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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: AE Poetry Club
    Posted: 08-Feb-2012 at 23:37

 François Villon’s Prayer 

 

 

 

While the earth is still turning, while the     light is still bright,

Lord, grant Thou to each man that which he        lacks:

To the wise man grant brains, to the coward       a steed,

Grant the lucky man money…And don’t       forget about me.

 

While the earth is still turning,--Lord, it is      in Thy power!--

Grant the man who wants power to rule to      his heart’s content,

Grant the generous man a respite, if only to     the end of the day,

To Cain grant repentence…And don’t       forget about me.

 

All is in Thy power: I believe in Thy        wisdom,

As the dead soldier believes he’s living in        heaven,

As each ear believes Thy silent speeches,

As we ourselves believe, not knowing what        we do.

 

 

 

 

Lord, my God, my green-eyed one!

While the earth is still turning, amazed it’s      still turning,

While it still has time and fire,

Grant Thou a little to everyone…And don’t      forget about me.

 



Edited by Don Quixote - 08-Feb-2012 at 23:38
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Feb-2012 at 00:56
Vladimir Vysotsky;

Apples of paradise
Russian title: Raiskie Iabloki
I one day will die – we are always dying at times,
I wish death not on my own accord, but by a knife to my spine:
The murdered are spared, given tickets to paradise,
But I won't speak of the living, but of the rested.

My face will hit the dirt, turn on its good side,
And my fallen soul will gallop up the hill on a stolen jade horse.
In those glorious gardens of paradise, I will gather purple-pale apples.
However, these gardens are guarded and they shoot you between the eyes.

Galloping up, I see before my eyes no kind of paradise:
Only a barren desert and all around— infinite nothingness.
And in between rise cast-iron gates and
A massive Иtape of five thousand sitting on their knees.

How my horse whines! I calm him with affectionate words,
But the burrs have almost but torn away his mane.
The old man gatekeeper struggles with the bolt too long—
Failing to open it, he grunts and grumbles, and leaves.

And the exhausted mass produce not one squeak.
They squat, their knees growing numb from it all.
A den of thieves, brothers, I hear the pealing of bells!
Returning full circle, He hangs crucified on the cross.

Blessings have been bestowed upon me, would I have wanted more?
Just my friends and my wife— let her fall on my coffin.
I will pick for them some of those pale apples,
But the gardens are guarded, and they shoot you between the eyes.

I know this old man by the tears upon his worn cheeks:
It is Saint Peter— he is an apostle, I am just a fool.
Here is the orchard, with a lot of frozen apples,
But the gardens are guarded, and they have just started shooting between 
the eyes.

So I drive my horse away, from this wretched hellhole.
Though the horses are begging for oats, I can't stop biting at the bit.
Along the cliff, with a lash, on the precipice, clutching apples
For you I bring them: you are waiting for me from paradise.
The song with English subtitles



Edited by Don Quixote - 10-Feb-2012 at 01:02
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 12-Feb-2012 at 21:59
Something savage from my beloved Mayakovski, 1917:
To All and Everything

No.
It can’t be.
No!
You too, beloved?
Why? What for?
Darling, look -
I came,
I brought flowers,
but, but... I never took
silver spoons from your drawer!

Ashen-faced,
I staggered down five flights of stairs.
The street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares.
Tires screeched.
It was gusty.
The wind stung my cheeks.
Horn mounted horn lustfully.

Above the capital’s madness
I raised my face,
stern as the faces of ancient icons.
Sorrow-rent,
on your body as on a death-bed, its days
my heart ended.

You did not sully your hands with brute murder.
Instead,
you let drop calmly:
“He’s in bed.
There’s fruit and wine
On the bedstand’s palm.”

Love!
You only existed in my inflamed brain.
Enough!
Stop this foolish comedy
and take notice:
I’m ripping off
my toy armour,
I,
the greatest of all Don Quixotes!

Remember?
Weighed down by the cross,
Christ stopped for a moment,
weary.
Watching him, the mob
yelled, jeering:
“Get movin’, you clod!”

That’s right!
Be spiteful.
Spit upon him who begs for a rest
on his day of days,
harry and curse him.
To the army of zealots, doomed to do good,
man shows no mercy!

That does it!

