druffine | Poetry and stuff...

My fav poem is a German one. It is from Kurt Tucholsky Augen in der Großstadt
I really love that one!

Oh... that is a nice one, I didn't know it but I am glad you showed me. I'll paste it in here so I won't forget it. Thank you very much.

Augen in der Großstadt
Kurt Tucholsky, 1930, (1890 - 1935)

Wenn du zur Arbeit gehst
am frühen Morgen,
wenn du am Bahnhof stehst
mit deinen Sorgen:
da zeigt die Stadt
dir asphaltglatt
im Menschentrichter
Millionen Gesichter:
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
Was war das? vielleicht dein Lebensglück...
vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.
Du gehst dein Leben lang
auf tausend Straßen;
du siehst auf deinem Gang, die
dich vergaßen.
Ein Auge winkt,
die Seele klingt;
du hast's gefunden,
nur für Sekunden...
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
Was war das? Kein Mensch dreht die Zeit zurück...
Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

Du mußt auf deinem Gang
durch Städte wandern;
siehst einen Pulsschlag lang
den fremden Andern.
Es kann ein Feind sein,
es kann ein Freund sein,
es kann im Kampfe dein
Genosse sein.
Er sieht hinüber
und zieht vorüber ...
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
Was war das?
Von der großen Menschheit ein Stück!
Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

I`m really glad you liked it too!!!

How is it, if you don't mind me asking, that your fave poem is German?

It`s because I`m German, just like you!!
Hallo, ich dachte, du hättest das gesehen in meinem Userinfo.

Urgh, ich bin ein Idiot. Natürlich hab ich das gesehen, hab sogar nochmal nachgesehen nachdem du mir das Gedicht gepasted hast. Looks like just again, fingers and brain refused to work with each other. Sorry.

No problem! Hey, I know that not working together myself!

I Remember, by Stevie Smith

It was my bridal night I remember,
An old man of seventy-three
I lay with my young bride in my arms,
A girl with t.b.
It was wartime, and overhead
The Germans were making a particularly heavy raid on
Hampstead.
What rendered the confusion worse, perversely
Our bombers had chosen that moment to set out for Germany.
Harry, do they ever collide?
I do not think it has ever happened,
Oh my bride, my bride.

Hm.. I am not quite sure what to say to this. Odd does fit though.

Daddy, by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one grey toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Tarot pack and my Tarot pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of *you*,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You---

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat, black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always *knew* it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

-- Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus Print Window

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it ----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify? ----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ----
The big strip tease.
Gentleman, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart ---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there ----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

-October 23-29, 1962

*goes to look for somehing lighter. *g**

The title is just "Lady Lazarus", btw; the "print window" bit got in by mistake!

Hm.. Again I am not quite sure what to make out of these two. The rhythm is good and the language overlapping is interessting. I am a fan of German after-ww2-poetry myself but these have kind of an accusing character, not the desillusioned/hopeless feeling I am used too.
It's pretty weird too, maybe because I don't get the methaphors and stuff, though.

I love Emily Dickinson. Adore her. Probably my favorite of hers is this:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

That first part is my favorite. That poem and her 'I'm Nobody!' poem are my two top favorites. ^_^

Now, for something a little more modern, try 'Warning' by Jenny Joseph, found here.

~Nebula

I really like the poem you pasted in, it makes me smile and warms my heart. The imagery is very good.

The poem you linked, it amuses me, I like people breaking out of the normal routine, I like it when they can humour themselves and smile about it.

Thank you very much for showing me.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I bring you the fabulous e.e. cummings:

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

More here: http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/eecummings

Ooooooh - I like that. Is it bad to like it, to like the imagery E.E.Cummings creates? Prolly not.. heee.

Thank you. *goes of to follow link*

No, it's not bad - he paints vivid pictures and has such an interesting take on how to use language. I love his work. Glad you liked it.

English Nursery Rhymes (http://www.indiaparenting.com/rhymes/english/index.shtml) Poetry.com (http://www.poetry.com) Contemporary Poetry Daily (http://www.poems.com)

Thank you, I will go check out the links.

This is one of my fav poems ever, Merry X-mas and a Happy New Year, XXX

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Oh a lovely moment in winterwonderland. I like that quietness the poem seems to spread, I really like.

Thank you.

I really love Ezra Pound
and
A. E. Housman
and
e.e. cummings
and
Brain Candy has bits of many, many poems you can get inspired from and so does this and Robinson Jeffers...
and, oh, W.H. Auden and Byron and Walt Whitman and my very personal favorite of all time, Maxine Kumin.
If i had more time i'd type in a poem or two - i will later if you want!
:)
Hope this all helps.

