλεπτους φρύνους και κρύα σαλιγκάρια.

The Sunset of Romanticism

How beautiful the Sun is when newly risen
He hurls his morning greetings like an explosion!
— Fortunate the one who can lovingly salute
His setting, more glorious than a dream!

I remember!... I have seen all, flower, stream, furrow,
Swoon under his gaze like a palpitating heart...
— Let us run to the horizon, it's late,
Let us run fast, to catch at least a slanting ray!

But I pursue in vain the sinking god;
Irresistible Night, black, damp, deadly,
Full of shudders, establishes his reign;

The odor of the tomb swims in the shadows
And at the marsh's edge my timid foot
Treads upon slimy snails and unexpected toads.

Shelby
10-01-2016, 09:02 AM
ROSES ARE RED
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
GO FUCK YOURSELF

roses are red
you think youre so slick
FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM @DI1CK

Bezprym
10-01-2016, 09:15 AM
My favourite. The author is Zbigniew Herbert

In Polish:

Przesłanie Pana Cogito

Idź dokąd poszli tamci do ciemnego kresu
po złote runo nicości twoją ostatnią nagrodę

idź wyprostowany wśród tych co na kolanach
wśród odwróconych plecami i obalonych w proch

ocalałeś nie po to aby żyć
masz mało czasu trzeba dać świadectwo

bądź odważny gdy rozum zawodzi bądź odważny
w ostatecznym rachunku jedynie to się liczy

a Gniew twój bezsilny niech będzie jak morze
ilekroć usłyszysz głos poniżonych i bitych

niech nie opuszcza ciebie twoja siostra Pogarda
dla szpiclów katów tchórzy - oni wygrają
pójdą na twój pogrzeb i z ulgą rzucą grudę
a kornik napisze twój uładzony życiorys

i nie przebaczaj zaiste nie w twojej mocy
przebaczać w imieniu tych których zdradzono o świcie

strzeż się jednak dumy niepotrzebnej
oglądaj w lustrze swą błazeńską twarz
powtarzaj: zostałem powołany - czyż nie było lepszych

strzeż się oschłości serca kochaj źródło zaranne
ptaka o nieznanym imieniu dąb zimowy
światło na murze splendor nieba
one nie potrzebują twego ciepłego oddechu
są po to aby mówić: nikt cię nie pocieszy

czuwaj - kiedy światło na górach daje znak - wstań i idź
dopóki krew obraca w piersi twoją ciemną gwiazdę

powtarzaj stare zaklęcia ludzkości bajki i legendy
bo tak zdobędziesz dobro którego nie zdobędziesz
powtarzaj wielkie słowa powtarzaj je z uporem
jak ci co szli przez pustynię i ginęli w piasku

a nagrodzą cię za to tym co mają pod ręką
chłostą śmiechu zabójstwem na śmietniku

idź bo tylko tak będziesz przyjęty do grona zimnych czaszek
do grona twoich przodków: Gilgamesza Hektora Rolanda
obrońców królestwa bez kresu i miasta popiołów

Bądź wierny Idź

In English

The Envoy of Mr. Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let your sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards—they will win
they will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown’s face in the mirror
repeat: I was called—weren’t there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak

light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don’t need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go
as long as blood turns in the chest your dark star

repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way will you be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

EL_BARBARO
10-01-2016, 09:21 AM
Castilla


El ciego sol se estrella
en las duras aristas de las armas,
llaga de luz los petos y espaldares
y flamea en las puntas de las lanzas.

El ciego sol, la sed y la fatiga.
Por la terrible estepa castellana,
al destierro, con doce de los suyos,
—polvo, sudor y hierro— el Cid cabalga.

Cerrado está el mesón a piedra y lodo...
Nadie responde. Al pomo de la espada
y al cuento de las picas, el postigo
va a ceder... ˇQuema el sol, el aire abrasa!

A los terribles golpes,
de eco ronco, una voz pura, de plata
y de cristal, responde... Hay una nińa
muy débil y muy blanca,
en el umbral. Es toda
ojos azules; y en los ojos, lágrimas.
Oro pálido nimba
su carita curiosa y asustada.

«ˇBuen Cid! Pasad... El rey nos dará muerte,
arruinará la casa
y sembrará de sal el pobre campo
que mi padre trabaja...
Idos. El Cielo os colme de venturas...
En nuestro mal, ioh Cid!, no ganáis nada».

Calla la nińa y llora sin gemido...
Un sollozo infantil cruza la escuadra
de feroces guerreros,
y una voz inflexible grita: «ˇEn marcha!»

El ciego sol, la sed y la fatiga.
Por la terrible estepa castellana,
al destierro, con doce de los suyos
—polvo, sudor y hierro—, el Cid cabalga.


(Manuel Machado)

Bezprym
10-22-2016, 12:10 PM
Since tomorrow is 60th anniversary of the beginning of the Hungarian Revolution, here is a poem written by the same man as in my previous post.

In Polish

Węgrom

stoimy na granicy
wyciągamy ręce
i wielki sznur z powietrza
wiążemy bracia dla was

z krzyku załamanego
z zaciśniętych pięści
odlewa się dzwon i serce
milczące na trwogę

proszą ranne kamienie
prosi woda zabita
stoimy na granicy
stoimy na granicy

stoimy na granicy
nazywanej rozsądkiem
i w pożar się patrzymy
i śmierć podziwiamy

1956


In English

For the Hungarians

we are standing on the border
we are outstretching our hands
and a huge rope made of air
we are strapping, our brothers

out of the cry broken
from the clenched fists
a bell and an alarmed heart
silent in awe found themselves

the morning stones are praying
the killed water is praying
we are standing on the border
we are standing on the border

we are standing on the border
called reason
and we are looking into the fire
and the death we admire

1956

- Zbigniew Herbert

Sui Generis
10-23-2016, 03:46 PM
A poem by Can Yücel (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Can_Y%C3%BCcel)

Her şey sende gizli

Yerin seni çektiği kadar ağırsın
Kanatların çırpındığı kadar hafif..
Kalbinin attığı kadar canlısın
Gözlerinin uzağı gördüğü kadar genç...
Sevdiklerin kadar iyisin
Nefret ettiklerin kadar kötü..
Ne renk olursa olsun kaşın gözün
Karşındakinin gördüğüdür rengin..
Yaşadıklarını kar sayma:
Yaşadığın kadar yakınsın sonuna;

Ne kadar yaşarsan yaşa,
Sevdiğin kadardır ömrün..
Gülebildiğin kadar mutlusun
Üzülme bil ki ağladığın kadar güleceksin
Sakın bitti sanma her şeyi,

Sevdiğin kadar sevileceksin.
Güneşin doğuşundadır doğanın sana verdiği değer
Ve karşındakine değer verdiğin kadar insansın
Bir gün yalan söyleyeceksen eğer
Bırak karşındaki sana güvendiği kadar inansın.
Ay ışığındadır sevgiliye duyulan hasret
Ve sevgiline hasret kaldığın kadar ona yakınsın
Unutma yağmurun yağdığı kadar ıslaksın
Güneşin seni ısıttığı kadar sıcak.
Kendini yalnız hissettiğin kadar yalnızsın
Ve güçlü hissettiğin kadar güçlü.
Kendini güzel hissettiğin kadar güzelsin..

İşte budur hayat!
İşte budur yaşamak bunu hatırladığın kadar yaşarsın
Bunu unuttuğunda aldığın her nefes kadar üşürsün
Ve karşındakini unuttuğun kadar çabuk unutulursun
Çiçek sulandığı kadar güzeldir
Kuşlar ötebildiği kadar sevimli
Bebek ağladığı kadar bebektir
Ve her şeyi öğrendiğin kadar bilirsin bunu da öğren,
Sevdiğin kadar sevilirsin...

In English

Everything is hidden in you

You are as heavy as the ground pulls you,
As light as your wings flutter..
You are as alive as your heart beats,
As young as your eyes see distance...
You are as good as the people you love,
As bad as the people you hate..
Whatever the color of your eyebrows and your eyes are,
Your color is what the one facing you sees..
Don't think that what you lived is what you gained:
You are as close to the end as you lived; however long you live,
Your life is as long as you love..
You are as happy as you can smile.
Don't be sad, know that you will smile as much as you cry
Don't think that everything is over,
You will be loved as much as you love.
The value nature gives you is in the rise of the sun
And you are as human as the value you give to the one facing you.
If you will lie one day;
Let the one you address believe you as much as the trust for you.
The longing for the loved one is in the moon light,
And you are as close to your love as you long for.
Don't forget, you are as wet as it rains,
As warm as the sun warms you.
You are as alone as you feel alone
And as strong as you feel strong.
You are as beautiful as you feel beautiful..
This is life!
This is living,
You live as much as you remember this
When you forget this, you feel as cold as every breath you take
And you are forgotten as soon as you forget
A flower is as beautiful as it is watered,
Birds are as sweet as they chitter,
A baby is as baby as it cries.
And you know everything as much as you learn, learn this as well,
You are loved as much as you love...

Bezprym
11-27-2016, 05:06 PM
In Polish

Przemiany Liwiusza

Jak rozumieli Liwiusza mój dziadek mój pradziadek
bo na pewno czytali go w klasycznym gimnazjum
o mało stosownej porze
gdy w oknie staje kasztan – żarliwe kandelabry kwiatów –
a wszystkie myśli dziadka i pradziadka biegły zdyszane do Mizzi
która śpiewa w ogródku pokazuje dekolt oraz boskie nogi do samych kolan
albo Gabi z wiedeńskiej opery w lokach jak cherubin
Gabi z zadartym noskiem i Mozartem w gardle
czy w końcu do poczciwej Józi ucieczki strapionych
bez urody talentu i większych wymagań
a więc czytali Liwiusza – poro kwiatostanów –
w zapachu kredy nudy nafty którą zmywano podłogę
pod portretem cesarza
bo był wówczas cesarz
a imperium jak wszystkie imperia
zdawało się wieczne

Czytając dzieje Miasta ulegali złudzeniu
że są Rzymianami lub potomkami Rzymian
ci synowie podbitych sami ujarzmieni
zapewne miał w tym udział łacinnik
w randze radcy dworu
kolekcja cnót antycznych pod wytartym tużurkiem
więc za Liwiuszem wpajał w uczniów pogardę dla motłochu
bunt ludu – res tam foeda – budził w nich odrazę
natomiast wszystkie podboje wydawały się słuszne
znaczyły po prostu zwycięstwo tego co lepsze silniejsze
dlatego bolała ich klęska nad Jeziorem Trazymeńskim

dumą napawały przewagi Scypiona
śmierć Hannibala przyjęli z niekłamaną ulgą
łatwo zbyt łatwo dali się prowadzić
przez szańce zdań ubocznych
zawiłe konstrukcje którymi rządzi imiesłów
wezbrane rzeki wymowy
pułapki składni
– do bitwy
o nie swoją sprawę

Dopiero mój ojciec i ja za nim
czytaliśmy Liwiusza przeciw Liwiuszowi
pilnie badając to co jest pod freskiem
dlatego nie budził w nas echa teatralny gest Scewoli
krzyk centurionów tryumfalne pochody
a skłonni byliśmy wzruszać się klęską
Samnitów Gallów czy Etrusków
liczyliśmy mnogie imiona ludów startych przez Rzymian na proch
pochowanych bez chwały które dla Liwiusza
niegodne były nawet zmarszczki stylu
owych Hirpinów Apulów Lukanów Uzentyńczyków
a także mieszkańców Tarentu Metapontu Lokri

Mój ojciec wiedział dobrze i ja także wiem
że któregoś dnia na dalekich krańcach
bez znaków niebieskich
w Panonii Sarajewie czy też w Trebizondzie
w mieście nad zimnym morzem
lub w dolinie Panszir
wybuchnie lokalny pożar

i runie imperium

In English

Livy's Metamorphoses

How did my grandfather and his father understand Livy
for they surely read him at their classical gymnasium
in the somewhat unpropitious time of year
when a chestnut tree stands at the window—ardent candelabras of
blossoms—
and all my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s thoughts ran panting to
Mizia
singing in the garden showing her décolleté and goddess-like legs to the
knee
or Gabi from the Vienna Opera with her cherub’s locks
Gabi with her snub nose and Mozart in her throat
or finally to good old Józia a refuge for the forlorn
she without beauty talent or extravagant demands
and so they read Livy—O season of budding flowers—
in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene floor wash
under a portrait of the emperor
for there was an emperor then
and the empire like all empires
seemed eternal

Reading the City’s history they succumbed to the delusion
that they were the Romans or the decendants of Romans
those sons of the vanquished themselves under the yoke
it’s likely the Latin teacher had a part in it
with his position of counselor to the court
a collection of ancient virtues under a scruffy frock coat
following Livy he instilled in his pupils scorn for the mob
so popular revolt—res tam foeda—aroused their loathing
while on the other hand all the conquests seemed just
showing simply the victory of the superior stronger
they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimeno
while Scipio’s ascendancy filled them with pride
“they took Hannibal’s death with unfeigned relief
easily far too easily they let themselves be led
through entrenchments of dependent clauses
convoluted constructions ruled by the gerund
swollen rivers of elocution
syntactical booby traps
—into battle
for a cause not theirs

Not until my father and I after him did anyone
read Livy against Livy
studying closely what lies under the fresco
that’s why Scaevola’s theatrical gesture did not reverberate in us
nor did centurions’ cries or triumphal marches
and we tended to feel moved by the ruination
of the Samnites Gauls or Etruscans

we counted the many names of peoples the Romans trampled to dust
those buried without praise those who for Livy
were not worth even a ripple of style
those Hirpins Apuleans Lucanians Osunans
and residents of Tarentum Metapontis Locri

My father knew well and I know too
that one day on the farthest outskirts
without any signs from the heavens
in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizond
in a city on the cold sea
or in the valley of Panshir
a local fire will break out

and the empire will fall


- Zbigniew Herbert

Magnolia
11-27-2016, 05:13 PM
Jan Skácel
Píseň o nejbližší vině

Je studánka a plná krve
a každý z ní už jednou pil
a někdo zabil moudivláčka
a kdosi strašně ublížil
A potom mu to bylo líto
a do dlaní tu vodu bral
a prohlížel ji proti světlu
a moc se bál a neubál

A držel ale neudržel
tu vodu v prstech bože můj
a v prázdném lomu kámen lámal
a marně prosil; kamenuj

A prosil ale neuprosil
a bál se ale neubál
a studánka je plná krve
a každý u ní jednou stál

Jan Skácel - A song about the closest guilt
(Píseň o nejbližší vině)

There is a spring replete with blood
And everyone has drunk of it
And someone killed only a sparrow
And someone horribly offended

And afterwards he repented
And let the water his palms stain
And watched it against the sunlight
And his fear he couldn't sustain

And held but not long upheld
The water in his fingers, oh my Lord
And crushed the rock in empty quarry
And prayed : stone me or use Thy sword

And held but not long upheld
And his fear he couldn't sustain
And the spring is replete with blood
And all of us now have its stain

Ice
11-27-2016, 05:18 PM
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

Ilma
11-27-2016, 05:20 PM
Le Crépuscule du soir

Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel;
II vient comme un complice, ŕ pas de loup; le ciel
Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
Et l'homme impatient se change en bęte fauve.