I swear by my pagan strength -
gimme a girl,
young,
eye-filling,
and I won’t waste my feelings on her.
I'll rape her
and spear her heart with a gibe
willingly.

An eye for an eye!

A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops'
Never stop!
Petrify, stun,
howl into every ear:
“The earth is a convict, hear,
his head half shaved by the sun!”

An eye for an eye!

Kill me,
bury me -
I’ll dig myself out,
the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!-
made sharper,
A snarling dog, under
the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl,
sneaking out to bite feet that smell
of sweat and of market stalls!

You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours.
“Moo!” I’ll roar.
Over my neck,
a yoke-savaged sore,
tornados of flies
will rise.
I'm a white bull over the earth towering!

Into an elk I’ll turn,
my horns-branches entangled in wires,
my eyes red with blood.
Above the world,
a beast brought to bay,
I'll stand tirelessly.

Man can’t escape!
Filthy and humble,
a prayer mumbling,
on cold stone he lies.
What I’ll do is paint
on the royal gates,
over God’s own
the face of Razin.

Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him!
Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare!
Let thousands of my disciples be born
to trumpet anathemas on the squares!
And when at last there comes,
stepping onto the peaks of the ages,
chillingly,
the last of their days,
in the black souls of anarchists and killers
I, a gory vision, will blaze!

It’s dawning,
The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more,
it drinks up the night
sip by sip, thirstily.
The windows send off a glow.
Through the panes heat pours.
The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.

O sacred vengeance!
Lead me again
above the dust without
and up the steps of my poetic lines.
This heart of mine,
full to the brim,
in a confession
I will pour out.

Men of the future!
Who are you?
I must know. Please!
Here am I,
all bruises and aches,
pain-scorched...
To you of my great soul I bequeath
the orchard.

 


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Feb-2012 at 22:04
Vladimir Mayakovsky:

Listen!

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.

And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand
that starless ordeal.

Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.

And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'

Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Feb-2012 at 20:49
Vladimir Vysotsky, "Common Grave". Here I treat Vysotsky's songs as poem, because he himself said many a time that he is not a singer, but a "poet with guitar", a bard; and his poems are not songs, but poems that are set to music, and is supposed to be presented with rhythmic accompaniment.
For all soldiers everywhere.









Edited by Don Quixote - 15-Feb-2012 at 20:56
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Feb-2012 at 19:04
Paul Verlaine is my next project on this thread. He lived a relatively short life, from 1844–1896, and in this time became one of the most important figures in the French symbolism movement. Here is a goo bio in him  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/paul-verlaine  .

Autumn Song

  With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and montonous
sound.

Choking and pale
When I mind the tale
the hours keep,
my memory strays
down other days
and I weep;

and I let me go
where ill winds blow
now here, now there,
harried and sped,
even as a dead
leaf, anywhere.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 19-Feb-2012 at 18:53
Paul Verlaine "Nevermore":

Nevermore

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia II)

 

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn

Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,

And the sun casts its monotonous glare

On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

 

We were alone, and walking in dream,

She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.

Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,

‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,

 

Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.

I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,

And kissed her white hand with devotion.

 

– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!

And how charming the murmured emotion

Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!




Edited by Don Quixote - 19-Feb-2012 at 18:58
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Feb-2012 at 20:01
Paul Verlaine:

After Three Years

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia III)

 

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

 

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

 

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

 

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.


Veleda was a German priestess and prophetess who became prominent in the Batavian Rebellion in 70-69 BC, Tacitus mentioned her. She was considered a living divinity, because in this time the Germanic tribes considered any prophetesses as real deities. Statues of her  became very popular as garden ornaments in 19 century.




Edited by Don Quixote - 22-Feb-2012 at 20:16
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 27-Feb-2012 at 02:41
Verlaine:

Wish

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia IV)

 

Ah! Fond speech! And the first mistresses!

Hair’s gold, eyes’ blue, the flower of the flesh,

Then, in the scent of the dear body’s mesh

The shy spontaneity of caresses!

 

How far away now is all that lightness

And all that innocence! Ah, backwards yet,

From black winter fled, to the Springtime of regret,

From my disgust, my boredom, my distress.

 

So I’m alone now, here, sad and alone,

Sad and desperate, chilled as are the old,

Poor as an orphan with no elder sister.

 

O for a woman in love, tender and mild,

Sweet, pensive, dark, and always astonished,

Who now and then kisses your brow like a child.

