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A Poem a Day

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: A Poem a Day
    Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 20:48
I love poetry to death, and cannot make a day without reading at least one poem.
So, I will post a poem every day or so, please, join me!

The first one is

Rudyard Kipling
If

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!





Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:09
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:14
"If" is pretty much my life credo, so in a way it was my introduction. Now, something more in agreement with my mood today, a poem by Vladimir  Vysotcky. It's actually a song, so I will post both the song and the lyrics.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGuIO-BIsYY

How I detest...
Russian title: Ya ne lyublyu
How I detest the fatal final curtain!
I never find life dull or wearying.
I've got no time for any time or season
When I don't have a cheerful song to sing.

I've got no time for cynicism cold, nor
Can I be fooled by hankerings for the Grail.
I hate when people peer over my shoulder
And crane their necks to try to read my mail.

I can't stand those whose actions are half-hearted,
Or who interrupt a cordial exchange;
Or shoot you in the back, an easy target,
Or pull a gun on you at point-blank range.

I can't stand idle talk in any vein,
The worms of doubt, the needles of false praise,
Or things that are meant to go against the grain
And grate your nerves like metal scraped on glass.

I don't like self-assured complacency.
You're better off being hanged and letting rip.
I don't like those who forget all decency
And give an eager ear to slanderous gossip

I don't feel sympathy for damaged limbs
Or broken wings - lame ducks I can't abide.
I don't like bullies or acquiescent victims
Yet pity moves me for Christ crucified.

I hate it when I've played the coward's part.
I hate to see the guiltless victimized.
I hate when people pry into my heart,
The more so when it's spat on and despised.

I can't abide the stadium or ring
Where all is vilely cheapened and defied.
Whatever alterations time may bring.
To these I know I wont be reconciled.




Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:17
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  Quote Nick1986 Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:18
Great poems
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 22:11
Indeed it is what I have enjoyed about this member a great deal here...and elsewhere.
 
And to help it along....I render one from my favorite Swd/Fan Author who was unfortunately not as well know as a tremendous poet.
 
From the pen of the legendary RE Howard.
 
''A poem about Cimmeria, the homeland of Conan:

Cimmeria''
 
I remember
The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills;
The grey clouds' leaden everlasting arch;
The dusky streams that flowed without a sound,
And the lone winds that whispered down the passes.

Vista upon vista marching, hills on hills,
Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees,
Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up
A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye
Saw but the endless vista--hill on hill,
Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.

It was gloomy land that seemed to hold
All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun,
With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds,
And the dark woodlands brooding over all,
Not even lightened by the rare dim sun
Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night.

It was so long ago and far away
I have forgotten the very name men called me.
The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream,
And hunts and wars are like shadows. I recall
Only the stillness of that sombre land;
The clouds that piled forever on the hills,
The dimness of the everlasting woods.
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.


RE Howard
 
 
 


Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 21-Aug-2011 at 22:13
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 04:13

Shame on ya if ya don't know Banjo Patterson.

 

 

The Man From Snowy River


There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from Old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses--he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight,

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up--
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand--
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast;
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony--three parts thoroughbred at least--
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry--just the sort that won't say die--
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop--lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited, sad and wistful--only Clancy stood his friend--
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough;
Where the horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try the fancy riding now
And Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right,
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them--he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
And they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull--
It well might make the boldest hold their breath;
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death,
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat--
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill,
And the watchers on the mountain, standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges--but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam;
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted, cowed and beaten; then he turned their heels for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed-beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The Man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

(c) A B Paterson

 



Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 22-Aug-2011 at 04:15
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

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Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Chookie Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 17:33

The Return (A Piper's Vaunting) by Pittendrigh Macgillivray

Och hey! for the splendour of tartans!
And hey for the dirk and the targe!
The race that was hard as the Spartans
Shall return again to the charge:

Shall come back again to the heather,
Like eagles, with beak and with claws
To take and to scatter for ever
The Sasennach thieves and their laws.

Och, then, for the bonnet and feather!
The pipe and its vaunting clear:
Och, then, for the glens and the heather!
And all that the Gael holds dear.

For money you did what guns could not do.........
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 01:05
Thank you, guys, for those great contributions!

I have for today another Vysotsky song/poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=104cOJeGeTA
I recommend the song before or in the same time with the poem, /because my link is dead one have to paste the URL on the search/ it adds much of the feeling to the poem, especially when one reads a translation, as I said many times Russian doesn't carry well in English. It's a very tragic song...very Slavic, I would say, with the typical for the Russian worldview anarchic bursting of pain and hope, despair and enthusiasm, the drinken-ness of the coming end and the personal decision to meet it head-on. No wonder Anarchism, the most misunderstood political ideal ever, started in Russia.

Unruly horses
Russian title: Koni priveredlivye
Along the chasm's edge, upon the precipice's brink
I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying.
I'm somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink...
I'm gripped with mortal ecstasy: I'm dying, oh, I'm dying!