Ô soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire: Aujourd'hui
Nous avons travaillé! — C'est le soir qui soulage
Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphčre
S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
Ŕ travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues;
Comme une fourmiličre elle ouvre ses issues;
Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main;
Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
Comme un ver qui dérobe ŕ l'Homme ce qu'il mange.
On entend çŕ et lŕ les cuisines siffler,
Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler;
Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni tręve ni merci,
Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
Pour vivre quelques jours et vętir leurs maîtresses.

Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
Et ferme ton oreille ŕ ce rugissement.
C'est l'heure oů les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent!
La sombre Nuit les prend ŕ la gorge; ils finissent
Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun;
L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. — Plus d'un
Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
Au coin du feu, le soir, auprčs d'une âme aimée.

Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu!

— Charles Baudelaire

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

Evening Twilight

Delightful evening, partner of the crook,
Steals in, wolf-padded, like a complice: look:
Heaven, like a garret, closes to the day,
And Man, impatient, turns a beast of prey.

Sweet evening, loved by those whose arms can tell,
Without a lie, "Today we've laboured well:"
Sweet evening, it is she who brings relief
To men with souls devoured by one fierce grief,
Obstinate thinkers drowsy in the head,
And toil-bent workmen groping to their bed.

But insalubrious demons of the airs,
Like business people, wake to their affairs
And, flying, knock, like bats, on walls and shutters.
Now Prostitution lights up in the gutters
Across the glimmering jets the wind torments.
Like a huge ant-hive it unseals its vents.
On every side it weaves its hidden tracks
Like enemies preparing night-attacks.
It squirms within the City's breast of mire,
A worm that steals the food that men desire.

One hears the kitchens hissing here and there,
Operas squealing, orchestras ablare.
Cheap tables d'hôte, where gaming lights the eyes,
Fill up with whores, and sharpers, their allies:
And thieves, whose office knows no truce nor rest,
Will shortly now start working, too, with zest,
Gently unhinging doors and forcing tills,
To live some days and buy their sweethearts frills.

Collect yourself, my soul, in this grave hour
And shut your ears against the din and stour.
It is the hour when sick men's pains increase.
Death grips them by the throat, and soon they cease
Their destined task, to find the common pit.
The ward is filled with sighings. Out of it
Not all return the scented soup to taste,
Warm at the hearthside, by some loved-one placed.

But then how few among them can recall
Joys of the hearth, or ever lived at all!

— Translated by Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

magyar_lány
11-27-2016, 05:26 PM
Since tomorrow is 60th anniversary of the beginning of the Hungarian Revolution, here is a poem written by the same man as in my previous post.

In Polish

Węgrom

stoimy na granicy
wyciągamy ręce
i wielki sznur z powietrza
wiążemy bracia dla was

z krzyku załamanego
z zaciśniętych pięści
odlewa się dzwon i serce
milczące na trwogę

proszą ranne kamienie
prosi woda zabita
stoimy na granicy
stoimy na granicy

stoimy na granicy
nazywanej rozsądkiem
i w pożar się patrzymy
i śmierć podziwiamy

1956


In English

For the Hungarians

we are standing on the border
we are outstretching our hands
and a huge rope made of air
we are strapping, our brothers

out of the cry broken
from the clenched fists
a bell and an alarmed heart
silent in awe found themselves

the morning stones are praying
the killed water is praying
we are standing on the border
we are standing on the border

we are standing on the border
called reason
and we are looking into the fire
and the death we admire

1956

- Zbigniew Herbert

Very beautiful poem. :)

Sideritis
11-27-2016, 05:26 PM
In Albanian

Naim Frasheri

Zogu dhe Djali

Një zok të bukur zuri një djalë,
Ay po dridhej dh'e i thosh ca fjalë:
"Nukë të vjen keq që jam i mitur,
Si ti i vogël e s'jam dhe rritur?
Jam bir i vetëm e mëma më pret,
E kam lënë keq brenda në folet.
Dheu me dëborë qjith' u mbulua,
Më s'ka mbetur dhe gjëkunt pothua!
Vuanj i gjori dit' edhe natë
E s'gjenj dot asnjë druthë të thatë!
E sheh sa u prish fort i shkreti mot,
Urie vdiqmë, më s'durojmë dot,
Zemërsë sime i lidhe gur,
Po mëm' e zezë q'ësht' e sëmurë?
Kërkonj e kërkonj, e kam që dije
Që s'munt të gjenj dot gjëzë t'i shpije.
Ah! kjo e keqe këtu më pruri,
E gracka jote ra e më zuri!


Më pret im mëzë, si ty jot ëmë.
Të mos t'i vete, ç'bënetë prëmë?
Të zesthitë na, përse na ngini?
Në punët tënë përse s'na lini?
Kam dhe unë shpirt dhe dua të rronj,
Të lëçinj, të breth, të los, të këndonj,
Unë, që s'kam ment, {si thotë njeriu),
Kujt i bëra keq? Ç'bëra un' i ziu?
Le, mos më mundo, se Zoti të sheh,
Të mirën' edhe të ligën' e njeh,
E s'do të ligën, po do të mirën,
Do butësinë, nuk' egërsirën,
Të drejtënë do dhe urtësinë,
S'do faqezinë e babëzinë,
Mua të lirë më bëri Zoti
përse me bën rob? Nga un, Ç'do ti?,.,.
Fjalët' e zogut djali i dëgjoi,
Qau edh' e puthi, pastaj e lëshoi.

Shah-Jehan
11-27-2016, 05:27 PM
Birpurush by Rabindranath Tagore has to be one of the most famous Bengali poems ever written.

In Bengali script (which I doubt anyone can read)
মনে করো যেন বিদেশ ঘুরে
মাকে নিয়ে যাচ্ছি অনেক দূরে ।
তুমি যাচ্ছ পালকিতে মা চড়ে
দরজা দুটো একটুকু ফাঁক করে,
আমি যাচ্ছি রাঙা ঘোড়ার ’পরে
টগবগিয়ে তোমার পাশে পাশে ।
রাস্তা থেকে ঘোড়ার খুরে খুরে
রাঙা ধুলোয় মেঘ উড়িয়ে আসে ।


সন্ধে হল,সূর্য নামে পাটে
এলেম যেন জোড়াদিঘির মাঠে ।
ধূ ধূ করে যে দিক পানে চাই
কোনোখানে জনমানব নাই,
তুমি যেন আপনমনে তাই
ভয় পেয়েছ; ভাবছ, এলেম কোথা?
আমি বলছি, ‘ভয় পেয়ো না মা গো,
ঐ দেখা যায় মরা নদীর সোঁতা ।’

চোরকাঁটাতে মাঠ রয়েছে ঢেকে,
মাঝখানেতে পথ গিয়েছে বেঁকে ।
গোরু বাছুর নেইকো কোনোখানে,
সন্ধে হতেই গেছে গাঁয়ের পানে,
আমরা কোথায় যাচ্ছি কে তা জানে,
অন্ধকারে দেখা যায় না ভালো ।
তুমি যেন বললে আমায় ডেকে,
‘দিঘির ধারে ঐ যে কিসের আলো!’

এমন সময় 'হাঁরে রে রে রে রে’
ঐ যে কারা আসতেছে ডাক ছেড়ে ।
তুমি ভয়ে পালকিতে এক কোণে
ঠাকুর দেবতা স্মরণ করছ মনে,
বেয়ারাগুলো পাশের কাঁটাবনে
পালকি ছেড়ে কাঁপছে থরোথরো।
আমি যেন তোমায় বলছি ডেকে,
‘আমি আছি, ভয় কেন মা কর।’


হাতে লাঠি, মাথায় ঝাকড়া চুল
কানে তাদের গোঁজা জবার ফুল ।
আমি বলি, ‘দাঁড়া, খবরদার!
এক পা আগে আসিস যদি আর -
এই চেয়ে দেখ আমার তলোয়ার,
টুকরো করে দেব তোদের সেরে ।’
শুনে তারা লম্ফ দিয়ে উঠে
চেঁচিয়ে উঠল, ‘হাঁরে রে রে রে রে।’

তুমি বললে, ‘যাস না খোকা ওরে’
আমি বলি, ‘দেখো না চুপ করে।’
ছুটিয়ে ঘোড়া গেলেম তাদের মাঝে,
ঢাল তলোয়ার ঝন্ঝনিয়ে বাজে
কী ভয়ানক লড়াই হল মা যে,
শুনে তোমার গায়ে দেবে কাঁটা।
কত লোক যে পালিয়ে গেল ভয়ে,
কত লোকের মাথা পড়ল কাটা।

এত লোকের সঙ্গে লড়াই করে
ভাবছ খোকা গেলই বুঝি মরে।
আমি তখন রক্ত মেখে ঘেমে
বলছি এসে, ‘লড়াই গেছে থেমে’,
তুমি শুনে পালকি থেকে নেমে
চুমো খেয়ে নিচ্ছ আমায় কোলে -
বলছ, ‘ভাগ্যে খোকা সঙ্গে ছিল!
কী দুর্দশাই হত তা না হলে।’

রোজ কত কী ঘটে যাহা তাহা -
এমন কেন সত্যি হয় না আহা।
ঠিক যেন এক গল্প হত তবে,
শুনত যারা অবাক হত সবে,
দাদা বলত, ‘কেমন করে হবে,
খোকার গায়ে এত কি জোড় আছে।’
পাড়ার লোকে বলত সবাই শুনে,
‘ভাগ্যে খোকা ছিল মায়ের কাছে।’

English translation
Just Imagine we made a journey together

Mother and I are going to somewhere far

You are riding the palanquin, my mother

With windows kept ajar

I on my mighty red stallion

ride next to you with valor

Clouds of red dust rise from the road

As my stallion's hooves forward strode


Twilight dawned and sun went to rest

And there we came extensive twin pond plain

Wherever I look desolation reigns free

No trace of life my eyes could see

In your mind you are anxious, and think, in what strange land have we come?

I tell thee, "Don't be afraid mother, yonder lies the bed of the withered river."


Wild thistles and brambles deck the field

In the middle the meandering road is build

No cattle graze in the desolate terrain

They must have left for the village after sundown

Where we are headed no one knows

For in murk nothing is discernible

I thought I heard you say, "What light I see by the ponds?"


Just then, there they came raising a hullabaloo

Trembling with fear in a corner of your palanquin

To heavens you pray for divine backing

The bearers leave the palanquin and flee

In the adjacent thorny bramble they skulk and shudder

I say to you, mother, "Don’t be afraid, I am here."


They hold clubs and have disheveled tresses

Hibiscus flowers are tucked in their ears

I tell them, "Beware, don’t you dare step forward

Watch out my sword, I will cut you to pieces."

With retorted scorn they leaped up and raised a tumult


You say, "Dear son, do not go!"

I say, "Wait and watch."

Valiantly I goaded my horse in the midst of the iniquitous mass


The swords and shields clank and hit

What a terrible fight it has been

You will horripilate when you hear


So many were beheaded, so many escaped

You thought, your son is dead

Fighting with the villainous brigands

Drenched with blood then I debouch

And say, "The fight is over."


Hearing me you step out

Lift me and embrace me hard

You say, "Sonny dear,

what a disaster it would have been if you hadn’t been near."


Everyday so many things happen

Trivial and not so important

Why can't for once this be true?

Oh! then it would be a great story

People would listen with bewilderment

Brother would rail in disbelief

"How can this happen, he is not strong"

But the neighbors would rave and say, "Thank god, sonny dear went along."

Recitation in Bengali

https://youtu.be/UzK9ogkX2zo

Bezprym
11-27-2016, 05:42 PM
Very beautiful poem. :)

Indeed. :) I've heard this year Hungarians placed memorial for Herbert, in Budapest. :cool:

magyar_lány
11-27-2016, 05:44 PM
József Attila - Tiszta szívvel

Tiszta szívvel

Nincsen apám, se anyám,
se istenem, se hazám,
se bölcsőm, se szemfedőm,
se csókom, se szeretőm.

Harmadnapja nem eszek,
se sokat, se keveset.
Húsz esztendőm hatalom,
húsz esztendőm eladom.

Hogyha nem kell senkinek,
hát az ördög veszi meg.
Tiszta szívvel betörök,
ha kell, embert is ölök.

Elfognak és felkötnek,
áldott földdel elfödnek
s halált hozó fű terem
gyönyörűszép szívemen.

In English:

With a pure heart

Without father without mother
without God or homeland either
withour crib or coffin-cover
without kisses or a lover

for the third day - without fussing
I have eaten next to nothing.
My store of power ere my years
I sell all my twenty years.

Perhaps, if no one else will
the buyer will be the devil.
With a pure heart - that’s a job:
I may kill and I shall rob.

They’ll catch me, hang me high
in blessed earth I shall lie,
and poisonous grass will start
to grow on my beautiful heart.

Ilma
11-27-2016, 05:48 PM
Le Lac

Ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l’océan des âges
Jeter l’ancre un seul jour?

O lac! l’année ŕ peine a fini sa carričre,
Et prčs des flots chéris qu’elle devait revoir
Regarde! je viens seul m’asseoir sur cette pierre
Oű tu la vis s’asseoir!

Tu mugissais ainsi sous ces roches profondes;
Ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs déchirés:
Ainsi le vent jetait l’écume de tes ondes
Sur ses pieds adorés.

Un soir, t’en souvient-il ? nous voguions en silence;
On n’entendait au loin, sur l’onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux.

Tout ŕ coup des accents inconnus ŕ la terre
Du rivage charmé frappčrent les échos;
Le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m’est chčre
Laissa tomber ces mots:

“O temps, suspends ton vol! et vous, heures propices,
Suspendez votre cours!
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
Des plus beaux de nos jours!

“Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent:
Coulez, coulez pour eux;
Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les dévorent;
Oubliez les heureux.

“Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore,
Le temps m’échappe et fuit;
je dis ŕ cette nuit: “Sois plus lente”; et l’aurore
Va dissiper la nuit.

“Aimons donc, aimons donc! de l’heure fugitive,
Hâtons-nous, jouissons!
L’homme n’a point de port, le temps n’a point de rive;
Il coule, et nous passons!”

Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d’ivresse,
Oű l’amour ŕ longs flots nous verse le bonheur,
S’envolent loin de nous de la męme vitesse
Que les jours de malheur?

Hé quoi! n’en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace?
Quoi! passés pour jamais? quoi! tout entiers perdus?
Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface,
Ne nous les rendra plus?

Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
Que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez?
Parlez: nous rendrez-vous ces extases sublimes
Que vous nous ravissez?

O lac! rochers muets! grottes! foręt obscure!
Vous que le temps épargne ou qu’il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!

Qu’il soit dans ton repos, qu’il soit dans tes orages,
Beau lac, et dans l’aspect de tes riants coteaux,
Et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages
Qui pendent sur tes eaux!

Qu’il soit dans le zéphyr qui frémit et qui passe,
Dans les bruits de tes bords par tes bords répétés,
Dans l’astre au front d’argent qui blanchit ta surface
De ses molles clartés!

Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu’on entend, l’on voit ou l’on respire,
Tout dise: “Ils ont aimé!”

- Alphonse de Lamartine

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

The Lake

So driven onward to new shores forever,
Into the night eternal swept away,
Upon the sea of time can we not ever
Drop anchor for one day?