 




Edited by Don Quixote - 27-Feb-2012 at 02:42
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Feb-2012 at 03:07
Verlaine:

Lassitude

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia V)

 

              For the wars of love a field of feathers’

                                                                                Gongora

 

With sweetness, with sweetness, with sweetness!

Calm this feverish rapture a little, my charmer.

Even at its height, you see, sometimes, a lover

Needs the quiet forgetfulness of a sister.

 

Be languid: make your caresses sleep-bringers,

Like your cradling gazes and your sighs.

Ah, the jealous embrace, the obsessive spasm,

Aren’t worth a deep kiss, even one that lies!

 

But you say to me, child: in your dear heart of gold

Wild desire goes sounding her cry.

Let her trumpet away, she’s far too bold!

 

Put your brow to my brow, your hand on my hand,

Make me those promises you’ll break by and by,

Let’s weep till the dawn, my little firebrand!




Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Feb-2012 at 03:08
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Feb-2012 at 20:05

My Familiar Dream

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI)

 

I often have this dream, strange, penetrating,

Of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me,

And who’s never, each time, the same exactly,

Nor, exactly, different: and knows me, is loving.

 

Oh how she knows me, and my heart, growing

Clear for her alone, is no longer a problem,

For her alone: she alone understands, then,

How to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.

 

Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.

Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,

As those of the loved that life has exiled.

 

Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,

And in her voice, distant, serious, mild,

The tone of dear voices, those that have died.



Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Feb-2012 at 20:07
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 29-Feb-2012 at 22:08
Verlaine:

Parisian Sketch

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Eaux-Fortes I)

 

The moon was shedding her plates of zinc

                    In obtuse angles.

The plumes of smoke like ‘fives’ distinct

Rose thick and black from high roof-tangles.

 

The sky was grey, there wept a breeze

                    Like a bassoon.

Far off, a tom-cat, stealthy, discreet,

Miaowed, oh, strangely out of tune.

 

I, walked, of divine Plato dreaming

                    And of Phidias,

Salamis, Marathon, under twinkling

Eyes, eyes of blue jets of gas.




Edited by Don Quixote - 29-Feb-2012 at 22:11
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 02-Mar-2012 at 00:35
Verlaine:

Twilight of a Mystical Evening

 

(Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes II, Crépuscule du Soir Mystique)

 

Memory with Twilight glows

And trembles on the fiery horizon

Of burning Hope that shrinks and grows

Like some mysterious partition

Where the flowers in profusion

– Dahlias, lilies, tulips and marigolds –

Fly round a trellis in their circulation

Among the heady exhalation

Of heavy perfumes, whose warm poison

– Dahlias, lilies, tulips and marigolds –

Drowning my senses, soul and reason,

Mingles in their immense confusion

Memory with Twilight’s glows.

 






Edited by Don Quixote - 02-Mar-2012 at 00:36
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 02-Mar-2012 at 23:31

Dusk

 

(Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VI, L’Heure du Berger)

 

The moon is red on the misted horizon;

In a fog that dances, the meadow

Sleeps in the smoke, frogs bellow

In green reeds through which frissons run;

 

The lilies close their shutters,

The poplars stretch far away,

Tall and serried, their spectres stray;

Among bushes the fireflies flicker;

 

The owls are awake, in soundless flight

They row through the air on heavy wings,

The zenith fills, sombrely glowing.

Pale Venus emerges, and it is Night.



Edited by Don Quixote - 02-Mar-2012 at 23:41
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 04-Mar-2012 at 00:35
Verlaine:

The Nightingale

 

(Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VII, Le Rossignol)

 

Like a loud flight of birds, dark complexity,

All my memories beating down on me,

Beating down through the yellow foliage

Of my heart’s bent alder-trunk, its gaze

Silvered violet in the lake of Regret,

Whose melancholy is still flowing yet,

Beat down, and then the evil murmur

That a moist rising breeze quells there,

Dies away by degrees in the leaves, so

In an instant you will hear no more, oh,

No more than a voice extolling the Absent,

No more than the voice – oh, languishment! –

Of the bird, my First Love, that still sings

As it did long ago on those first evenings;

And below the sad splendour of the moon

Rising in pale solemnity, a June

Night, melancholy, heavy with summer,

Full of silence and darkness, in the azure

That a gentle wind brushes, rocks asleep

The tree that trembles, the nightingale that weeps.




