QuoteReplyTopic: Poems from your nation. Posted: 04-Jun-2005 at 13:20
Post national poems. You can put the verion in your langaueg but make sure it also has the english version.
Pashko Vasa
Albanians, you are killing your brothers, / Into a hundred factions you are divided, / Some say I believe in God?, others I in Allah, / Some say I am Turk, others I am Latin, / Some I am Greek, others I am Slav, / But you are brothers, all of you, my hapless people!... Awaken, Albania, wake from your slumber, / Let us all, as brothers, swear a common oath / Not to look to church or mosque for pietism, /
This is a shortened version.
here is the long one;
Oh, poor Albania, bruised from lashes Who dared push your face in ashes? Hailed once a woman of noble birth, Mother you were called by men of this Earth. Rich you were, to tell the truth. With lovely girls and handsome youth, With lots of cattle, gardens, farms With Latin rifle and other arms With men of courage and women of cheer In all the world you had no peer.
When guns boomed like the crack of thunder Albania's men rushed out of yonder, And always fought well, till the end came, And never soiled their name with shame. When men of Albania pledged to fight, All of Rumelia shivered with fright, In fierce battles they fought and died, With honor their memory inscribed.
But now, Albania, you're a sight of woe Just like an oak tree brought down low! All step on you as if you were dead, And not one kind word to you is said. Once you dressed well, like a woman high-born, Today, your fine robes are badly torn, You've lost your name, your faith, too, And none is to blame for it but you.
Albanians, you are slaying one another, Some shout for country, some against sin, One says I'm Turk, another Latin, Others Greeks or Slavs profess to be, Fools! You are brothers can't you see?
Priests and mullas have made you mute To keep you split and destitute. Foreigners sit by your fireplace, Your wives and sisters they disgrace, And if money comes knocking on your door The faith of your father you ignore, You become slaves of alien boors, Whose race and tongue differ from yours.
Weep, oh your rifles and you who care Albanians, like birds, are caught in a snare, Weep with us, you warriors all around, For Mother Albania, lying on ground; She has no bread or meat to eat, Nor fire in the hearth, not light or heat, Pale of cheek and unrespected, She lies broken and neglected! Gather you women, so pretty and spry, Who know so well to weep and cry. For she's shorn of honor and forlorn, She's like a widow whose man is gone, She's like a mother without a son!
Who has the heart to let cruel death, Take this brave women, panting for breath? Can we allow aliens to smother And trample on our cherished Mother? No, no! Such shame no one can beat, Such vile conduct all men forswear! Let warriors die carrying the banner Before Albania is lost in this manner
Awake, Albania, it's time to rise And bind yourselves with brotherly ties; Look not to church or mosque for pietism, The faith of Albanians is Albanianism!
From Tivar all the way to Preveze The sun sends down its light and rays; It's our land, the land of our ancestors, To the death we'll defend it from predators Better to die for it like the man of old, Than in shame before the Lord!
Look not to the church and mosque for pietism The faith of the Albanian is Albanianism!
Stone for a Sling ...i played games with child friends whose names i forgot i was the best at grabbing the five stones off the ground thanks to those five stones in one hand i could never ever hold a sling to kill birds...
then i saw life-size cartoons of wars,of massacred, of genocide... of fingerprints crying out for their owners... of human beings indifferent to human affliction...
now in my room with birds from all over the world i play hide-and-seek in poems hoping to shed light into lullabies... hoping not to be the stone for a sling.
This is a description of Chile from the epic Poem "The Araucana" (La Araucana) of Alonso de Ercilla, written in the 16th century and a classic of the Spanish language. It shows pretty much how ancient Mapuche were and modern Chileans as well.
Chile, frtil provincia y sealada (Chile, fertile province located)
en la regin Antrtica famosa, (in the antartic region, famous)
de remotas naciones respetada (respected by remote nations)
por fuerte, principal y poderosa; (because it is strong, mainly and powerful)
la gente que produce es tan granada, (the people that produces is so excelent)
tan soberbia, gallarda y belicosa, (proud, couragious and warrying)
que no ha sido por rey jams regida (that it has never ruled by foreign king)
ni a extranjero dominio sometida (or subject to foreign control)
This is an English translation of an Old Norse poem written down in the 1220s that celebrates a battle which according to historical tradition unified Norway as a kingdom; the naval battle of Hafrsfjord in 872:
"Have the news reached you? -- have you heard Of the great fight at Hafersfjord, Between our noble king brave Harald
And King Kjotve rich in gold? The foeman came from out the East, Keen for the fray as for a feast. A gallant sight it was to see Their fleet sweep o'er the dark-blue sea: Each war-ship, with its threatening throat Of dragon fierce or ravenous brute Grim gaping from the prow; its wales Glittering with burnished shields, like scales Its crew of udal men of war, Whose snow-white targets shone from far And many a mailed spearman stout From the West countries round about, English and Scotch, a foreign host, And swordsmen from the far French coast. And as the foemen's ships drew near, The dreadful din you well might hear Savage berserks roaring mad, And champions fierce in wolf-skins clad, Howling like wolves; and clanking jar Of many a mail-clad man of war. Thus the foe came; but our brave king Taught them to fly as fast again. For when he saw their force come o'er, He launched his war-ships from the shore. On the deep sea he launched his fleet And boldly rowed the foe to meet. Fierce was the shock, and loud the clang Of shields, until the fierce Haklang, The foeman's famous berserk, fell. Then from our men burst forth the yell Of victory, and the King of Gold Could not withstand our Harald bold, But fled before his flaky locks For shelter to the island rocks. All in the bottom of the ships The wounded lay, in ghastly heaps; Backs up and faces down they lay Under the row-seats stowed away; And many a warrior's shield, I ween Might on the warrior's back be seen, To shield him as he fled amain From the fierce stone-storm's pelting rain. The mountain-folk, as I've heard say, Ne'er stopped as they ran from the fray, Till they had crossed the Jadar sea, And reached their homes -- so keen each soul To drown his fright in the mead bowl."