O Lake! Scarce has a single year coursed past.
To waves that she was meant to see again,
I come alone to sit upon this stone
You saw her sit on then.

You lowed just so below those plunging cliffs.
Just so you broke about their riven flanks.
Just so the wind flung your spray forth to wash
Her feet which graced your banks.

Recall the evening we sailed out in silence?
On waves beneath the skies, afar and wide,
Naught but the rowers' rhythmic oars we heard
Stroking your tuneful tide.

Then of a sudden tones untold on earth,
Resounded round the sounding spellbound sea.
The tide attended; and I heard these words
From the voice dear to me:

Pause in your trek O Time! Pause in your flight,
Favorable hours, and stay!
Let us enjoy the transient delight
That fills our fairest day.

Unhappy crowds cry out to you in prayers.
Flow, Time, and set them free.
Run through their days and through their ravening cares!
But leave the happy be.

In vain I pray the hours to linger on
And Time slips into flight.
I tell this night: "Be slower!" and the dawn
Undoes the raveled night.

Let's love, then! Love, and feel while feel we can
The moment on its run.
There is no shore of Time, no port of Man.
It flows, and we go on.

Covetous Time! Our mighty drunken moments
When love pours forth huge floods of happiness;
Can it be true that they depart no faster
Than days of wretchedness?

Why can we not keep some trace at the least?
Gone wholly? Lost forever in the black?
Will Time that gave them, Time that now elides them
Never once bring them back?

Eternity, naught, past, dark gulfs: what do
You do with days of ours which you devour?
Speak! Shall you not bring back those things sublime?
Return the raptured hour?

O Lake, caves, silent cliffs and darkling wood,
Whom Time has spared or can restore to light,
Beautiful Nature, let there live at least
The memory of that night:

Let it be in your stills and in your storms,
Fair Lake, in your cavorting sloping sides,
In the black pine trees, in the savage rocks
That hang above your tides;

Let it be in the breeze that stirs and passes,
In sounds resounding shore to shore each night,
In the star's silver countenance that glances
Your surface with soft light.

Let the deep keening winds, the sighing reeds,
Let the light balm you blow through cliff and grove,
Let all that is beheld or heard or breathed
Say only "they did love."

- Alphonse de Lamartine Translated by http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.fr/2010/04/lamartine-lake-from-french.html

magyar_lány
11-27-2016, 05:50 PM
Indeed. :) I've heard this year Hungarians placed memorial for Herbert, in Budapest. :cool:

Here is his bust:

63150

magyar_lány
11-27-2016, 05:58 PM
Anna örök

Az évek jöttek, mentek, elmaradtál
Emlékeimből lassan, elfakult
Arcképed a szívemben, elmosódott
A vállaidnak íve, elsuhant
A hangod és én nem mentem utánad
Az élet egyre mélyebb erdejében.
Ma már nyugodtan ejtem a neved ki,
Ma már nem reszketek tekintetedre,
Ma már tudom, hogy egy voltál a sokból,
Hogy ifjúság bolondság, ó de mégis
Ne hidd szívem, hogy ez hiába volt
És hogy egészen elmúlt, ó ne hidd!
Mert benne élsz te minden félrecsúszott
Nyakkendőmben és elvétett szavamban
És minden eltévesztett köszönésben
És minden összetépett levelemben
És egész elhibázott életemben
Élsz és uralkodol örökkön, Amen

English

Anna is eternal

The years have come and gone, you have been slowly
Lost from my memories, so has your portrait
Faded in my heart, the arc of your shoulders
Has been blurred and your voice has flown away,
And I did not go after you in the
Forever-deeper forest of my life.
Today I can calmly pronounce your name,
Today I wouldn’t tremble if I looked in your eyes,
Today I know that you were one of many,
That youth is folly. Oh, but yet my heart
Do not think that it was all in vain,
And it is all gone, oh, do not think!
Because you live in all my askew ties,
And you live in all my unfit words,
And you live in all my failed greetings,
And you live in all my torn letters,
And you live in my whole ruined life,
You live and reign forever, Amen.

Gyula Juhász

Ülev
11-27-2016, 06:01 PM
Jacques Prevert - Paris at night

Three matches one by one struck in the night
The first to see your face in its entirety
The second to see your eyes
The last to see your mouth
And the darkness all around to remind me of all these
As I hold you in my arms.

and SORBIAN (not Serbian) translation by Měto Pernak (https://dsb.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C4%9Bto_Pernak) - in Lower Lusatian

Paris w nocy

Tśi šmaracki zapalone pórědu w nocy
Prědny aby ja wiźeł cełe woblico twójo
Drugi aby ja wiźeł wócy twójej
Slědny aby ja wiźeł wusta twóje
A śamnosć wšu aby wšogo se dopomnjeł
Tłocecy śi w swójima rukoma.

Ilma
11-27-2016, 06:02 PM
Jacques Prevert - Paris at night

Three matches one by one struck in the night
The first to see your face in its entirety
The second to see your eyes
The last to see your mouth
And the darkness all around to remind me of all these
As I hold you in my arms.

and SORBIAN (not Serbian) translation by Měto Pernak (https://dsb.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C4%9Bto_Pernak) - in Lower Lusatian

Paris w nocy

Tśi šmaracki zapalone pórědu w nocy
Prědny aby ja wiźeł cełe woblico twójo
Drugi aby ja wiźeł wócy twójej
Slědny aby ja wiźeł wusta twóje
A śamnosć wšu aby wšogo se dopomnjeł
Tłocecy śi w swójima rukoma.

So you read Prevert ? :)

Ülev
11-27-2016, 06:05 PM
So you read Prevert ? :)

tbh, I know this poem thanks to Meto Pernak

Bezprym
11-27-2016, 06:06 PM
Here is his bust:

63150

http://orig15.deviantart.net/02db/f/2016/084/3/5/march_23___day_of_polish_hungarian_friendship_by_k ornaxon-d9wb2uw.gif


So you read Prevert ? :)

It's the second time I read this surname in a wrong way.

Ilma
11-27-2016, 06:06 PM
For Robocop :

Exil Republicain

Puisque le juste est dans l'abime,
Puisqu'on donne le sceptre au crime,
Puisque tous les droits sont trahis,
Puisque les plus fiers restent mornes,
Puisqu'on affiche au coin des bornes
Le déshonneur de mon pays ;

Ô République de nos pčres,
Grand Panthéon plein de lumičres,
Dôme d'or dans le libre azur,
Temple des ombres immortelles,
Puisqu'on vient avec des échelles
Coller l'empire sur ton mur ;

Puisque toute âme est affaiblie,
Puisqu'on rampe, puisqu'on oublie
Le vrai, le pur, le grand, le beau,
Les yeux indignés de l'histoire,
L'honneur, la loi, le droit, la gloire,
Et ceux qui sont dans le tombeau ;

Je t'aime, exil ! douleur, je t'aime !
Tristesse, sois mon diadčme !
Je t'aime, altičre pauvreté !
J'aime ma porte aux vents battue.
J'aime le deuil, grave statue
Qui vient s'assoir ŕ mon côté.

J'aime le malheur qui m'éprouve,
Et cette ombre oů je vous retrouve,
Ô vous ŕ qui mon coeur sourit,
Dignité, foi, vertu voilée,
Toi, liberté, fičre exilée,
Et toi, dévouement, grand proscrit !

J'aime cette ile solitaire,
Jersey, que la libre Angleterre
Couvre de son vieux pavillon,
L'eau noire, par moments accrue,
Le navire, errante charrue,
Le flot, mystérieux sillon.

J'aime ta mouette, ô mer profonde,
Qui secoue en perles ton onde
Sur son aile aux fauves couleurs,
Plonge dans les lames géantes,
Et sort de ces gueules béantes
Comme l'âme sort des douleurs.

J'aime la roche solennelle
D'oů j'entends la plainte éternelle,
Sans tręve comme le remords,
Toujours renaissant dans les ombres,
Des vagues sur les écueils sombres,
Des mčres sur leurs enfants morts.

- Victor Hugo

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

Republican Exile

Since men of honor sink in slime,
Since the scepter is held by crime,
Since rights have all been wronged away,
Since all the proud lie beaten down
And on streetposts through every town
My country's shame is on display;

Republic of our Fathers' right,
Gold dome, great pantheon of light
Under the free and open blue,
Oh temple of immortal shades!
Since now the step-ladder brigades
Paste empire to your walls with glue,

Since hearts are beaten to the core
Since we all crawl, since we ignore
The right, the true, the great, the brave,
The eyes of history in fury,
The law, all honor and all glory
And those now gone into the grave;

Exile and anguish!....I love them.
Let sorrow be my diadem.
I love my prideful poverty!
I love the door lashed by the gale
I love the statue, grave and pale,
Of Mourning seated next to me.

I love the hardships I endure,
That darkness where I find once more
All that delights and bids me live:
Veiled virtue, truth, faith, dignity,
Freedom the dauntless deportee,
And loyalty the fugitive.

I love this isle out on the deeps,
Good Jersey which free England keeps
Behind her banner's ancient shield,
Dark waters high and higher now,
The vessel - a meandering plow,
The billows - a mysterious field.

I love the gull, O sea, that swirls
Your waters' wavelets up in pearls
Upon its wildly colored wings,
Dives down into the monstrous surges
And from their gaping jaws emerges,
As does the soul from sufferings.

I love this solemn height of stone
Where I hear the eternal moan,
Relentless as a deep regret,
Born and reborn in the dark air,
Of waves over bleak reefs out there,
Of mothers over children dead.

- Victor Hugo, Translation : http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.fr/2015/08/victor-hugo-republican-exile-from-french.html

Marusya
11-27-2016, 06:27 PM
My favorite poem by Ukraine's greatest poet, Taras Shevchenko.

It Makes No Difference To Me
("Meni odnakovo, chy budu")

It makes no difference to me,
If I shall live or not in Ukraine
Or whether any one shall think
Of me 'mid foreign snow and rain.
It makes no difference to me.

In slavery I grew 'mid strangers,
Unwept by any kin of mine;
In slavery I now will die
And vanish without any sign.
I shall not leave the slightest trace
Upon our glorious Ukraine,
Our land, but not as ours known.
No father will remind his son
Or say to him, "Repeat one prayer,
One prayer for him; for our Ukraine
They tortured him in their foul lair."

It makes no difference to me,
If that son says a prayer or not.
It makes great difference to me
That evil folk and wicked men
Attack our Ukraine, once so free,
And rob and plunder it at will.
That makes great difference to me.

cosmoo
11-27-2016, 06:31 PM
English translation of few verses from "The Mountain Wreath":
"When Fortune smiles ’tis easy to be good;
Adversity is e’er the hero’s school!"

"None yet e’er drank a honey’d draught
Unnmixed with cup of bitter gall,
And cup of gall for honey equally doth call,
That so, the mixture one may easier drink."

"Along his path who maketh Might his Right -
Rise stenches of inhuman cruelty. "

"Apart from Suffering never can be Song;
Apart from sweat of brow no sword is forged;
Heroic spirit conquers all life’s ills;
Deeds nobly done are sweet unto the soul,
And wine most rich for those who follow on.
Thrice happy he whose name rings down the years,
For he had reason in this world to come;
A flaming torch is he when times are dark;
A torch ne’er burning low. ne’er ’minished to a spark!"

Robocop
11-27-2016, 08:27 PM
For Robocop :

Exil Republicain

Puisque le juste est dans l'abime,
Puisqu'on donne le sceptre au crime,
Puisque tous les droits sont trahis,
Puisque les plus fiers restent mornes,
Puisqu'on affiche au coin des bornes
Le déshonneur de mon pays ;

Ô République de nos pčres,
Grand Panthéon plein de lumičres,
Dôme d'or dans le libre azur,
Temple des ombres immortelles,
Puisqu'on vient avec des échelles
Coller l'empire sur ton mur ;

Puisque toute âme est affaiblie,
Puisqu'on rampe, puisqu'on oublie
Le vrai, le pur, le grand, le beau,
Les yeux indignés de l'histoire,
L'honneur, la loi, le droit, la gloire,
Et ceux qui sont dans le tombeau ;

Je t'aime, exil ! douleur, je t'aime !
Tristesse, sois mon diadčme !
Je t'aime, altičre pauvreté !
J'aime ma porte aux vents battue.
J'aime le deuil, grave statue
Qui vient s'assoir ŕ mon côté.

J'aime le malheur qui m'éprouve,
Et cette ombre oů je vous retrouve,
Ô vous ŕ qui mon coeur sourit,
Dignité, foi, vertu voilée,
Toi, liberté, fičre exilée,
Et toi, dévouement, grand proscrit !

J'aime cette ile solitaire,
Jersey, que la libre Angleterre
Couvre de son vieux pavillon,
L'eau noire, par moments accrue,
Le navire, errante charrue,
Le flot, mystérieux sillon.

J'aime ta mouette, ô mer profonde,
Qui secoue en perles ton onde
Sur son aile aux fauves couleurs,
Plonge dans les lames géantes,
Et sort de ces gueules béantes
Comme l'âme sort des douleurs.

J'aime la roche solennelle
D'oů j'entends la plainte éternelle,
Sans tręve comme le remords,
Toujours renaissant dans les ombres,
Des vagues sur les écueils sombres,
Des mčres sur leurs enfants morts.

- Victor Hugo

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

Republican Exile

Since men of honor sink in slime,
Since the scepter is held by crime,
Since rights have all been wronged away,
Since all the proud lie beaten down
And on streetposts through every town
My country's shame is on display;

Republic of our Fathers' right,
Gold dome, great pantheon of light
Under the free and open blue,
Oh temple of immortal shades!
Since now the step-ladder brigades
Paste empire to your walls with glue,

Since hearts are beaten to the core
Since we all crawl, since we ignore
The right, the true, the great, the brave,
The eyes of history in fury,
The law, all honor and all glory
And those now gone into the grave;

Exile and anguish!....I love them.
Let sorrow be my diadem.
I love my prideful poverty!
I love the door lashed by the gale
I love the statue, grave and pale,
Of Mourning seated next to me.

I love the hardships I endure,
That darkness where I find once more
All that delights and bids me live:
Veiled virtue, truth, faith, dignity,
Freedom the dauntless deportee,
And loyalty the fugitive.

I love this isle out on the deeps,
Good Jersey which free England keeps
Behind her banner's ancient shield,
Dark waters high and higher now,
The vessel - a meandering plow,
The billows - a mysterious field.

I love the gull, O sea, that swirls
Your waters' wavelets up in pearls
Upon its wildly colored wings,
Dives down into the monstrous surges
And from their gaping jaws emerges,
As does the soul from sufferings.

I love this solemn height of stone
Where I hear the eternal moan,
Relentless as a deep regret,
Born and reborn in the dark air,
Of waves over bleak reefs out there,
Of mothers over children dead.