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
Pay no heed to the lash's taut thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.

I'll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me,
At a gallop through the morning snow my sleigh's drawn helter-skelter.
Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly,
And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter.

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
You don't serve the lash or the thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.

It's all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow.
But why then should the angels' voices sound so harsh and hoarse?
Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow,
Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course?

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
I implore you, don't gallop headlong!
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I've not lived out my life, yet I'd finish my song.

I'll water my horses,
I'll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
ere I sink.



Edited by Don Quixote - 23-Aug-2011 at 01:07
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:07
Good stuff.
 
No wonder ya rescue, on occasion, 'damsels in distress'.
 
You were born for it.
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

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Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:15
The only thing ya missing is a good horse and forty Cav troopers following behind ya and that red and white guidon. Sabers.... come with the basic kit.Wink
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

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Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Michael Collins Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 12:27
I'll be posting here shortly as promised - I'm just very tight for time at the minute. 
Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 02:22
Edgar Alan Po - "The City in the Sea"

      Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.



Edited by Don Quixote - 24-Aug-2011 at 02:24
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 16:56

The Lone Trail

Robert Service
 
 
Ye who know the Lone Trail
fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory
or the darkness of the pit.

Ye who take the Lone Trail,
bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail
follow till you die.

The trails of the world be countless,
and most of the trails be tried;
You tread on the heels of the many,
till you come where the ways divide;

And one lies safe in the sunlight,
and the other is dreary and wan,
Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail,
and the Lone Trail lures you on.

And somehow you're sick of the highway,
with its noise and its easy needs,
And you seek the risk of the by-way,
and you reck not where it leads.

And sometimes it leads to the desert,
and the tongue swells out of the mouth,
And you stagger blind to the mirage,
to die in the mocking drouth.

And sometimes it leads to the mountain,
to the light of the lone camp-fire,
And you gnaw your belt in the anguish
of hunger-goaded desire.

And sometimes it leads to the Southland,
to the swamp where the orchid glows,
And you rave to your grave with the fever,
and they rob the corpse for its clothes.

And sometimes it leads to the Northland,
and the scurvy softens your bones,
And your flesh dints in like putty,
and you spit out your teeth like stones.

And sometimes it leads to a coral reef
in the wash of a weedy sea,
And you sit and stare at the empty glare
where the gulls wait greedily.

And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail,
and the snows where your torn feet freeze,
And you whittle away the useless clay,
and crawl on your hands and knees.

Often it leads to the dead-pit;
always it leads to pain;
By the bones of your brothers ye know it,
but oh, to follow you're fain.

By your bones they will follow behind you,
till the ways of the world are made plain.
Bid good-by to sweetheart,
bid good-by to friend;

The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail
follow to the end.
Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true;
Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.

"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

S. T. Friedman


Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'

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  Quote Chookie Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:00
An Eala Bhan  (Dòmhnall Ruadh Chorùna)

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi
'S mo chridhe 'n sas aig bron
Bhon an uair a dh'fhag mi
Beanntan ard a' cheo
Gleanntannan a'mhanrain
Nan loch, nam bagh 's nan srom
'S an eala bhan tha tamh ann
Gach la air 'm bheil mi 'n toir.
A Mhagaidh na bi tursach
A ruin, ged gheibhinn bas-
Co am fear am measg an t-sluaigh
A mhaireas buan gu brath?
Chan eil sinn uile ach air chuairt
Mar dhithein buaile fas
Bheir siantannan na blianna sios
'S nach tog a' ghrian an aird.
Tha 'n talamh leir mun cuairt dhiom
'Na mheallan suas 's na neoil;
Aig na 'shells a' bualadh -
Cha leir dhomh bhuam le ceo:
Gun chlaisneachd aig mo chluasan
Le fuaim a' ghunna mhoir;
Ach ged tha 'n uair seo cruaidh orm
Tha mo smuaintean air NicLeoid.
Air m' uilinn anns na truinnsichean
Tha m' inntinn ort, a ghraidh;
Nam chadal bidh mi a' bruadar ort
Cha dualach dhomh bhith slan;
Tha m' aigne air a lionadh
Le cianalas cho lan
'S a'ghruag a dh'fhas cho ruadh orm
A nis air thuar bhith ban
Oidhche mhath leat fhein, a ruin
Nad leabaidh chubhraidh bhlath;
Cadal samhach air a chul
Do dhusgadh sunndach slan
Tha mise 'n seo 's an truinnsidh fhuar
'S nam chluasan fuaim bhais
Gun duil ri faighinn as le buaidh -
Tha 'n cuan cho buan ri shnamh.