These two poems are perhaps the ones most monumental in modern Dutch literature. In my eyes, they describe beautifully the essence of the country. The translation of the first poem is a literal word for word one by me, the translation of the second poem one I found on the internet, a far superior one to what I could have made of it.
Please note that one of the reasons these poems are considered two of the ultimate highlights of Dutch poetry ever is because the rhyming scemes of both are absolutely perfect, to the last syllable, a fact sadly lost in translation.
Natuur is voor tevredenen of legen En dan: wat is natuur nog in dit land? een stukje bos, ter grootte van een krant. Een heuvel met wat villaatjes ertegen.
Geef mij de grauwe, stedelijke wegen. De in kaden vastgeklonken waterkant, De wolken, nooit zo schoon dan als ze, omrand Door zolderramen langs de lucht bewegen.
Alles is veel voor wie niet veel verwacht. Het leven houdt zijn wonderen verborgen Tot het ze, opeens, toont in hun hoge staat.
Dit heb ik bij mijzelve overdacht, Verregend, op een miezerige morgen, Domweg gelukkig in de Dapperstraat.
Leave nature to those empty or contented And then: what's left of nature in this land? A little wood, the size of a postage stamp, A hill, residences stuck onto it.
Give me the grey urban streets. The water firmly held between brick moorings, The clouds, so beautiful when framed In attic windows, they drift along the sky.
Anything is a lot, when you expect so little Life keeps its wonders hidden To suddenly reveal them in a divine state.
I thought about all this, Soaking wet, one drizzly morning, Simply happy in the Dapperstraat
Edited by Aelfgifu - 21-Oct-2007 at 20:22
Women hold their councils of war in kitchens: the knives are there, and the cups of coffee, and the towels to dry the tears.
Here's two poems from Seamus Heaney, possibly the greatest Irish poet ever, definitely the greatest living. Heaney won the nobel prize for literature in 1995, I think. Anyway these two poems deal with two historic events. The first is about the 1798 Rebellion in Ireland and the battle which broke the back of the Rebel Army. One of the consequences of the Rebellion was the Act of Union between Ireland and Britain, which is what the second poem is about! Seeing as these two poems are based on historic events and this is primarily a history forum I thought them appropriate!
Requiem
for the Croppies
The pockets
of our greatcoats, full of barley
No kitchens
on the run, no striking camp
We moved
quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest
lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people,
hardly marching on the hike
We found
new tactics happening each day:
Wed cut
through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede
cattle into infantry,
Then retreat
through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until,
on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced
thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside
blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried
us without shroud or coffin
And in
August the barley grew up out of the grave.
ACT OF UNION I To-night, a first movement, a pulse As if the rain in bogland gathered head To slip and flood: a bog-burst, A gash breaking open the ferny bed. Your back is a firm line of eastern coast And arms and legs are thrown Beyond your gradual hills. I caress The heaving province where our past has grown. I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder That you would neither cajole nor ignore. Conquest is a lie. I grow older Conceding your half-independant shore Within whose borders now my legacy Culminates inexorably.
II And I am still imperially Male, leaving you with pain, The rending process in the colony, The battering ram, the boom burst from within. The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column Whose stance is growing unilateral. His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum Mustering force. His parasitical And ignmorant little fists already Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked At me across the water. No treaty I foresee will salve completely your tracked And stretchmarked body, the big pain That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again
Here's another poem I like by a poet called Gabriel Rosenstock. He wrote in the Irish and translated it to the English himself I believe.
As gach pir Dot
As gach pir Dot scallann an ghrian Ar Do dhamhsa gan chroch Taobh dorcha na geala is geal M osclaonn T Do bhal alidh ralta, canfaidh iomainn Duit Is Tusa iadsan Eala ag eitilt go gasta ar gcl Conas a shamhlinn barrg Uait Mura bplascfainn Id raltbhuon?