- Victor Hugo, Translation : http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.fr/2015/08/victor-hugo-republican-exile-from-french.html

Beautiful... thx :hug2::hug2:

Bezprym
11-28-2016, 01:07 PM
Zbigniew Herbert

In Polish

Pan Cogito myśli o powrocie do rodzinnego miasta

Gdybym tam wrócił
pewnie bym nie zastał
ani jednego cienia z domu mego
ani drzew dzieciństwa
ani krzyża z żelazną tabliczką
ławki na której szeptałem zaklęcia
kasztany i krew
ani też żadnej rzeczy która nasza jest

wszystko co ocalało
to płyta kamienna
z kredowym kołem
stoję w środku
na jednej nodze
na moment przed skokiem

nie mogę urosnąć
choć mijają lata
a w górze huczą
planety i wojny

stoję w środku
nieruchomy jak pomnik
na jednej nodze
przed skokiem w ostateczność

kredowe koło rudzieje
tak jak stara krew
wokół rosną kopczyki
popiołu
do ramion
do ust


In English

Mr. Cogito thinks of returning to his hometown

If I returned there
I surely wouldn't find
a single shadow from my house
or the trees from my childhood
or the cross with the iron plate
the bench where I whispered spells
chestnuts and blood
or anything which is ours

everything which survived
is a stone disc
with a chalk circle
I stand in the center
on one foot
a moment before jumping

I can't grow
although the years pass
and up above roar
the planets and wars

I stand in the center
unmoving like a monument
on one foot
before jumping into finality

the chalk circle reddens
just like old blood
mounds grow all around
ash
to the shoulder
to the mouth

___________

Herbert refers to his own home town (Lviv), which he never visited after WW2.

Autrigón
11-28-2016, 01:26 PM
De la mar el mero
y de la tierra el cordero
los dedos de las manos
los dedos de los pies
la polla y los cojones
ya suman veintitrés

Myanthropologies
11-28-2016, 01:32 PM
My great uncle was a famous Afghan poet. He continued to right poems even after he had a stroke that paralyzed half his body in the 90s. He sadly died of a heart attack in his California home in 2005. Whenever I visit California, his old room is decorated with his poetry, pictures, and his wheelchair, shoes, and forearm crutch are all displayed.


https://youtu.be/V-OSuV9PToE

I have some American poems I'm going to gather up and post in a bit too.

Ilma
12-02-2016, 09:20 AM
Sorry I can't translate it, this is a beautiful song / poem wrotten by Damien Saez.

This is a patriotic homage for the victims of the terrorist attacks in France.


Les Enfants Paradis

Ils étaient des sourires, ils étaient des sanglots
Ils étaient de ces rires que font les chants d'oiseaux
Ils étaient des matins quand on va bord de mer
Ils étaient cśur chagrin, ils étaient cśur lumičre
Ils étaient des počmes, ils étaient des oiseaux
Ils étaient des "je t'aime" qu'on dit bord du ruisseau
Ils étaient du café, ils étaient du bistrot
Ils étaient étrangers, ils étaient sans drapeau
Ils étaient de Paris, ils étaient de province
Ils étaient cśur de pluie qui font mon cśur qui grince
Ils étaient plein de vie, avaient l'śil du printemps
Ils étaient cśur qui rit quand le ciel est pleurant
Ils étaient des promesses, ils étaient devenir
Ils étaient bien trop jeunes, oui, pour devoir partir
Ils étaient fils d'Orient ou fils de l'Occident
Enfants du paradis, enfants du Bataclan
Ils étaient cśur français ou international
Ils étaient la rosée qui pleure dessous le châle
Ils étaient des promesses, ils étaient des bourgeons
Qui font monter tristesse, ils étaient des chansons
Ils étaient des familles, ils étaient des amis
Ils étaient ce qui brille dans le ciel de la nuit
Ils étaient amoureux, ceux qui se sont blottis
L'un contre l'autre, ŕ deux contre la tyrannie
Ils étaient comme toi, ils étaient comme moi
Ils n'étaient pas guerriers, mais sont morts au combat
Ils étaient cśur d'amour, ils étaient cśur qui bat
Puis qui battra toujours męme en dessous la croix
Ils étaient ces amis que je connaissais pas
Ils étaient mon pays et puis le tien, je crois
Ils resteront Paris, Paris se souviendra
Toujours de ces amis, la lumičre brillera


Ils s'appelaient je t'aime, ils s'appelaient jeunesse
Ils s'appelaient počmes, ils s'appelaient tendresse
Ils s'appelaient frangines, ils s'appelaient frangins
Ils s'appelaient gamines, ils s'appelaient gamins
Ils s'appelaient la joie et puis la non violence
Ils s'appelaient, je crois, les enfants de la France
De tous les horizons, puis de tous les prénoms
Ils s'appelaient amour, s'appelaient l'horizon
Ils s'appelaient Jacques Brel, puis, je crois, Barbara
Ils s'appelaient le ciel, ils s'appelaient pourquoi
Toujours ici sommeille l'horreur au creux du bois
Qui rejoint l'Eternel, va l'innocent, je crois
Ils étaient poings levés, ils étaient nos concerts
Ils étaient cśur serré, oui, face aux tortionnaires
Ils étaient cśur d'śillets, des fleurs face aux fusils
Ŕ nos cśurs endeuillés, nous pleurons nos amis
Ŕ l'innocent qu'on tue, oui, tombé sous les balles
Au soldat inconnu, sous l'horreur des mitrailles
Si sont les lettres mortes, les cantiques du chagrin
Puisque frappent ŕ la porte les plaines de Verdun
Si sont tombés ce soir, en ce vendredi noir
Les frčres de mon pays, nous laissant désespoir
Mon pays, ta culture, est morte assassinée
Mais tu sais ma culture, non, ne mourra jamais
Toi mon pays, Moličre, toi mon pays, Vinci
Toi mon pays, Voltaire, toi mon pays, Valmy
Toi mon pays, la Terre, toi mon pays, Paris
Toi mon pays parterre, relčve-toi mon pays
Toi mon pays lumičre, toi mon pays la vie
Mon pays littéraire, mon pays triste vie
Toi mon pays mes frčres, toi frčre de mon pays
Comme on chérit sa mčre, on chérit sa patrie

His voice is weird as almost crying all the song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQAUswb3moY

Robocop
12-02-2016, 01:47 PM
For Ilma :)

I will translate this Croatian song, from Dalmatian band - Dalmatino, for Ilma and everyone here, but for Ilma the most ofcourse, this song is for Croatia :) Also I will place a video for this song, hope you will like the music :D


"This part of stone which is coming from sea...
where cold wind is meeting hot wind...
Place of three brothers, Duje, Vlaho & Donat (Croat saints)...
Which churches stands there for centuries and centuries...

Place where female child sleep peacefully on croatian leafs...
And mountain Velebit is protecting her (highest mountain in croatia).
Her blue sea is blue blood of our King Tomislav
And all of our Knights and Dukes.

If God would have daughter like I have, he would name her Croatia... :)"


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aOY7ZfipNE

FOR ILMA :)

Bezprym
12-05-2016, 09:20 PM
This time a poem written by Adam Mickiewicz.

In Polish

Świtezianka

Jakiż to chłopiec piękny i młody,
Jaka to obok dziewica?
Brzegami sinej Świteziu wody
Idą przy świetle księżyca.

Ona mu z kosza daje maliny,
a on jej kwiatki do wianka;
Pewnie kochankiem jest tej dziewczyny,
Pewnie to jego kochanka.

Każdą noc prawie, o jednej porze,
Pod tym się widzą modrzewiem,
Młody jest strzelcem w tutejszym borze,
Kto jest dziewczyna? - ja nie wiem.

Skąd przyszła - Darmo śledzić kto pragnie;
Gdzie uszła? - nikt jej nie zbada.
Jak mokry jaskier wschodzi na bagnie,
Jak ognik nocny przepada.

"Powiedz mi piękna, luba dziewczyno,
Po co nam te tajemnice?
Jaką przybiegłaś do mnie drożyną?

Gdzie dom twój? Gdzie są rodzice?"
"Minęło lato, zżółkniały liścia,
I dżdżysta nadchodzi pora,
Zawsze mam czekać twojego przyjścia
Na dzikich brzegach jeziora?

"Zawszeż po kniejach jak sarna płocha
Jak upiór błądzisz w noc ciemną?
Zostań się lepiej z tym, co cię kocha,
Zostań się, o luba! ze mną"
"Chateczka moja stąd niedaleka
Pośrodku gęstej leszczyny;
Jest tam dostatkiem owoców, mleka,
Jest tam dostatkiem źwierzyny"

"Stój, stój - odpowie - hardy młokosie
Pomnę, co ojciec rzekł stary:
Słowicze wdzięki w mężczyzny głosie,
A w sercu lisie zamiary.

"Więcej się waszej obłudy boję,
Niż w zmienne ufam zapały,
Może bym prośby przyjęła twoje,
Ale czy będziesz mnie stały?"

Chłopiec przyklęknął, chwycił w dłoń piasku,
Piekielne wzywał potęgi,
Klął się przy świętym księżyca blasku,
Lecz czy dochowa przysięgi?

"Dochowaj, strzelcze, to moja rada:
Bo kto przysięgę naruszy,
Ach, biada jemu, za życia biada!
I biada jego złej duszy!"

To mówiąc dziewka więcej nie czeka,
Wieniec włożyła na skronie
I pożegnawszy strzelca z daleka,
Na zwykłe uchodzi błonie.

Próżno się za nią strzelec pomyka,
Rączym wybiegom nie sprostał,
Znikła jak lekki powiew wietrzyka,
A on sam jeden pozostał.

Sam został, dziką powraca drogą,
Ziemia uchyla się grząska,
Cisza wokoło, tylko pod nogą
Zwiędła szeleszcze gałązka.

Idzie nad wodą, błędny krok niesie,
Błędnymi strzela oczyma;
Wtem wiatr zaszumiał po gęstym lesie,
Woda się burzy i wzdyma.

Burzy się, wzdyma, Pękają tonie,
O niesłychane zjawiska!
Ponad srebrzyste Świtezi błonie
Dziewicza piękność wytryska.
Jej twarz jak róży bladej zawoje
Skropione jutrzenki łezką;
Jako mgła lekka, tak lekkie stroje
Obwiały postać niebieską

"Chłopcze mój piękny, chłopcze mój młody -
Zanuci czule dziewica -
Po co wokoło Świteziu wody
Błądzisz przy świetle księżyca?

"Po co żałujesz dzikiej wietrznicy,
Która cię zwabia w te knieje,
Zawraca głowę, rzuca w tęsknicy
I może jeszcze się śmieje?

Daj się namówić czułym wyrazem,
Porzuć wzdychania i żale,
Do mnie tu, do mnie, tu będziem razem,

Po wodnym pląsać krysztale.
"Czy zechcesz niby jaskółka chybka
Oblicze tylko wód muskać;
Czy zdrów jak rybka, wesoł jak rybka,
Cały dzień ze mną się pluskać.

"A na noc w łożu srebrnej topieli
Pod namiotami zwierciadeł
Na miękkiej wodnych lilijek bieli
Śród boskich usnąć widziadeł"

Wtem z zasłon błysną piersi łabędzie,
Strzelec w ziemię patrzy skromnie.
Dziewica w lekkim zbliża się pędzie
I 'Do mnie - woła - pójdź do mnie'

I na wiatr lotne rzuciwszy stopy
Jak tęcza śmiga w krąg wielki,
To znowu siekąc wodne zatopy,
Srebrnymi pryska kropelki.

Podbiega strzelec i staje w biegu
I chciałby skoczyć, i nie chce;
Wtem modra fala prysnąwszy z brzegu
Z lekka mu w stopy połechce

I tak go łechce, i tak go znęca,
Tak się w nim serce rozpływa,
Jak gdy tajemnie rękę młodzieńca
Ściśnie kochanka wstydliwa

Zapomniał strzelec o swej dziewczynie
Przysięgą pogardził świętą,
Na zgubę oślep bieży w głębinie,
Nową zwabiony ponętą.
Bieży i patrzy, patrzy i bieży;
Niesie go wodne przestworze,
Już z dala suchych odbiegł wybrzeży
Na średnim igra jeziorze

I już dłoń śnieżną w swej ciśnie dłoni
W pięknych licach topi oczy,
Ustami usta różane goni
I skoczne okręgi toczy

Wtem wietrzyk świsnął, obłoczek pryska,
Co ją w łudzącym krył blasku,
Poznaje strzelec dziewczynę z bliska:
Ach, to dziewczyna spod lasku!

"A gdzie przysięga? gdzie moja rada?
Wszak kto przysięgę naruszy,
Ach, biada jemu, za życia biada!
I biada jego złej duszy!

"Nie tobie igrać przez srebrne tonie
Lub nurkiem pluskać w głąb jasną;
Surowa ziemia ciało pochłonie,
Oczy twe żwirem zagasną.

"A dusza przy tym świadomym drzewie
Niech lat doczeka tysiąca
Wiecznie piekielne cierpiąc żarzewie
Nie ma czym zgasić gorąca".

Słyszy to strzelec, błędny krok niesie,
Błędnymi rzuca oczyma,
A wicher szumi po gęstym lesie,
Woda się burzy i wzdyma.

Burzy, się, wzdyma i wre aż do dna,
Kręconym nurtem pochwyca,
Roztwiera paszczę otchłań podwodna,
Ginie z młodzieńcem dziewica. .

Woda się dotąd burzy i pieni,
Dotąd przy świetle księżyca
Snuje się para znikomych cieni:
Jest to z młodzieńcem dziewica.

Ona po srebrnym pląsa jeziorze,
On pod tym jęczy modrzewiem.
Któż jest młodzieniec? - strzelcem był w borze.
A kto dziewczyna? - ja nie wiem.



In English

Fair Maiden from Świteź

Who is this lad so handsome and young?
Who is that maiden so fair?
Who at the moonlight, by waters livid
Of Świteź awalking are?

With razzes from basket she dowers him,
He gives her the blooms to her wreath;
Suppose, that his true lover is she,
As he is the sweetheart of her.

Nearly each night, at the same hour
Upon this larch they two meet,
The lad is a hunter in forest near,
And who is the lass? I don't wit ...

Where has she come from? In vein one traces;
Where's gone she - Who's there to observe?
As crowfoot wet in swamp she arises,
As glimmer of night she’s a-fading.

"Tell me my darling, my maiden sweet,
Must in mystery we live?
What path to me thy feet have lead,
Where's home thy, and parents of thee?

Yellowed the leaves, the summer gone by,
And comes rainy season along,
Must I await each arrival thine,
On the lake's haggard shore?

"Always as deer reed among the woods
Through dark night as a phantom roamst thee,
Oh, better stay with the one that loves thou,
Oh, darling my, stay with me!"
"My little log-cabin from hence stands near,
Amongst the filber-trees thickset,
Galore we have there of fruits and milk,
And plenty of game one finds thither"

"Stop, stay!", replies she, "my lad so lofty,
My father old said, I'll remind:
Nightingale's grace is in man's voice,
But foxiness in his heart.

More of your cant I am afraid,
Than trust I the fervor of thine;
Maybe thy boon I would embrace,
But would you be a true love of mine?

So kneeled down the lad, took handful of gravel,
And summoned the forces infernal,
Upon the holy moonlight he swore,
But will he to oath his be faitful?

"Be faithful, oh hunter, that's my advice,
For whosever the oath sacred breaks,
Oh, wellaway to him while he lives,
And wellaway when he’s dead!”

So spake, no more the maiden abides,
She put her wreath on her head,
And, from afar the hunter she’s blessing,
To fields green comes she away.

In vain is hunter following her,
Can't catch her swiftly a-running,
As gentle aflatus she faded away,
And all'lone stayed he, thither standing.