Oh I have a quote by Ezra Pound in my purse, it goes along the lines of:
If a man isn't ready to stand up for his convictions, either he or his convictions are not worse it.
(I guess it's a pretty bad translation.)

Somewhere on someone's journal (could have been yours) at the side I saw "Funeral Blues" by W.H.Auden and immediately printed it out, I love that one.

And I will check out the links you provided, thank you.

Hehe.

I hope you find the links helpful - i love all that stuff.

And no, i didn't post that poem, but it's very well known.

*smooch*

I MUST down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

That was John Masefield's Sea Fever. I pressed return instead of Shift... oops.

Oh - again a poem full of great imagery and the rhythm fits so well, you can practically feel the longing. Absolutely lovely.

Thanks muchly.

Acquainted with the Night is another of my Favorites...

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Great, just great. I love poems about the night somehow. I think I develop a liking of Robert Frost.

Here is one I found on my own search I like:

Langston Hughes - Dream Variations

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

I love Langston Hughes. I recommend Harlem - A Dream Deferred. He makes me want to cry alot, but that's why I love him.

Langston Hughes - Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

You mean this one? Yes, I love it. In German too, I love those poems you think everybody could write, just thoughts you could have too but didn't bring down to paper who make you think about the deeper meaning, the casual things you don't have time to notice so often.

I'm a huge Emily Dickinson fan, and you can find most (if not all) of her poems at http://www.bartleby.com/113/

My absolute favorite poem of hers can be found at http://www.bartleby.com/113/2060.html

Oh, yeah, and who could forget this one: Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" (http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html).

This send-up of "The Raven" is also much fun: What if EAP's cat wrote "The Raven"? (http://www.mentalsoup.com/mentalsoup/catraven.htm)

A shorter poem of Poe's I love is below.

Annabelle Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

I wish I were grass too. Not hay because that's cut and dead but grass with only the butterflies to brood and the bees to entertain would please me. lol.

"Annabelle Lee" I think I would have recognize that as EAP's and I only know "The Raven". The rhythym is just characteristic. It's very tragic but romantic too, I like that.

Thank you.

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine

Ooooh this one just blew me away. What a fine piece of casual beauty. I don't know how to express my feelings to this, it just hits the right spots inside of me.

Thank you soo much.

Elizabeth Barret Browning is a good Victorian poet.
This is one from "Sonnets from the Portuguese":

I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,
"Guess now who holds thee ?" - "Death," I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang,--"Not Death, but Love."

e e cummings is my favorite poet/artist.

Generally I don't like sonnets as I don't understand most of the ancient English they use but this one I like very much and I am just discovering e.e.cummings.

Thank you.

I'm going to be trite and admit to enjoying the calming work of Walt Whitman. You can check out his different versions of Leaves of Grass here.

He loved to edit his work and re-write it. The last version of Leaves of Grass was from 1891-1892 .

FYI, I Sing the Body Electric is one of my favorites, but it is too long to include in a comment.

Oh I like it.

You shall no longer take things at second or third
hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books ;
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take
things from me,
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from your-
self.

He's so very right.

Thank you.

Okay, I know this is an old post, and I'm gonna shamelessly pimp myself, but to actually have someone say 'I want to read some poetry', makes my heart sing... I have found that people tend to shy away from reading poetry, even when it is set in a fandom!!

My original poetry can be found HERE, and my drabble poetry can be found HERE

I hope your interest in poetry is still alive, and I definitely recommend Shakespeare, not everyone's cup of tea, but the old style language gives me shivers... and I got to see James Marsters play MacBeth twice in the same day!! At the matinee performance I was on the front row, right near centre stage, like 6 foot away from James!! *melts at the memory* and he was a real lusty MacBeth too, kissing up his Lady's arms, before kissing her mouth (with tongue!!) and yes I was close enough to say there was definitely tongue!! And we got to see a nice bit of stomach when he was throwing his arms around when he was getting passionate during one of his speeches too *sighs*

Poetry and stuff...

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One of my odd little favourites.......

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Disturbing, but....

And while we're on the cheerful Miss Plath....

Re: And while we're on the cheerful Miss Plath....

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Dylan Thomas, splendid drunkard that he was.

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Robert Frost

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Someone brought up Robert Frost...

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"Litany"--Billy Collins

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