The White Swan (English)

Sad I consider my condition
With my heart engaged with sorrow
From the very time that I left The high bens of the mist
The little glens of dalliance
Of the lochs, the bays and the forelands
And the white swan dwelling there
Whom I daily pursue.
Maggie, don't be sad
Love, if I should die -
Who among men
Endures eternally?
We are all only on a journey
Like flowers in the deserted cattle fold
That the year's wind and rain will bring down
And that the sun cannot raise.
All the ground around me
Is like hail in the heavens;
With the shells exploding -
I am blinded by smoke:
My ears are deafened
By the roar of the cannon;
But despite the savagery of the moment
My thoughts are on the girl called MacLeod.
Crouched in the trenches
My mind is fixed on you, love;
In sleep I dream of you
I am not fated to survive;
My spirit is filled
With a surfeit of longing
And my hair once so auburn
Is now almost white.
Goodnight to you, love
In your warm, sweet-smelling bed;
May you have peaceful sleep and afterwards
May you waken healthy and in good spirits
I am here in the cold trench
With the clamour of death in my ears
With no hope of returning victorious-
The ocean is too wide to swim.
For money you did what guns could not do.........
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  Quote Centrix Vigilis Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:05
That..is a classic.
 
Reference a question concerning Robert Service.
"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"

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  Quote Michael Collins Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:06
  1. 1] I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,
    2] That have no treasure but hope,
    3] No riches laid up but a memory
    4] Of an Ancient glory.
    5] My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
    6] I am of the blood of serfs;
    7] The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,
    8] Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
    9] And, though gentle, have served churls;
    10] The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,
    11] Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
    12] Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,
    13] I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,
    14] I that have never submitted;
    15] I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,

    p.338

    16] I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,
    17] I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.
  2. 18] And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
    19] I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:
    20] My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,
    21] My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
    22] I have yearned with old wistful men,
    23] And laughed or cursed with young men;
    24] Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
    25] Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,
    26] Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
    27] Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors
    28] With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,
    29] Men mean and cruel!

    p.339

    30] I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.
  3. 31] And now I speak, being full of vision;
    32] I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to the masters of my people.
    33] I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,
    34] That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,
    35] That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
    36] God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples
    37] For whom He died naked, suffering shame.
    38] And I say to my people's masters: Beware,
    39] Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,
    40] Who shall take what ye would not give.
    41] Did ye think to conquer the people,
    42] Or that Law is stronger than life and than men's desire to be free?
    43] We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,
    44] Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

- P.H. Pearse
Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.
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  Quote Nick1986 Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:09
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 20:20
Really good poems, everyone!
Mine for today is a Kipling:

A Ballad of Jakkko Hill

One moment bid the horses wait,
Since tiffin is not laid till three,
Below the upward path and strait
You climbed a year ago with me.
Love came upon us suddenly
And loosed -- an idle hour to kill --
A headless, harmless armory
That smote us both on Jakko Hill.

Ah, Heaven! we would wait and wait
Through Time and to Eternity!
Ah, Heaven! we could conquer Fate
With more than Godlike constancy
I cut the date upon a tree --
Here stand the clumsy figures still:
"10-7-85, A.D."
Damp in the mists on Jakko Hill.

What came of high resolve and great,
And until Death fidelity?
Whose horse is waiting at your gate?
Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me?
No Saint's, I swear; and -- let me see
To-night what names your programme fill --
We drift asunder merrily,
As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.

L'ENVOI.
Princess, behold our ancient state
Has clean departed; and we see
'Twas Idleness we took for Fate
That bound light bonds on you and me.
Amen! Here ends the comedy
Where it began in all good will,
Since Love and Leave together flee
As driven mist on Jakko Hill!



Edited by Don Quixote - 24-Aug-2011 at 20:20
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 26-Aug-2011 at 01:41
Longfellow, The Battle of Lovell's Pond:

The Battle of Lovell's Pond

Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast,
As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear,
Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier.

The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell
Has sunk into silence along the wild dell;
The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er,
And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more.

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast,
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:04
Vladimir Mayakovsky:

I will sew myself black trousers
from the velvet of my voice.
And from three yards of sunset, a yellow blouse.
Along the world's main street, along its glossy lanes,
I will saunter with the gait of Don Juan, a fop.

Let the earth, overripe and placid, cry out:
"You would rape the green Spring!"
I'll yell at the sun with an impudent grin
"I prefer to prance on smooth
asphalt!"

Isn't it because the sky is blue,
And the earth is my lover in this spring
cleaning,
that I give you verses fun as bi-bah-boh
and sharp and useful as toothpicks!

Women who love my flesh, and you,
girl, looking at me like a brother,
toss your smiles to me, the poet -
and I'll sew them like flowers onto my fop's blouse!

1914



Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Aug-2011 at 01:05
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:09
Boris Pasternak:
Sparrow Hills

 

Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!

Summer’s stream won’t run for ever.

We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar

night after night, in a dusty fever.

 I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!

No wave will lift its hands to the stars.

They say – who believes? No face in the leaves,

no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.

Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.

It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?

See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,

fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.

Here, the city’s trolley-lines end.

Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees.

Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches,

the glade running off, sliding on leaves.

Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,

‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood.

So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,

So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.

 



Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Aug-2011 at 01:14
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