All'lone stayed he, wild path a-returning,
The quicksand and slush is a-sagging,
Silence around, only under his feet
A withered twig is a-rustling.

At the water he's walking, with steps uncertain,
With faraway look he is ogling,
Swiftly, in thickset wood wind has blown,
And waters are seething and ruffling.

They're seething, they're ruffling, the mirror is bursting
O, following phantoms nameless!
A vestal fairness outgushing is
Through Świteź' silvery waters
Like rose's pale lobes her face appearing,
Sprent with a tear of a dawning,
Light as a mist is the attire
The heavenly figure is wearing

"My lad o handsome, my lad o youtful,"
The maiden's tenderly humming,
What for art thou, round Świteź waters,
Must at the moonlight a-roaming?"

"Why are thou for this maid haggard moaning,
Who thee in those forests is luring,
Troubles thyself, forsakes thou yearning,
And maybe of thee is a-taunting?"

"Please, be persuaded with word so tender,
Abandon thy sorrow and sighing,
Come hither, to me, we'll hither together,
On water crystal be dancing.

Would thou as keen as a swallow supple,
The water mirror be skimming?
Or, as sound as a trout, and as cheerful as trout
All day with me be a-swimming?

And night to spend in silver cradle's deep,
Below the watery mirrors
On lilies pale white deeply asleep,
And dream of the phantoms prodigious"

Swiftly, the swan-like bosom shines bare,
Down the ashamed hunter's gazing,
Slightly approaching to him is the maiden
And "come, come to me", she is calling.

Putting her feet light straight on the wind
In the air as a rainbow she’s dancing,
Then, watery mirrors slightly she hit,
With silvery drops she’s a-bursting.

Runs near the hunter, in place he’s halting,
Both wants he to jump and he’s shuffling;
Once, the wave blue springs from the shore
And lightly his feet is a-tickling.

It’s so a-tickling, it’s so alluring,
The lad’s heart melting completely,
As if his hand already held was
By a shy lover secretely.

Forgot the lad of his loved maiden
With oath his sacred disdained he,
To abyss blue to his doom he’s rushing,
With a new seduction allured.
He’s looking and running, and running and looking,
The mirror of water him carrying,
And far he went from the shores dry,
In the lake’s middle he’s dancing.

Once, the palm snowy in his hand holds he,
At the face gorgeous he’s gazing,
And, with his lips her lips he’s a-chasing
And circles high he’s a-dancing.

Once zephyr’s swishing, the cloud’s a-fading,
Which hid her with glare illusory;
Now this lass well can he distinguish:
Ah, it’s the one from the forest!

"Where's the oath thy? Where's my advice?
For whosever the oath sacred breaks,
Oh, wellaway to him, while he lives,
And wellaway when he’s dead!"

Not thou in the waters deep will be dallying,
Not thou in the lake vivid be diving;
Crude soil will take the body of thine,
With dirt will be darkened thy eyes".

"And spirit of thine, upon this tree conscious,
For thousand years will be waiting,
Forever suffering from heat infernal,
To put it out all unable"

So heard the hunter, with steps uncertain,
With faraway look he is ogling,
And blows the gale in the forest thickset,
The water is seething and ruffling.

It's seething, it's ruffling, till bottom's boiling,
Seizing them with current a-whirling,
The mouth of the lake's abyss is opening,
And with a lad a maiden is fading.

Till now, the water is seething and ruflling;
Hitherto, at the moon's light shiny
A pair of shadows transient is spunning,
This is the lad and the maiden.

She's dancing on the lake's silvery mirror,
He's upon this larch a-groaning,
Whom was the lad? - a hunter in forest,
And who is the lass? I don't wit.

Mikula
12-05-2016, 09:47 PM
J.V. Sládek
Tři rody u nás platí jen
Tři rody u nás platí jen,
to otec, syn a děd;
to náš je celý rodokmen:
kořen a strom a květ.

A naše paměť nejde dál
ni naděj v příští čas,
než aby, děd co zachoval,
syn synovi dal zas.

Co bylo, může říci nám
jen u hřbitova věž;
děd zapomenut leží tam,
nás zapomenou též.

Jen někde mhavé zvěsti hles
nám slovo řekne víc:
jak prapraděd náš trpěl kdes,
jak šťasten byl, to nic.

Tak ořem, sejem, hyneme,
však pýchy dalecí
přec starší jsme a budeme
než rody knížecí!

-----------------------------------
I was searching for English translation of my favorite poem of J.V. Sládek but I was failed.
Therefore I tried to translate it to English, but it is not so great as an original, sorry:

We know our 3 generations back, only

Roots, truck and fruit of tree
Grandpa, father, son, it means
That is our whole pedigree
Only them we know, it seems

There is no hope to continue
Only chance, only than
To learn his son what grandpa knew
To do it, father can

Our memory is quickly dying
It know graves on the hill
There fathers forgotten lying
And forgotten we will

From the black darkness of the past
We listen for a while
The tears of fathers, only just
Nothing about a smile

We live and seed, we die and plough
That’s our simply living
But ancient we are enough
Much more than line of King

katniss
12-05-2016, 10:01 PM
Jovan Dučić
Pesma ženi

Ti si moj trеnutak, i moj sеn, i sjajna
Moja rеč u šumu; moj korak, i bludnja;
Samo si lеpota koliko si tajna;
I samo istina koliko si žudnja.

Ostaj nеdostižna, nеma i dalеka —
Jеr jе san o srеći viši nеgo srеća.
Budi bеspovratna, kao mladost; nеka
Tvoja sеn i еho budu svе što sеća.

Srcе ima povеst u suzi što lеva;
U vеlikom bolu ljubav svoju mеtu;
Istina jе samo što duša prosnеva;
Poljubac jе susrеt najvеći na svеtu.

Od mog priviđеnja ti si cеla tkana,
Tvoj jе plašt sunčani od mog sna isprеdеn;
Ti bеšе misao moja očarana;
Simbol svih taština porazan i lеdеn,

A ti nе postojiš nit si postojala;
Rođеna u mojoj tišini i čami,
Na suncu mog srca ti si samo sjala:
Jеr svе što ljubimo stvorili smo sami.


English translation
You are my moment and my shadow
and my glorious word in a silent sound.
my step and my wantonness
you are beautiful just as much as you are a secret
and truth as much as you are lust.
Stay unreachable, silent and distant
because the dream of happiness is more than happiness.
The history of heart is in the tear that falls
and soaks its love in vicious pain.
The only truth is in the dreams of your soul.
A kiss is the most wonderful encounter.
You are made of my visions
and your sunny gown of my dreams embroidered.
You were my enchanted thought,
a symbol of all vanities,prone to defeat and cold.
But you do not exist,and you never did.
Born in my silence and loneliness,
you shone on the sun of my heart,
because everything we kiss-we made it ourselves.

Ilma
12-07-2016, 06:54 PM
Norman poetry,

Côtis-Capel : Men quoeu, ch’est coume la mé.

Vouęties, anorouęties, l’hivé, né fount qu’ s’entesuure.
Touot est sęta ŕ-fait. Les gens, les bętes sount yens.
No-z-entend patrâlli la mé oű hâot du pllen ;
Ch’est dauns des temps inta qué vyinent les graundes mâotures.
Dé derire la crouésie, ŕ mei touot seu j’ la guette.
Cha m’erjue. J’en i poue. Ch’est si bllaunc. Ch’est si nei.
Pus cha quincâle déhors, pus cha quincâle en mei.
Hélas, j’ tyinrai-t-i dreit quaund vyinra la surguette ?

Men quœu, men quœu,
Ch’est coume la mé,

Ah, si j’ pouvais m’gîndaer et veî la mé entyire !
Ah, si j’ pouvais r’trachi la pus graunde amouchelae !
Si j’ pouvais m’amountaer pus hâot qu’ la drennyire nuae
Coume ouésiâos oű Renouvé, quaund l’ biâo temps les rattire !…
Eh byin, si louen qué j’ vais-j’, cha n’ s’sait qu’eune pouore miotčne ;
Et si louen qu’ j’avis’ais, cha n’ s’sait qu’eun cuémenchement !
La mé ŕ perte dé veue, la mé ŕ perte dé temps…
Ch’est ainchin qué j’aime veî la mé d’ la Cotentčne.

Men quœu, men quœu,
Ch’est coume la mé,

L’âote nyit, j’i ravagi : ch’était eune mé indčne
Pus qu’ n’en veirount, magčne, les syins du graund métyi :
Ŕ dyis luues dauns l’ terran touot était ébllâqui10
— Noun, janmais no n’eut creu qu’o peuve yęte si malčne —
O bôchait les vallaes. O fâoquait les hâotes terres.
Si louen qu’ no s’en alisse, gens et bętes afollaes,
O sé r’mâtait d’vaunt nouos coume pouor nouos enfroumaer.
Et mei, dauns men trélu, j’ récitais ma pričre…

Men quœu, men quœu,
Ch’est coume la mé.

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

English translation : My Heart is like the Sea
(sorry for the mistakes, that's hard to translate poetry)

Western gust, north-western gust, never stop to follow during the winter
Everything is at the right place, people and beasts are safe
We hear the sea surging against the coast
Disasters come in such moments
Alone behind the window I'm watching it
That's worrying me, I'm scared of, that's so white, that's so black
The more this storm is coming the more I feel troubled inside
Alas, will I be strong enough when my time has came ?

My heart, my heart,
Is like the sea

Ah, if I could raise up and see the immensity of the sea !
Ah, if I could find back the highest peak !
If I could raise up above the highest cloud
Just like birds in spring time, when good weather bring them back
Well, so far as I can see, it would be few things
And as far as I discover, it would just be the beggining !
Sea at beyond the sight, sea at beyond the time...
This is how I like to see the sea from the Cotentin's coast

My heart, my heart,
Is like the sea

Last night, I had nightmares : it was a tormented sea
More than far sea fishermen will obviously see
Ten leagues in land, everything was crushed down
- No, never we thought it would be so wicked -
It was filling the valleys, reaping the hills
As far as we fled away, nervous people and beasts,
It was raising up again in front of us as it wanted to swallow us
And me, shaking, I was repeating my prayer

My heart, my heart,
Is like the sea...

Mraz
12-07-2016, 07:59 PM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncMc34YcCV0
(starts at 1 min)



Modra rijeka
(Mak Dizdar)

Nitko ne zna gdje je ona
Malo znamo al’ je znano
Iza gora iza dola
Iza sedam iza osam
I još huđe, I još luđe
Preko mornih, preko gorkih
Preko gloga, preko drače
Preko žege, preko stege
Preko slutnje, preko sumnje
Iza devet, iza deset
I još dublje i još jače
Iza šutnje, iza tmače
Gdje pjetlovi ne pjevaju
Gdje se ne zna za glas roga
I još huđe i još luđe
iza uma iza Boga
Ima jedna modra rijeka
široka je duboka jest.
Sto godina široka je
Tisuć ljet duboka je.
O duljini i ne sanjaj
Tma i tmuša neprebolna.
Ima jedna modra rijeka
Ima jedna modra rijeka.
Valja nama preko rijeke.

Dark Blue River

None can say where it is found
We know little but 'tis known

Beyond mountain, beyond valley
Beyond seven, beyond eight

And still sadder and still madder
Over weary, over bitter

Over hawthorn, over thornbush
Over drought and over hindrance

Over dread and over doubt
Beyond nine and beyond ten

There below beneath the earth
Over yonder beneath the sky

And still deeper and still fiercer
Beyond silence, beyond nightfall

Where the roosters do not crow
And the horn's voice is unknown

And still sadder and still madder
Beyond mind and beyond God

For there is a dark blue river
It is broad and it is deep

It is broad one hundred years
A thousand summers is its depth

And its length not to be thought
Murk and darkness unrelenting

For there is a dark blue river

For there is a dark blue river
And that river we must cross.

ÁGUIA
12-09-2016, 10:11 AM
Personally I am fond of Literature and Poetry. Poem written by Luís Vaz de Camőes, considered the biggest figure of Portuguese literature and one of the biggest in Lusophone world.



Amor é um fogo que arde sem se ver,
é ferida que doi, e năo se sente;
é um contentamento descontente,
é dor que desatina sem doer.

É um năo querer mais que bem querer;
é um andar solitário entre a gente;
é nunca contentar-se de contente;
é um cuidar que ganha em se perder.

É querer estar preso por vontade;
é servir a quem vence, o vencedor;
é ter com quem nos mata, lealdade.

Mas como causar pode seu favor
nos coraçőes humanos amizade,
se tăo contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?

English translation

Love is a fire that burns unseen,
a wound that aches yet isn’t felt,
an always discontent contentment,
a pain that rages without hurting,

a longing for nothing but to long,
a loneliness in the midst of people,
a never feeling pleased when pleased,
a passion that gains when lost in thought.

It’s being enslaved of your own free will;
it’s counting your defeat a victory;
it’s staying loyal to your killer.

But if it’s so self-contradictory,
how can Love, when Love chooses,
bring human hearts into sympathy?


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LexbT5SVF3Y

Herr Abubu
12-09-2016, 10:36 AM
ΓΑΜΩ ΤΗΝ ΠΡΟΣΦΥΓΙΑ
Ἀπόλεμοι κι ἐρωτικοί, ῥουσφέτι καὶ μπαξίσι

Φέρανε πιῶμα καὶ λουλά, μιζέρια καὶ χασίσι
Ξύδια τραγοῦδι καὶ χορός, μπουζοῦκι τσιφτετέλι

Πολίτισσες καὶ Παστρικές, Σμυρνιὲς ποὺ χύνουν μέλι

Γηορτὴ καὶ διασκέδασι, ὅπλο ποτὲ δὲν πιάσαν

Τοῦρκοι χωρὶς ἀντίστασι τὶς μάνες τους βιάσαν

Σελτζοῦκοι σχιστομάτηδες γαμήσανε ἀρχόντια

Ἐσφάξανε μικρὰ παιδιά, ἐγκύους καὶ γερόντια

Μία ζωὴ βοήθεια θέλαν ἀπ’την Ἑλλάδα

Φύγαν γιἀδῶ κακήν-κακῶς, κολῦμπι καὶ βαρκάδα

Γρῃὰ πουτάνα προσφυγιά, ἀπὸ τὴν Ἰωνία

Καὶ τρᾶγοι στὴν Ἁγιασοφιὰ γαμοῦν τὴ Μπαναγία

Herr Abubu
12-09-2016, 10:53 AM
NAZSTURM
πολυμήχανοι νταῆδες μὲ στιλέτο καὶ σουγιᾶ
ποὺ σὲ κόβουνε κομμάτια, πρἴνα βγάλῃς τσιμουδιὰ

μὲ τὴ ζβάστικα στὸ μπράτσο σπέρνουν φόβο στὸ ντουνιᾶ
καὶ στὴ θέα τους μουσκεύουν τὰ πιὸ ἔκφυλα μουνιὰ

γαλουχήθηκαν μὲ Λέντη καὶ Μετζέλο ἀπὸ μικροὶ
θ' ἀναστήσουνε τὸ ῥάιχ ἢ θὰ πέσουνε νεκροὶ

ἡ καρδιά τους παγωμένη καὶ τὸ βλέμμα τους τραχὺ
μαχαιρώνουνε τοὺς Πάκι δίχως οἶκτο κι ἐνοχὴ

σὰν ἀγέλη φρενιασμένη μὲς τὴ νύχτα ἁλυχτοῦν
καὶ κομμούνια σαπακιάζουν μὲ μανία ὅπου βροῦν

μεγαλῶσαν σὰ θηρία, ξέρουν μόνο νὰ μισοῦν
καὶ τὶς γκόμενες μὲ λύσσα ἀπ' τὸ γκῶλο νὰ γαμοῦν

μπρὄστου Φῦρερ τὸ πορτραῖτο στέκουν ὅλοι προσοχὴ
κἢ μορφή του γαληνεύει τὴ θρασεία τους ψυχὴ

Saiwalo
12-09-2016, 04:00 PM
Poem by Eino Leino.