Edited by Don Quixote - 04-Mar-2012 at 00:39
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 05-Mar-2012 at 23:09
Verlaine:

Woman And Cat

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices I, Femme et Chatte)

 

She was playing with her cat:

And it was lovely to see

The white hand and white paw

Fight, in shadows of eve.

 

She hid – little wicked one! –

In black silk mittens

Claws of murderous agate,

Fierce and bright as kittens’.

 

The other too was full of sweetness,

Sheathing her sharp talons’ caress,

Though the devil lacked nothing there…

 

And in the bedroom, where sonorous

Ethereal laughter tinkled in the air,

There shone four points of phosphorus.




Edited by Don Quixote - 05-Mar-2012 at 23:14
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Mar-2012 at 19:00
Verlaine:

Song Of The Artless Ones

 

(Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices II, La Chanson des Ingénues)

 

We are the artless ones,

Hair braided, eyes blue,

Who live almost hidden from view

In novels barely read.

 

We walk, arms interlaced,

And the day’s not so pure

As the depths of our thoughts,

And our dreams are azure.

 

And we run through the fields

And we laugh and we chatter,

From dawn to evening,

We chase butterflies’ shadows:

 

And shepherdesses’ bonnets

Protect our freshness

And our dresses – so thin –

Are of perfect whiteness.

 

The Don Juans, the Lotharios,

The Knights all eyes,

Pay their respects to us,

Their greetings and sighs:

 

In vain though, their grimaces:

They bruise their noses,

On ironic pleats

Of our vanishing dresses:


And our innocence still

Mocks the fantasies

Of those tilters at windmills

Though sometimes we feel

 

Our hearts beat fiercely

With clandestine dreams,

Knowing we’ll be future

Lovers of libertines.

 





Edited by Don Quixote - 06-Mar-2012 at 19:44
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 07-Mar-2012 at 18:21
Verlaine:

Serenade

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Sérénade)

 

As the voice of a dead man might sing

          From the depths of the grave,

My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing

          Towards you, the voice that I raise.

 

Open your soul and hear the sound

          Of my mandoline:

For you I wrote this song, for you, I found

          This cruel, tender thing.

 

I will sing your eyes of gold and onyx,

          Clear of every shadow,

Then the Lethe of your breast, the Styx

          Of your hair’s dark flow.

 

As the voice of a dead man might sing

          From the depths of the grave,

My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing

          Towards you, the voice that I raise.

 

Next I will praise, above all

          That blessed flesh

Whose opulent perfumes recall

          Insomnia’s distress.


To conclude, I will tell of the kiss

          Of your red lip,

And how sweet my martyrdom is,

– My angel! – My Whip!

 

Open your soul and hear the sound

          Of my mandoline:

For you I wrote this song, for you, I found

          This cruel, tender thing.




Edited by Don Quixote - 07-Mar-2012 at 18:24
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Mar-2012 at 20:31
Verlaine:

Claire De Lune

 

          (Fêtes Galants: Claire de Lune)

 

Your soul is the choicest of countries

Where charming maskers, masked shepherdesses,

Go playing their lutes and dancing, yet gently

Sad beneath fantastic disguises.

 

While they sing in a minor key

Of all-conquering love and careless fortune,

They seem to mistrust their own fantasy

And their song melts away in the light of the moon,

 

In the quiet moonlight, lovely and sad,

That makes the birds dream in the trees, all

The tall water-jets sob with ecstasies,

The slender water-jets rising from marble.




Edited by Don Quixote - 10-Mar-2012 at 20:33
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Mar-2012 at 00:32
Verlaine:

Pantomime

 

          (Fêtes Galants: Pantomime)

 

Pierrot, who’s no Clitandre (Molière knew)

Empties a bottle with no more ado,

And, practical as ever, starts a pâté.

 

Cassander, at the end of the avenue,

Sheds there an unnoticed tear or two

For his nephew, disinherited today.

 

That scoundrel Harlequin has seen

To the kidnapping of Columbine

And pirouettes four times.

 

Columbine dreams, surprised as we

To feel a heart within the breeze

And hear, in her heart, voices rhyme.

 




Edited by Don Quixote - 14-Mar-2012 at 00:34
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