From each and every pore From each and every pore look how the sun beams On Your eternal dance The dark side of the moon is bright If You open Your mouth Stars will escape and chant their hymns for You You are they Swiftly swans fly backwards How can I imagine Your embrace Without exploding in Your galaxy?
During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
You came
determined,
because I was large,
because I was roaring,
but on close inspection
you saw a mere boy.
You seized
and snatched away my heart
and began
to play with it
like a girl with a bouncing ball.
And before this miracle
every woman
was either a lady astounded
or a maiden inquiring:
Love such a fellow?
Why, he'll pounce on you!
She must be a lion tamer,
a girl from the zoo!
But I was triumphant.
I didnt feel it
the yoke!
Oblivious with joy,
I jumped
and leapt about, a bride-happy redskin,
I felt so elated
and light.
This is my attempt of a translation by a poem by the Bulgarian poet Stefan Tsanev:
Непоправимо стана като смърт.
излишно е по тебе камъни да хвърлям.
Клетвите не могат да убият мъртвия,
молитвите не ще го възкресят.
Учудва ме единствено, че този свят
спокоен още съществува:
не падна слънцето и птиците летят,
и хората ядат и се целуват…
Нима трагедиите ни са толкова нищожни
и нищо
не могат
да променят?
Жестоко е. Безсмислено е. Невъзможно е.
Непоправимо стана като смърт.
It happened irreparable - like death. It's useless to throw stones on you Curses can't kill the dead Nor prayers will not bring him to life. I'm only surprised that this world Still exist in calmness That the sun didn't fall down, and the birds still fly And people eat and kiss each other. Is it so that our tragedies are so unmeaningful That they can't change anything? It's cruel. It's senseless. It;s impossible. It happens urreparable - like a death.
I'll offer my translation to a poem by one of my favorite Bulgarian poems - Stefan Tsanev. I'll write the original too, just in case:
Цигулки плачат в съня ми като боси деца през февруари боси деца по бели ризки протягат тьнките си ръце като струни реже ги лъка на зимния вятър. Цигулки плачат в съня ми обвиняват ме като деца изоставени.
Violins weep in my dream,
Like barefoot children in February,
Barefoot children with white shirts,
Reaching out with their string-thin arms -
The bow of the winter wind cuts them through.
Violins weep in my dream, accuse me,
Like abandoned children.
Stefan Tsanev again, in my attempt for translation:
Душата ми плаче за сняг - за бяло за чисто душата ми плаче Видях много земи видях много свят видях герои видях палачи. Душата ми плаче за сняг - чиста диря в снега да оставя.
My soul is crying for snow - For white, for pure my soul is crying. I so many lands, I saw much of the world I saw heroes, and I saw murderers... My soul is crying for snow - a pure sign in the snow to leave....
Woman's faith, and woman's trust - Write the characters in the dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon's pale beam, And each evanescent letter Shall be clearer, firmer, better, And more permanent, I ween, Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh'd a grain of sand 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I told my true love of the token, How her faith proved light, and her word was broken: Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night.
What a handsome figure of a dragon. No wonder I fall madly in love with the Alani Dragon now, the avatar, it's a gorgeous dragon picture.
This is a Bulgarian rock song from my teen years, in my attempt for translation
The Horseman
Who is riding wildly in the night, Merged with his horse in a fierce run
Like he is catching the end of the world, Biting his nervous lips?
Do you hear how the whip is singing, Cutting fiercely the silence?
Horseman, what are you after, So you are flying to the end on the world?
You are not going to stop even for a moment... "I have nothing to return to
My run is my destiny, The gamble is my essence.
People sleep their quite nights, Tucked under their quiet dreams,
I'm spurred by my crazy run Through the night up to the stars.
People - not that I run away from them, It's just...I have no time,
Nerves, thoughts, doubts and fears, I made my saddle out of them.
And I fly toward my horizon, And I fly toward my sand towers,
I exchanged my past for a horse, And for me this is the only choice".
Another song from the same group - it's great poetry as well as a song, that's why I'm posting it's lyrics here.
Hamlet
Do you want to play on me? You behave like you know all little holes of my mind and heart.
You want to rake away the hidden sound of my secret, to play me from the lowest to my highest note.
No.
Whatever instrument you take me for, you can take me out of tune,
but not play on me.
Oh, in such a night only a train passes along, Like a last sentinel.
One last bell, and nothing else. Now I can tell you about it.
Arguing with him young memory, A peer of every youth,
One confused and modern Hamlet Crosses the square this night.
Oh, still walks Hamlet in the darkness, Shivering from the cold
With blue jeans and a thin coat, He is still waiting for his sign.
Across the boulevards he stares, And in the window of the stranger,
There is still a hope awake That someone will open the door for him.
Where, boy, are you going now, and bother us in our sleep?
Do you think that Hamlet is still alive, so medievally impossible?
Do you think that Hamlet is still alive and is still in anguish
To be or not to be - medievally impossible.
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