Nocturne

Ruislinnun laulu korvissani

tähkäpäiden päällä täysi kuu;

kesä-yön on onni omanani,

kaskisavuun laaksot verhouu.

En ma iloitse, en sure, huokaa;

mutta metsän tummuus mulle tuokaa,

puunto pilven, johon päivä hukkuu,

siinto vaaran tuulisen, mi nukkuu,

tuoksut vanamon ja varjot veen;

niistä sydämeni laulun teen.

Sulle laulan neiti, kesäheinä,

sydämeni suuri hiljaisuus,

uskontoni, soipa säveleinä,

tammenlehvä-seppel vehryt, uus.

En ma enää aja virvatulta,

onpa kädessäni onnen kulta;

pienentyy mun ympär' elon piiri;

aika seisoo, nukkuu tuuliviiri;

edessäni hämäräinen tie

tuntemattomahan tupaan vie.

Nocturne - translated by Aina Swan Cutler

I hear the evening cornbird calling.

Moonlight floods the fields of tasseled grain.

Wood smoke, drifting veils the distant valleys.

Summer evening's joy is here for me.

I'm not happy yet no sorrow shakes me,

but the dark woods stillness I would welcome.

Rosy clouds through which the day is falling,

sleepy breezes from the blue gray mountains,

shodows on the water, meadow flowers...

out of these my heart's own song I'll make!

I will sing it, summer hay-sweet maiden,

sing to you my deep serenity,

my own faith that sounds a swelling music,

oak-leaf garland ever fresh and green.

I'll no longer chase the will-o-wisp.

Happiness is here in my own keeping.

Day by day, life's circle narrows, closes.

Time stands still now ... weather cocks all sleeping.

Here before me lies a shadowy way

leading to a strange, an unknown place.

Eino Leino

Tacitus
12-09-2016, 05:53 PM
Petrarch, Poem 66

L'aere gravato, et l'importuna nebbia
compressa intorno da rabbiosi včnti
tosto conven che si converta in pioggia;
et giŕ son quasi di cristallo i fiumi,
e 'n vece de l'erbetta per le valli
non se ved'altro che pruine et ghiaccio.

Et io nel cor via piů freddo che ghiaccio
ň di gravi pensier' tal una nebbia,
qual si leva talor di queste valli,
serrate incontra agli amorosi včnti,
et circundate di stagnanti fiumi,
quando cade dal ciel piů lenta pioggia.

In picciol tempo passa ogni gran pioggia,
e 'l caldo fa sparir le nevi e 'l ghiaccio,
di che vanno superbi in vista i fiumi;
né mai nascose il ciel sí folta nebbia
che sopragiunta dal furor d'i včnti
non fugisse dai poggi et da le valli.

Ma, lasso, a me non val fiorir de valli,
anzi piango al sereno et a la pioggia
et a' gelati et a' soavi včnti:
ch'allor fia un dí madonna senza 'l ghiaccio
dentro, et di for senza l'usata nebbia,
ch'i' vedrň secco il mare, e' laghi, e i fiumi.

Mentre ch'al mar descenderanno i fiumi
et le fiere ameranno ombrose valli,
fia dinanzi a' begli occhi quella nebbia
che fa nascer d'i miei continua pioggia,
et nel bel petto l'indurato ghiaccio
che trâ del mio sí dolorosi včnti.

Ben debbo io perdonare a tutti včnti,
per amor d'un che 'n mezzo di duo fiumi
mi chiuse tra 'l bel verde e 'l dolce ghiaccio,
tal ch'i' depinsi poi per mille valli
l'ombra ov'io fui, ché né calor né pioggia
né suon curava di spezzata nebbia.

Ma non fuggío giŕ mai nebbia per včnti,
come quel dí, né mai fiumi per pioggia,
né ghiaccio quando 'l sole apre le valli.

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

The heavy air, and the oppressive cloud,
compressed on all sides by the raging winds,
will quickly be converted into rain:
and already part-crystal are the rivers,
and where there was grass in the valleys
there's nothing to be seen but frost and ice.

And on my heart that grows colder than ice
my heavy thoughts form such a cloud,
as sometimes rises from these valleys,
closed off from the more kindly winds,
surrounded by the slow-moving rivers,
when there falls from heaven a gentler rain.

In a little while it passes, all that heavy rain,
and the warmth disperses snow and ice,
giving a swollen surface to the rivers:
never was the sky hidden by such dense cloud
that, meeting with the fury of the winds,
it did not fly from off the hills and valleys.

But, alas, for me there are no flowering valleys,
rather I weep in clear skies or in rain,
and in the chill and in the gentle winds:
when that day comes my lady's without ice
inside, and outside is without the usual cloud,
dry ocean will be seen, and lakes and rivers.

As long as the sea receives the rivers
and the wild creatures love the shady valleys,
her lovely eyes will be concealed by cloud
that makes in mine one continuous rain,
and in her heart the unyielding ice
which draws from mine such sighing winds.

I should be able to excuse the winds,
for love of that one, that between two rivers
confined me among sweet green and lovely ice,
so that I pictured through a thousand valleys
that shade where I was, so that no heat or rain
troubled me there nor any breaking cloud.

But never did cloud fly before the winds
as on that day, nor rivers ever with rain,
nor ice when the sun unlocks the valleys.

Tacitus
12-09-2016, 06:43 PM
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'ě sole, rrenne,

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

Ma, se resta de me sule 'na preta
ě pozze sempe recuntŕ 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.

Mikula
12-10-2016, 03:59 PM
Czech poet Jan Neruda (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/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?"

Mraz
12-29-2016, 07:47 PM
Thread put in sticky.

Mraz
12-31-2016, 12:00 AM
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

Bezprym
01-16-2017, 02:26 AM
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!

Bezprym
01-16-2017, 02:46 AM
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

Gromosław
01-17-2017, 02:23 PM
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.

Mens-Sarda
01-17-2017, 09:31 PM
Antioco Casůla (in Italian) Antiňgu Casůla (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 Antiňgu "Montanaru" Casůla)

Cŕrrigu de nieddas temporadas
Bčnit s’hierru, betzu, tristu e canu,
E chenz'ervas est tristu su pianu,
E sas forestas pŕren brujadas.

No puzňnes qui allčgren su manzanu
Cun sas milli piběas delicadas,
Su 'entu můinat intro sas forŕdas
E tristos corvos cŕntan a luntanu.

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

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

Winter
(by Antiňgu "Montanaru" Casůla)

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

Nederburg
04-16-2017, 08:16 PM
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.“

wvwvw
04-16-2017, 08:22 PM
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?

LouisFerdinand
08-17-2017, 12:45 AM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLx5RGNMsck

LouisFerdinand
11-16-2017, 01:09 AM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPbnCiThZRM

Iloko
11-16-2017, 01:13 AM
Poem #1:

what is even important enough to say?
i felt only an insensible thing.
debased, delusion reinforcing it:
a scorchingly sweet, serene, and peaceful bliss.
promising more than mere meager seconds,
days, weeks, or a quick meandering course--
ending in thorny thickets.

call me uncharted, far from the course:
in brisk, coarse, torrentially stormy seas,
atop a shambling ship of shoddy integrity.
which in spite of fortnights lacking light
and waves frighteningly breaking breathtakingly overboard,
was assured, come the morn, to set its sails once more,
abhorred by the sun's single eye of a dry, leering scorn.


Poem #2:

a briefly bellowing spring yielding to autumn typhoons,
you were a fiercely bitter, flitting and fleeting interlude;
intense, still, even once subdued.
sworn to furtive temperament, and
shifting mercurial mood--

the whole world's astir when it speaks of you.

in incoherent slurs, quite often obtuse,
acute quips insisting innocence
belie beleaguered realities beneath detailing
a dearth of indigent lies--
i implicitly spy that which lies inside deceitful eyes.

promised a world, forcefulness equipped to tip it--
received reprieve of "oh no, not me!" -- so insipid.

Sui Generis
11-19-2017, 01:03 PM
Desem ki

Desem ki vakitlerden bir nisan akşamıdır,
Rüzgârların en ferahlatıcısı senden esiyor,
Sende seyrediyorum denizlerin en mavisini,
Ormanların en kuytusunu sende gezmekteyim,
Senden kopardım çiçeklerin en solmazını,
Toprakların en bereketlisini sende sürdüm,
Sende tattım yemişlerin cümlesini.

Desem ki sen benim için,
Hava kadar lazım,
Ekmek kadar mübarek,
Su gibi aziz bir şeysin;
Nimettensin, nimettensin!

Desem ki...
İnan bana sevgilim inan,
Evimde şenliksin, bahçemde bahar;
Ve soframda en eski şarap.
Ben sende yaşıyorum,
Sen bende hüküm sürmektesin.

Bırak ben söyleyeyim güzelliğini,
Rüzgârlarla, nehirlerle, kuşlarla beraber.
Günlerden sonra bir gün,
Şayet sesimi farkedemezsen,
Rüzgârların, nehirlerin, kuşların sesinden,
Bil ki ölmüşüm.

Fakat yine üzülme, müsterih ol;
Kabirde böceklere ezberletirim güzelliğini,
Ve neden sonra
Tekrar duyduğun gün sesimi gökkubbede,
Hatırla ki mahşer günüdür
Ortalığa düşmüşüm seni arıyorum.


Cahit Sıtkı Tarancı


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


Translate (http://lyricstranslate.com/en/desem-ki-if-i-say.html#ixzz4ysyyyK4W)

If I say that

If I say that time is a night of April
The most refreshing wind is blowing from you
I am watching the bluest of seas at you
I am wandering most sheltered of forests at you
I picked up the most unwilting of flowers from you
I plowed the most abundant of soils at you
I tasted all of fruits at you

If I say that you are
Neccessary for me as much as air
Blessed as much as bread
and a dear thing like water.
You are of blessing, blessing

If I say that...
Believe me my love,believe,
You are a festival in my home, you are a spring in my garden
And an old wine on my dinner table
I live in you
You are ruling in me.

Let me to say your beauty
With winds, with rivers, with birds
One day after days
If you can´t notice my voice
From the voices of winds, rivers, birds
Know that I have died.

But don´t be upset, be at ease;
In grave I have bugs memorize your beauty
After a while
One day when you heard my voice at the vault of heaven
Remember it is judgment day
I have been looking for you around

Nobre Sem Alma
02-01-2018, 11:56 AM
19th century's Brazilian Poet. Influenced by Lord Byron and Alfred de Musser, among others.

MEU SONHO


Álvares de Azevedo



EU

Cavaleiro das armas escuras,

Onde vais pelas trevas impuras

Com a espada sanguenta na măo?

Por que brilham teus olhos ardentes

E gemidos nos lábios frementes

Vertem fogo do teu coraçăo?


Cavaleiro, quem és? — O remorso?

Do corcel te debruças no dorso…

E galopas do vale através…

Oh! da estrada acordando as poeiras

Năo escutas gritar as caveiras

E morder-te o fantasma nos pés?


Onde vais pelas trevas impuras,

Cavaleiro das armas escuras,

Macilento qual morto na tumba?…

Tu escutas… Na longa montanha

Um tropel teu galope acompanha?

E um clamor de vingança retumba?


Cavaleiro, quem és? que mistério…

Quem te força da morte no império

Pela noite assombrada a vagar?


O FANTASMA

Sou o sonho de tua esperança,

Tua febre que nunca descansa,

O delírio que te há de matar!…

Nobre Sem Alma
02-01-2018, 11:57 AM
19th century's Brazilian Poet. Influenced by Lord Byron and Alfred de Musser, among others.

MEU SONHO


Álvares de Azevedo



EU

Cavaleiro das armas escuras,

Onde vais pelas trevas impuras

Com a espada sanguenta na măo?

Por que brilham teus olhos ardentes

E gemidos nos lábios frementes

Vertem fogo do teu coraçăo?


Cavaleiro, quem és? — O remorso?

Do corcel te debruças no dorso…

E galopas do vale através…

Oh! da estrada acordando as poeiras

Năo escutas gritar as caveiras

E morder-te o fantasma nos pés?


Onde vais pelas trevas impuras,

Cavaleiro das armas escuras,

Macilento qual morto na tumba?…

Tu escutas… Na longa montanha

Um tropel teu galope acompanha?

E um clamor de vingança retumba?


Cavaleiro, quem és? que mistério…

Quem te força da morte no império

Pela noite assombrada a vagar?


O FANTASMA

Sou o sonho de tua esperança,

Tua febre que nunca descansa,

O delírio que te há de matar!…

LouisFerdinand
02-16-2018, 02:06 AM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NHKyHwPqm8

LouisFerdinand
03-27-2018, 02:20 AM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-45HVm1Q5QA

Alboz
04-02-2018, 05:41 PM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wY-P4XkRuIc

ÁGUIA
04-04-2018, 10:51 PM
Mar Portuguęs by Fernando Pessoa.

Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal
Săo lágrimas de Portugal!
Por te cruzarmos, quantas măes choraram,
Quantos filhos em văo rezaram!

Quantas noivas ficaram por casar
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!
Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena
Se a alma năo é pequena.

Quem quere passar além do Bojador
Tem que passar além da dor.
Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu,
Mas nele é que espelhou o céu.

----------------------------------------------
Oh salty sea, how much of your salt
Are tears of Portugal!
To get across you, how many mothers cried,
How many sons prayed in vain!

How many brides were never to marry
In order to make you ours, oh sea!
Was it worth it? Everything is worthy
If the soul is not small.

Who wants to go beyond Bojador,(*)
Must go beyond sufferance.
God gave the sea peril and abyss,
Yet upon it He also mirrored the sky.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFXn6TKLmhg

gıulıoımpa
07-31-2018, 08:48 PM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbhizFMojAU

Alboz
01-05-2019, 12:12 PM
Vajtimet e Atdheut - Hafiz Ali Korca

(Kushtuar bombardimit të Drenicës nga Serbët në Qershor 1924)

Më s'tu nda zjarri, më s't'u nda flaka
Më s't'u nda vrasja, ndjekja,shuplaka,
Më s't'u nda therja, mbytja grabitja,
Më s't'u nda shtypja, vojtja, drobitja.

Gra, burra, foshnja për ditë vriten,
Nga vendi vet zhveshur po qiten;
Digjen katundet e përvëlohen,
Ah, shpirti më këputet, prej kujt s'ndalohën.
U germadhove, u copëtove,
Krejt u trondite krejt u shkretove.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Qytetërimi ku asht vallë?
Përse Europa nuk i sheh hallë?
Si s'po dëgjohet topi i shkretë?
Si s'shihet flaka qi del mbi retë?
Si nuk dëgjohet rënkimi i shpirtit?
Pse s'këshillohet kombi gjakpirës?
Në botë, thua, s'ngeli bamirës.
Qysh u shurdhua bota e terë?
S'shohin barbari gjer sot ç'ka berë

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Me top u shuan vëllezërit tanë,
Malet dhe fushat ndër gjak i lanë.
I vranë, i shuan, i handakosën.
Në vend të tyre tjetër vëndosën.
Sa pasuri që patën ua perlanë.
S'di me ç'të drejtë dreqvet ia dhanë!
Më digjet shpirti, kam shum frikë,
Se do t'i sosje kjo politikë,
Fill shqiptari nuk do te lenë?
Fatzijtë e gjorë ku do te vejnë?

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Në ketë shekull kjo politikë
Mrekulli, quhet e them pa frikë,
Kjo politikë racëmbaruese
Për ditë grin pleq, trima, nuse
Kjo politkë lugate shtrigë
Dhelpër dinake, kuçedër e ligë
Faroj vëllezër me qindra mijë
I madh i Vogël duhet ta dijë
Fol, o moj botë e qytetërimit
Përse po shkulet kjo racë e trimit.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!


Kosovë e bukur, oj shpresa jonë
Bujare, trime, ke qenë si i thonë
Sot të zu halli, në zgjedhë ngele,
Kurban po bëhesh për ditë si dele.
Kurban po bëhesh ditë bajrami,
Në Ballkan therret veç shqiptari.
Kështu pse s'duket Xhebraili?
Të të shpëtonte nga thojntë e mprehtë
Të të shpëtonte nga zjarri i nxehtë
Ty moj Kosovë, e madhe shpresë
Se ndaj ty ruhet edhe sot besa,
M'i madhi krahu i Shqiperise!
M'e madhja çerdhe e Trimërisë!

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Pjesa më e madhe e Shqipërisë
Iu dha Serbit e Greqisë
Vetëm i ardhi keq Perëndisë
Për atë gjakun e foshnjërisë,
Dua t'i lutem pak qeverisë
Të marrë masat e ligjësisë:
T'i lutet Frances dhe Anglisë
T'i pritet hovi pake Serbisë
Dhe për Çamërit, fqinjë te Greqisë.

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Për gjëmëzezet zgjatëni zinë!

Nip i Pellazgut, o komb i vjetër!
Nga ti m'i i vjetër nuk ndodhet tjetër,
Dyzet ke patur milione frymë
Te pakoi koha, te çkriu si brymë.
Le Arijanen, Durrës u mbështete,
Nga fati i shkrete si nje grusht mbete.
Edhe këtuze shprehje nuk gjete.
Mento ku ishe, ku je , ku vete,
Tashti pa krahe ke mbetur fare
Për një te vjetër komb, turp e marre

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Se i këmbejnë si bagëtinë!

Ka vdekur fare civilizimi;
Sot veç një lustër ka Perëndim.
Iku mëshira erdhi rrënimi!
Po del mbi qiejt nga do rënkimi,
Në fund te tokës hyfte gëzimi!
Kur po shfaroset një komb ma trimi,
Kurse ka vdekur krejt njerëzimi,
Kurse nuk paska babë a vëlla jetimi,
Fare mos qoftë shtypi dhe shkrimi!

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Për gjëmëzezet zgjatëni zinë!

Mos i ndaj lotet, qaj Vardar plaku!
Nat'e ditë ecën të lahet gjaku
Gjaku i shenjtë që derdh barbari,
Me te ushqehet sot çdo fill bari,
O shale i shkretë, qysh duron valle?
Pse nuk po shkrihesh, qysh je i gjallë?
Shembuni male, mbetët te shkretë!
Shembuni bashkë me gjithë tepetë!
Kur komb bujari për ditë po shuhet,
Ty, moj Kosovë, jeta ç'të duhet?
Kur dhe Evropa s'po ta sheh hallin
Për ditë ju therin, ju marrin mallin
Për ditë ju derdhet gjaku
Shpresa ka mbetur vetem te Hakku.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Tiranë , Gusht 1924


.................................................. .....................

Lamentations of the Homeland - Hafiz Ali Korca

(Devoted to Drenica's Bombing by Serbs in June 1924)

The fire did’t stop anymore,the flame didn’t stop anymore,
didn’t stop the murdering , prosecution, beating ,
slaughtering , drowning , robbery ,
crushings , mourning .

Women, men, babies everyday are being killed ,
from their birthplace they bare them away,
the villages are burned.
Ah , it hurts my soul , nobody stops them ,
you’re becoming relics , broken in pieces ,
shocked , desolate place .

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

Where is civilization ?
why does not Europe see them?
How is the wild cannon not heard?
How do you not see the flame coming out of the clouds?
How can not the mourning souls be heard?
Why is not a vampire nation advised?
Maybe , there is no goodness left in the world ?
How did the world became deaf ?
do not they see the barbar till this day, what he did.

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

With cannons they vanished our brothers ,
the mountains and the fields are washed with our brothers blood ,
they murdered them , wiped them out ,
in their houses they put others ,
they took their wealth, and gave it to others .
with what right?!

My soul burns , I’m so afraid
that this policy of ethnic cleansing ,
they won’t leave a single albanian ,
wretched where will they go ??

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

In this century this policy .
I say without fear , this racist policy
everyday slaughter(massacre) eldery , brave men , bride,
This wicked policy eradicate our brothers
hundreds of thousands of them .
Everyone should know that .
Speak , oh world of civilization ,
Why this nation is being uprooted ?

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

Beautiful Kosovo , oh our hope .
Generous , brave you were forever ,
Today they found you week ,
everyday you’re being sacrificed like a sheep ,
in the Balkans only albanians are being slaughtered.
Why Gabriel(Jibril) angel is not coming ?
To save you from those sharp claws ,
to save you from hot fire .
For you o Kosovo , big hopes ,
because in you even todays Besa (albanian pledge of honour) remain .
You’re the greatest hand of Albania
the greatest nest of Bravery.

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

More than half of Albania ,
it was given to Serbia and Greece ,
The God is displeased ,
for that infant blood.
I want to please the government a bit
Take legal measures:
Ask France and England
to stop the actions of Serbia ,
and of Greece in Cameria(Epirus).

Wail for Kosovo and Cameria ,
Because they exchange them like they were cattle.

Grandson of Pelasgian , oh old nation
there is no other nation older than you
you had millions spirits , faded by time , melted as frost .
You left Aryana , in Durres (Dyrrachium) settled .
From bad luck you remained like a fist ,
Think where you were ? Where are you ? Where are you going?
Now your stuck without wings ,
for an old nation that’s such a shame and disgrace.

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

The civilization has died .
The mercy has gone , destruction has came !
It’s rising above the heavens everywhere the wail ,
at the end of the ground, shall perish the joy of the world.
when the bravest nation is being exterminated ,
the humanity died,
there’s no father or a brother for orphan .
I hope printing and stationery won’t exist no more .

Wail for Kosovo and Cameria ,
Keep on mourning .

Don’t stop the tears , cry o old Vardar(River)!
Night and Days you flow to be cleansed from blood
the saint blood , that barbars made shed
with that blood the grass is watered .
Oh Shalë (Mountains with snow) how can you stand this ?
Why aren’t you melting ?
Split and Fall oh mountains, you remaind desolate!
Split and Fall everywhere!
when a generous nation , everyday is being vanished ,
You , o Kosovo, for what you need life ?
When even Europe don’t see your suffer
Everyday they slaughter you ,they take your goods ,
Everyday your blood is being shed.
The hope is left only in revenge .

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

dududud
09-09-2019, 02:21 AM
Soupe au lard et aux choux.
Tchottes flainiqrtes ŕ porions.
Fricassée d’aisons intortilli d’navets.
Gigouts d’berbis avu enne platrée d’gouettes.
Pâté ed yeuve.
Salade.

Tchous carrés ed niarrolles.
Tartes h prones.
Bičre ed Vraignes.
Canons d’vins.
Chuni pagne
Tclzoiis pouts au brenn’viiz.

Hector Crinon

Daco Celtic
09-09-2019, 02:31 AM
https://youtu.be/vV5ARyuxpow

nittionia
09-09-2019, 03:03 AM
Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

Duffmannn
01-26-2020, 10:50 PM
CANCIÓN DEL PIRATA


Con diez cańones por banda,
viento en popa a toda vela,
no corta el mar, sino vuela
un velero bergantín;

bajel pirata que llaman,
por su bravura, el Temido,
en todo mar conocido
del uno al otro confín.

La luna en el mar riela,
en la lona gime el viento
y alza en blando movimiento
olas de plata y azul;

y va el capitán pirata,
cantando alegre en la popa,
Asia a un lado, al otro Europa,
y allá a su frente Estambul;

—«Navega velero mío,
sin temor,
que ni enemigo navío,
ni tormenta, ni bonanza,
tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,
ni a sujetar tu valor.


»Veinte presas
hemos hecho
a despecho,
del inglés,


»y han rendido
sus pendones
cien naciones
a mis pies.


»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.

»Allá muevan feroz guerra
ciegos reyes
por un palmo más de tierra,
que yo tengo aquí por mío
cuanto abarca el mar bravío,
a quien nadie impuso leyes.


»Y no hay playa
sea cualquiera,
ni bandera
de esplendor,



»que no sienta
mi derecho
y dé pecho
a mi valor.


»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.

»A la voz de ˇbarco viene!
es de ver
cómo vira y se previene
a todo trapo a escapar:
que yo soy el rey del mar,
y mi furia es de temer.


»En las presas
yo divido
lo cogido
por igual:


»sólo quiero
por riqueza
la belleza
sin rival.


»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.

»ˇSentenciado estoy a muerte!;
yo me río;
no me abandone la suerte,
y al mismo que me condena,
colgaré de alguna entena
quizá en su propio navío.


»Y si caigo
żqué es la vida?
Por perdida
ya la di,


»cuando el yugo
de un esclavo
como un bravo
sacudí.


»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar.

»Son mi música mejor
aquilones
el estrépito y temblor
de los cables sacudidos,
del negro mar los bramidos
y el rugir de mis cańones.


»Y del trueno
al son violento,
y del viento
al rebramar,


»yo me duermo
sosegado
arrullado
por el mar.


»Qué es mi barco: mi tesoro,
qué es mi dios: la libertad,
mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,
mi única patria la mar».



José de Espronceda, 1840

Duffmannn
01-26-2020, 10:51 PM
De la mar el mero
y de la tierra el cordero
los dedos de las manos
los dedos de los pies
la polla y los cojones
ya suman veintitrés

JAJAJAJAJAJJAJAJAJAJAJ

Samnium
01-26-2020, 10:57 PM
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,

Ou comme cestuy-lŕ qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d'usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !

Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village
Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison
Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,
Qui m'est une province, et beaucoup davantage ?

Plus me plaît le séjour qu'ont bâti mes aďeux,
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,
Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l'ardoise fine :

Plus mon Loire gaulois, que le Tibre latin,
Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin,
Et plus que l'air marin la doulceur angevine.

Joachim du Bellay, Les Regrets (1558)

KirillMazur
04-28-2020, 11:55 AM
Руки прочь от 9 Мая!..

Всё чаще, громче и наглее
В окрест России слышен зуд
Из уст чванливого Брюсселя
И доморощенных иуд:

Мол, сколько можно День Победы
С тщеславной помпой отмечать,
Тем более не вы, а деды
Смогли фашизм с землёй сравнять;

К чему военные парады
От Кёнигсберга до Курил
Не лучше ли пустые траты
Направить на латанее дыр:

Построить школы и больницы,
Добавить пенсий старикам,
А не наращивать бойницы
По приграничным берегам,

Как будто бы весь мир мечтает
Россию в клочья разорвать,
Что бы несметные богатства
Её к своим рукам прибрать!

Да и вообще… цена Победы
Столь непомерно высока,
Что в пору траурные ленты,
А не салюты заплетать

В сердца детей, что бы до смерти
Они впитали страх войны
И жертвовать собой не смели
Каков бы ни был бы мотив.

Ведь жизнь – одна, её дороже
На свете нету ничего, -
Будь отрок крайне осторожен:
Храни от пуль своё чело…

Так что – гуляй и наслаждайся,
Вкушай обильно земных благ,
А не с восторгом восхищайся
В Победы День на алый стяг.

***

Не нужен острый мозг Спинозы,
Дабы рассечь подлога нить,
Что молодёжи, как занозы,
Пытаются они вонзить

Под кожу, в душу, в подсознанье,
О предках память отравив, -
Смиренье, робость, покаянье, -
Неспешно ложью ей привить,

Что б русский дух, непокорённый
Никем, нигде и никогда
Без войн был тихо погребённый
С Отчизной вместе – навсегда!
______

Сии раскольные плевелы
Растят в России всякий раз,
Когда фанфары Дня Победы
Стихают, словно бы угас,

Со временем огонь той Воли,
Что поднимает весь народ
Оборонять свои Юдоли
Сомкнув ряды в бессмертный взвод.

А враг поверженный в потомках,
Рубцы, окрепнув зализав,
Вновь возбудился на задворках
Из ножен меч почти достав.

И посему, что бы Россию
От бед для внуков уберечь:
Наш долг, как древнюю святыню, -
Чтить предков подвиги и честь,

Чья беспримерная отвага
И беззаветная любовь
К родной земле, свободе, флагу
Снискали Господа покров!

И оттого наш день Победы -
Великий праздник со слезой,
Чтоб помнили и знали дети
Какой достался мир ценой…

А те, кто подлостью навета
Шельмует факты Русских вех,
Как в Нюрнберге, - все ответят
За искаженье правды грех!..

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

Ах, какая была держава!
Ах, какие в ней люди были!
Как торжественно-величаво
Звуки гимна над миром плыли!
Ах, как были открыты лица,
Как наполнены светом взгляды!
Как красива была столица!
Как величественны парады!
Проходя триумфальным маршем,
Безупречно красивым строем,
Молодежь присягала старшим,
Закаленным в боях героям -
Не деляги и прохиндеи
Попадали у нас в кумиры...
Ибо в людях жила - идея!
Жажда быть в авангарде мира!
Что же было такого злого
В том, что мы понимали твердо,
Что "товарищ" - не просто слово,
И звучит это слово гордо?
В том, что были одним народом,
Крепко спаянным общей верой,
Что достоинства - не доходом,
А иной измеряли мерой?
В том, что пошлости на потребу
Не топили в грязи искусство?
Что мальчишек манило небо?
Что у девушек были чувства?
Ах, насколько все нынче гаже,
Хуже, ниже и даже реже:
Пусть мелодия гимна - та же,
Но порыв и идея - где же?
И всего нестерпимей горе
В невозможности примирений
Не с утратою территорий,
Но с потерею поколений!
Как ни пыжатся эти рожи,
Разве место при них надежде?
Ах, как все это непохоже
На страну, что мы знали прежде!
Что была молода, крылата,
Силы множила год за годом,
Где народ уважал солдата
И гордился солдат народом.
Ту, где светлыми были дали,
Ту, где были чисты просторы...
А какое кино снимали
Наши лучшие режиссеры!
А какие звенели песни!
Как от них расправлялись плечи!
Как под них мы шагали вместе
Ранним утром заре навстречу!
Эти песни - о главном в жизни:
О свободе, мечте, полете,
О любви к дорогой отчизне,
О труде, что всегда в почете,
И о девушках, что цветами
Расцветают под солнцем мая,
И о ждущей нас дома маме,
И о с детства знакомом крае,
И о чести, и об отваге,
И о верном, надежном друге...

Harkonnen
04-28-2020, 12:30 PM
Tytti Ison-hookana Asunmaa

on

lapualainen poliitikko

KirillMazur
05-08-2020, 11:59 PM
Пехоту обучали воевать.
Пехоту обучали убивать.

Огнем. Из трехлинейки, на бегу,
Все пять патронов — по знакомой цели,
По лютому, заклятому врагу
В серо-зеленой, под ремень, шинели.

Гранатою. Немного задержав
К броску уже готовую гранату,
Чтоб, близко у ноги врага упав,
Сработал медно-желтый детонатор.

Штыком. Одним движением руки.
Неглубоко, на полштыка, не дале.
А то, бывали случаи, штыки
В костях, как в древесине, застревали.

Прикладом. Размахнувшись от плеча,
Затыльником в лицо или ключицу.
И бей наверняка, не горячась,
Промажешь — за тебя не поручиться.

Саперною лопаткою. Под каску.
Не в каску — чуть пониже, по виску,
Чтоб кожаная лопнула завязка
И каска покатилась по песку.

Армейскими ботинками. В колено.
А скрючится от боли — по лицу.
В крови чтобы горячей и соленой
Навеки захлебнуться подлецу.

И, наконец — лишь голыми руками.
Подсечкою на землю положи,
И, скрежеща от ярости зубами,
Вот этими руками задуши.

С врагом необходимо воевать.
Врага необходимо убивать.

Janko od Kotara
01-21-2021, 02:26 PM
Вече на шкољу

Пучина плава
Спава,
Прохладни пада мрак.
Врх хриди црне
Трне
Задњи румени зрак.

И јеца звоно
Боно,
По кршу дршће звук;
С уздахом туге
Дуге
Убоги моли пук.

Клече мршаве
Главе
Пред ликом бога свог-
Ишту. Ал' тамо,
Само
Ћути распети бог.

И сан све ближе
Стиже,
Прохладни пада мрак,
Врх хриди црне
Трне
Задњи румени зрак.


— Алекса Шантић

Janko od Kotara
01-21-2021, 02:30 PM
Отаџбина

Не плачем само с болом свога срца
Рад` земље ове убоге и голе;
Мене све ране мога рода боле,
И моја душа с њим пати и грца.

Овдје, у болу срца истрзана,
Ја носим клетве свих патњи и мука,
И крв што капа са душманских рука
То је крв моја из мојијех рана.

У мени цвиле душе милиона -
Мој сваки уздах, свака суза бона,
Њиховим болом вапије и иште.

И свуда гдје је српска душа која,
Тамо је мени отаџбина моја,
Мој дом и моје рођено огњиште.

— Алекса Шантић

KirillMazur
03-09-2021, 03:42 PM
By 8 March 2021.
https://i.postimg.cc/g08Ph7SG/2021-03-08.jpg

Blondie
03-09-2021, 04:12 PM
Раз, два, три, четыре, пять,
Вышел зайчик погулять,
Вдруг охотник выбегает,
Прямо в зайчика стреляет

Пиф - паф ой-ой-ой
Умирает зайчик мой.

Привезли его в больницу,
Отказался он лечиться,
Привезли его домой,
Оказался он живой.

KirillMazur
03-09-2021, 04:24 PM
Раз, два, три, четыре, пять,
Вышел зайчик погулять,
Вдруг охотник выбегает,
Прямо в зайчика стреляет

Пиф - паф ой-ой-ой
Умирает зайчик мой.

Привезли его в больницу,
Отказался он лечиться,
Привезли его домой,
Оказался он живой.
Strong poetry, I already understood that this is the Silver Age. I can't figure out if it's futurism or imaginism?

Blondie
03-09-2021, 04:35 PM
Strong poetry, I already understood that this is the Silver Age. I can't figure out if it's futurism or imaginism?

I don't know, i saw it here at 1:19:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-V9vr437R28

KirillMazur
03-23-2021, 12:39 AM
22 марта.
Вл. Серов, Ярославль.

Смотрю на эпоху и, словно, впервые
Она предстает предо мной –
И люди чужие, и деньги другие,
Сам воздух – и тот не такой.

Как это случилось, что будто из комы
Я вышел полжизни спустя?
По городу, что был когда-то знакомым,
Иду гололёдом хрустя.
***************
На вечную жизнь я иллюзий не строю –
Что будет со всеми, то будет со мною.
Но больше, чем знать, мне сегодня дано.
То справа налево, то слева направо
Качается Вечность. Не ради забавы
Сегодня в неё распахнул я окно.

Смотрю на пути, что петляют и рвутся,
На тени людей, что навек остаются
Меж нами живыми по-своему жить,
Встречаться, как это велось и ведётся,
Лишь спустятся сумерки, возле колодца.
Здесь родина. Некуда им уходить.

И мне, почему-то, ни горько, ни больно,
А как-то в душе непривычно спокойно
За то, что я с жизнью своей, может быть,
Сегодня лишь только пришёл к примиренью
И пылью дорожной готов стать и тенью.
Мне некуда с этой земли уходить.
********************
********************

Batavia
10-01-2021, 08:08 PM
„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.“

Georg Trakl

KirillMazur
02-14-2022, 12:51 AM
А может, не было войны...
И людям всё это приснилось:
Опустошённая земля,
Расстрелы и концлагеря,
Хатынь и братские могилы?


А может, не было войны,
И у отца с рожденья шрамы,
Ни кто от пули не погиб,
И не вставал над миром гриб,
И не боялась гетто мама?


А может, не было войны,
И у станков не спали дети,
И бабы в гиблых деревнях
Не задыхались на полях,
Ложась плечом на стылый ветер?


А может, не было войны?
Не гнали немцев по этапу,
И абажур из кожи - блеф,
А Муссолини - дутый лев,
В Париже не было гестапо?


А может, не было войны?
И "шмайсер" - детская игрушка,
Дневник, залитый кровью ран,
Был не написан Анной Франк,
Берлин не слышал грома пушек?


А может, не было войны,
И мир её себе придумал?
...Но почему же старики
Так плачут в мае от тоски? -
Однажды ночью я подумал.

KirillMazur
08-13-2022, 04:13 PM
Один чудак с лицом фальшиво-грустным,
«Ютясь» в салоне своего «порше»,
Сказал: "Мне стыдно называться русским.
Мы – нация бездарных алкашей."

Солидный вид, манера поведенья –
Всё дьяволом продумано хитро.
Но беспощадный вирус вырожденья
Сточил бесславно всё его нутро.

Его душа не стоит и полушки,
Как жёлтый лист с обломанных ветвей.
А вот потомок эфиопов Пушкин
Не тяготился русскостью своей.

Себя считали русскими по праву
И поднимали Родину с колен
Творцы российской мореходной славы
И Беллинсгаузен, и Крузенштерн.

И не мирясь с мировоззреньем узким,
Стараясь заглянуть за горизонт,
За честь считали называться русским
Шотландцы – Грейг, де Толли и Лермонт.

Любой из них достоин восхищенья,
Ведь Родину воспеть – для них закон!
Так жизнь свою отдал без сожаленья
За Русь грузинский князь Багратион.

Язык наш – многогранный, точный, верный –
То душу лечит, то разит, как сталь.
Способны ль мы ценить его безмерно
И знать его, как знал датчанин Даль?

Да что там Даль! А в наше время много ль
Владеющих Великим языком
Не хуже, чем хохол Мыкола Гоголь,
Что был когда-то с Пушкиным знаком?

Не стоит головой стучать о стенку
И в бешенстве слюною брызгать зря!
"Мы - русские!" - так говорил Шевченко.
Внимательней читайте кобзаря.

В душе любовь сыновнюю лелея,
Всю жизнь трудились до семи потов
Суворов, Ушаков и Менделеев,
Кулибин, Ломоносов и Попов.

Их имена остались на скрижалях
Как подлинной истории азы.
И среди них как столп -старик Державин,
В чьих жилах кровь татарского мурзы.

Они идут – то слуги, то мессии, -
Неся свой крест согбенно на плечах,
Как нёс его во имя всей России
Потомок турка адмирал Колчак.

Они любовь привили и взрастили
От вековых истоков и корней.
Тот - русский, чья душа живёт в России,
Чьи помыслы - о матушке, о ней.

Патриотизм не продают в нагрузку
К беретам, сапогам или пальто.
И коль вам стыдно называться русским,
Вы, батенька, не русский. Вы – никто.

Batavia
01-12-2023, 11:08 PM
Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder
Von tödlichen Waffen, die goldnen Ebenen
Und blauen Seen, darüber die Sonne
Düstrer hinrollt; umfängt die Nacht
Sterbende Krieger, die wilde Klage
Ihrer zerbrochenen Münder.
Doch stille sammelt im Weidengrunde
Rotes Gewölk, darin ein zürnender Gott wohnt
Das vergossne Blut sich, mondne Kühle;
Alle Straßen münden in schwarze Verwesung.
Unter goldnem Gezweig der Nacht und Sternen
Es schwankt der Schwester Schatten durch den schweigenden Hain,
Zu grüßen die Geister der Helden, die blutenden Häupter;
Und leise tönen im Rohr die dunkeln Flöten des Herbstes.
O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre
Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,
Die ungebornen Enkel.

Grodek - Georg Trakl

Marshall Theodore
01-15-2023, 04:17 PM
Ai!

No alto daquele cume
Plantei uma roseira
O vento no cume bate
A rosa no cume cheira

Quando vem a chuva fina
Salpicos no cume caem
Formigas no cume entram
Abelhas do cume saem

Quando cai a chuva grossa
A água do cume desce
O barro do cume escorre
O mato no cume cresce

Entăo, quando cessa a chuva
No cume volta a alegria
Pois torna a brilhar de novo
O Sol que no cume ardia

No alto daquele cume
Plantei uma roseira
O vento no cume bate
A rosa no cume cheira

Quando vem a chuva fina
Salpicos no cume caem
Formigas no cume entram
Abelhas do cume saem

Quando cai a chuva grossa
A água do cume desce
O barro do cume escorre
O mato no cume cresce

Entăo, quando cessa a chuva
No cume volta a alegria
Pois torna a brilhar de novo
O Sol que no cume ardia

Pois torna a brilhar de novo
O Sol que no cume ardia
Pois torna a brilhar de novo
O Sol que no cume ardia

No Cume - Falcăo

Teutone
01-15-2023, 04:31 PM
Nachtgedanken

Denk ich an Deutschland in der Nacht,
Dann bin ich um den Schlaf gebracht,
Ich kann nicht mehr die Augen schließen,
Und meine heißen Tränen fließen.

Die Jahre kommen und vergehn!
Seit ich die Mutter nicht gesehn,
Zwölf Jahre sind schon hingegangen;
Es wächst mein Sehnen und Verlangen.

Mein Sehnen und Verlangen wächst.
Die alte Frau hat mich behext.
Ich denke immer an die alte,
Die alte Frau, die Gott erhalte!

Die alte Frau hat mich so lieb,
Und in den Briefen, die sie schrieb,
Seh ich, wie ihre Hand gezittert,
Wie tief das Mutterherz erschüttert.

Die Mutter liegt mir stets im Sinn.
Zwölf lange Jahre flossen hin,
Zwölf Jahre sind verflossen,
Seit ich sie nicht ans Herz geschlossen.

Deutschland hat ewigen Bestand,
Es ist ein kerngesundes Land!
Mit seinen Eichen, seinen Linden
Werd ich es immer wiederfinden.

Nach Deutschland lechzt ich nicht so sehr,
Wenn nicht die Mutter dorten wär;
Das Vaterland wird nie verderben,
Jedoch die alte Frau kann sterben.

Seit ich das Land verlassen hab,
So viele sanken dort ins Grab,
Die ich geliebt – wenn ich sie zähle,
So will verbluten meine Seele.

Und zählen muß ich – Mit der Zahl
Schwillt immer höher meine Qual,
Mir ist, als wälzten sich die Leichen
Auf meine Brust – Gottlob! sie weichen!

Gottlob! durch meine Fenster bricht
Französisch heitres Tageslicht;
Es kommt mein Weib, schön wie der Morgen,
Und lächelt fort die deutschen Sorgen.

jouissances
02-09-2023, 11:16 PM
I speak softly to you as if shining
Like stars that bloom on the meadow of blood
While my eyes gaze at the star of your blood
I speak softly - till my shadow is white

I'm a cool island for your flesh
That falls into night, a hot droplet,
I speak to you so softly as if in a dream
Your sweat is aflame on my skin

I speak to you as softly as a bird
In the morning slips sun into your eyes
I speak to you as softly
As the tear which wrinkles a face

I speak to you so softly
As you speak to me

Sorab12
01-20-2024, 06:49 PM
Владислав Петковић Дис – Можда спава


Заборавио сам јутрос песму једну ја,
Песму једну у сну што сам сву ноћ слушао:
Да је чујем узалуд сам данас кушао,
Као да је песма била срећа моја сва.
Заборавио сам јутрос песму једну ја.

У сну своме нисам знао за буђења моћ,
И да земљи треба сунца, јутра и зоре;
Да у дану губе звезде беле одоре;
Бледи месец да се креће у умрлу ноћ.
У сну своме нисам знао за буђења моћ.

Ја сад једва могу знати да имадох сан.
И у њему очи неке, небо нечије,
Неко лице, не знам какво, можда дечије,
Стару песму, crape звезде, неки стари дан,
Ја сад једва могу знати да имадох сан.

He сећам се ничег више, ни очију тих:
Као да је сан ми цео био од пене,
Ил’ те очи да су моја душа ван мене,
Ни арије, ни свег другог, што ја ноћас сних;
He сећам се ничег више, ни очију тих.

Али слутим, а слутити још једино знам.
Ја сад слутим за те очи да су баш оне
Што ме чудно по животу воде и гоне:
У сну дођу да ме виде шта ли радим сам.
Али слутим, а слутити још једино знам.

Да ме виде, дођу очи, и ја видим тад
И те очи, и ту љубав, и тај пут среће;
Њене очи, њено лице, њено пролеће
У сну видим, али не знам што не видим сад.
Да ме виде, дођу очи, и ја видим тад:

Њену главу с круном косе и у коси цвет,
И њен поглед што ме гледа као из цвећа,
Што ме гледа, што ми каже да ме oceћa,
Што ми брижно пружа одмор и нежности свет,
Њену главу с круном косе и у коси цвет.

Ја сад немам своју драгу, и њен не знам глас;
He знам место на ком живи или почива;
He знам зашто њу и сан ми јава покрива;
Можда спава, и гроб тужно негује јој стас.
Ја сад немам своју драгу, и њен не знам глас.

Можда спава са очима изван сваког зла,
Изван ствари, илузија, изван живота,
И с њом спава, невиђена, њена лепота;
Можда живи и доћи ће после овог сна.
Можда спава са очима изван сваког зла

Vessna
01-29-2024, 02:39 PM
Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath