Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! Thread poster: Paul Dixon
| Tonia Wind United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 Member (2005) Spanish to English + ... Thought of another one... | Mar 1, 2010 |
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night This is another favorite of mine... 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 danc... See more Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night This is another favorite of mine... 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 that 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. Dylan Thomas ▲ Collapse | | | Russell Jones United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 Italian to English
I'm cheating with a second entry but had to share one of many favourites from R.S. Thomas. SONG We, who are men, how shall we know Earth’s ecstasy, who feels the plough Probing her womb, And after, the sweet gestation And the year’s care for her condition? We, who have forgotten, so long ago It happened, our own orgasm, When the wind mixed with our limbs And the sun had suck at our bosom; We, who have affected th... See more I'm cheating with a second entry but had to share one of many favourites from R.S. Thomas. SONG We, who are men, how shall we know Earth’s ecstasy, who feels the plough Probing her womb, And after, the sweet gestation And the year’s care for her condition? We, who have forgotten, so long ago It happened, our own orgasm, When the wind mixed with our limbs And the sun had suck at our bosom; We, who have affected the livery Of the times’ prudery, How shall we quicken again To the lust and thrust of the sun And the seedling rain? ▲ Collapse | | | Paul Dixon Brazil Local time: 07:19 Portuguese to English + ... TOPIC STARTER More Prešeren | Jul 23, 2010 |
Another piece - on a more romantic note this time (written to his amour, who nevertheless showed no interest) "Let my poem, like a shrine, contain - your name; In my heart shall ever proudly reign - your name; Let my countrymen hear echoes, east and west, Of the music in that joyous strain - your name; On this shrine shall nations henceforth read your fame; Here it stays to glow and glow again - your name. When both you and I have crossed in Charo... See more Another piece - on a more romantic note this time (written to his amour, who nevertheless showed no interest) "Let my poem, like a shrine, contain - your name; In my heart shall ever proudly reign - your name; Let my countrymen hear echoes, east and west, Of the music in that joyous strain - your name; On this shrine shall nations henceforth read your fame; Here it stays to glow and glow again - your name. When both you and I have crossed in Charon's boat, Even then the glory will remain - your name. More than Cynthia, Laura, Delia and Corrina, Time will ever hallow my refrain - your name." ▲ Collapse | | | Nicole Schnell United States Local time: 03:19 English to German + ... In memoriam Another Robert Frost - my ultimate favorite | Jul 23, 2010 |
We kids had to learn it in Highschool back in Germany. Back then, none of us kids could make any sense out of it. Then I moved to the US. And I finally realized that this author has managed to pack an entire world into a few simple lines: 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... See more We kids had to learn it in Highschool back in Germany. Back then, none of us kids could make any sense out of it. Then I moved to the US. And I finally realized that this author has managed to pack an entire world into a few simple lines: 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. ▲ Collapse | |
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some Polish stuff | Jul 24, 2010 |
Hi, everyone! A great topic... I'm a fan of Polish contemporary poetry, so here's some sample. By Wisława Szymborska (Nobel Prize winner) b. 1923 Translated from Polish by: Joanna Maria Trzeciak Cat in an empty apartment Dying-you wouldn't do that to a cat. For what is a cat to do in an empty apartment? Climb up the walls? Brush up against the furniture? Nothing here seems changed, ... See more Hi, everyone! A great topic... I'm a fan of Polish contemporary poetry, so here's some sample. By Wisława Szymborska (Nobel Prize winner) b. 1923 Translated from Polish by: Joanna Maria Trzeciak Cat in an empty apartment Dying-you wouldn't do that to a cat. For what is a cat to do in an empty apartment? Climb up the walls? Brush up against the furniture? Nothing here seems changed, and yet something has changed. Nothing has been moved, and yet there's more room. And in the evenings the lamp is not on. One hears footsteps on the stairs, but they're not the same. Neither is the hand that puts a fish on the plate. Something here isn't starting at its usual time. Something here isn't happening as it should. Somebody has been here and has been, and then has suddenly disappeared and now is stubbornly absent. All the closets have been scanned and all the shelves run through. Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing. The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered. What else is there to do? Sleep and wait. Just let him come back, let him show up. Then he'll find out that you don't do that to a cat. Going toward him faking reluctance, slowly, on very offended paws. And no jumping, purring at first. And the Polish original: Kot w pustym mieszkaniu Umrzeć - tego się nie robi kotu. Bo co ma począć kot w pustym mieszkaniu. Wdrapywać się na ściany. Ocierać między meblami. Nic niby tu nie zmienione, a jednak pozamieniane. Niby nie przesunięte, a jednak porozsuwane. I wieczorami lampa już nie świeci. Słychać kroki na schodach, ale to nie te. Ręka, co kładzie rybę na talerzyk, także nie ta, co kładła. Coś sie tu nie zaczyna w swojej zwykłej porze. Coś się tu nie odbywa jak powinno. Ktoś tutaj był i był, a potem nagle zniknął i uporczywie go nie ma. Do wszystkich szaf sie zajrzało. Przez półki przebiegło. Wcisnęło się pod dywan i sprawdziło. Nawet złamało zakaz i rozrzuciło papiery. Co więcej jest do zrobienia. Spać i czekać. Niech no on tylko wróci, niech no się pokaże. Już on się dowie, że tak z kotem nie można. Będzie się szło w jego stronę jakby się wcale nie chciało, pomalutku, na bardzo obrażonych łapach. O żadnych skoków pisków na początek. Some more from Szymborska in English: http://www.pan.net/trzeciak/ Enjoy! ▲ Collapse | | | Radosveta Golden United States Local time: 06:19 Member (2010) English to Bulgarian + ... Shelley rocks:) | Jul 24, 2010 |
Lingua 5B wrote: Here is one by Shelley, a true romanticist and lyric poet. *** Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean; The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In another's being mingle-- Why not I with thine? See, the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower could be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?
[Edited at 2010-02-28 22:35 GMT] Awesome!!! This is one in a lifetime! | | | Radosveta Golden United States Local time: 06:19 Member (2010) English to Bulgarian + ... It`s always best in original... | Jul 24, 2010 |
The translator is unknown to me, but I am inserting the English translation here for anybody who doesn`t know Russian. I find the original to be a wonderful piece of language art by Konstantin Simonov, of course: ЖДИ МЕНЯ Жди меня, и я вернусь, Только очень жди, Жди, когда наводят грусть Желтые дожди, Жди, когда снега метут, Жди, когда жар... See more The translator is unknown to me, but I am inserting the English translation here for anybody who doesn`t know Russian. I find the original to be a wonderful piece of language art by Konstantin Simonov, of course: ЖДИ МЕНЯ Жди меня, и я вернусь, Только очень жди, Жди, когда наводят грусть Желтые дожди, Жди, когда снега метут, Жди, когда жара, Жди, когда других не ждут, Позабыв вчера. Жди, когда из дальних мест Писем не придет, Жди, когда уж надоест Всем, кто вместе ждет. Жди меня, и я вернусь Не желай добра Всем, кто знает наизусть, Что забыть пора. Пусть поверят сын и мать В то, что нет меня, Пусть друзья устанут ждать, Сядут у огня, Выпьют горькое вино На помин души... Жди. И с ними заодно Выпить не спеши Жди меня, и я вернусь Всем смертям назло. Кто не ждал меня, тот пусть Скажет: - Повезло. Не понять не ждавшим им Как среди огня Ожиданием своим Ты спасла меня. Как я выжил, будем знать Только мы с тобой, - Просто ты умела ждать, Как никто другой. 1941 Wait For Me Wait for me, and I will return. Only truly wait. Wait while bringing sorrow The autumn rains come late. Wait while snow is blowing, Wait while heat burns haze, Wait while others cease to wait, Forgetting yesterdays. Wait when letters cease to come From places far away, Wait, while others tire of waiting Together day after day. Wait for me, and I will return. Wish no good to those you've met Who tell you, without thinking, That it is time to forget. Let my son and mother believe That I have met my doom, Let my friends all quit their hopes, In the fire-lit gloom Let them drink their bitter wine, In memoriam... Wait. Oh, do not hasten To sit and drink with them. Wait for me, and I will return, Despite all death can do. Let those who didn't wait for me Say "Just lucky he came through." Those who didn't wait can't know How, while battle blazed, Just by waiting for your own Me you truly saved. We will know how I survived Only just us two: Simply, you knew how to wait As no one else could do. ▲ Collapse | | | Tom in London United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 Member (2008) Italian to English A short one by one of the greatest Irish poets | Jul 24, 2010 |
Heaven-Haven (a nun takes the veil) I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea. Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89)
[Edited at 2010-07-24 22:38 GMT] | |
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He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven (1899) | Jul 24, 2010 |
Aedh (He) Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven W.B. YEATS (1865-1939) Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Listen to Harvey ... See more Aedh (He) Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven W.B. YEATS (1865-1939) Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Listen to Harvey Keitel reading this beautiful poem at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZjwLu9cXJ8 ▲ Collapse | | | P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 12:19 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... НЕЗНАКОМКА - THE LADY UNKNOWN, Aleksandr Blok, 1906 | Feb 19, 2011 |
A beautiful poem about a mysterious woman - maybe a prostitute, maybe Sophia, the incarnation of the Eternal Feminine. It's a shame they didn't write the English translator's name; this version does full justice to the original. По вечерам над ресторанами Горячий воздух дик и глух, И правит окриками пьяными Весенний и тлетворный дух. Вдали над пылью п�... See more A beautiful poem about a mysterious woman - maybe a prostitute, maybe Sophia, the incarnation of the Eternal Feminine. It's a shame they didn't write the English translator's name; this version does full justice to the original. По вечерам над ресторанами Горячий воздух дик и глух, И правит окриками пьяными Весенний и тлетворный дух. Вдали над пылью переулочной, Над скукой загородных дач, Чуть золотится крендель булочной, И раздается детский плач. И каждый вечер, за шлагбаумами, Заламывая котелки, Среди канав гуляют с дамами Испытанные остряки. Над озером скрипят уключины И раздается женский визг, А в небе, ко всему приученный Бесмысленно кривится диск. И каждый вечер друг единственный В моем стакане отражен И влагой терпкой и таинственной Как я, смирен и оглушен. А рядом у соседних столиков Лакеи сонные торчат, И пьяницы с глазами кроликов «In vino veritas!» кричат. И каждый вечер, в час назначенный (Иль это только снится мне?), Девичий стан, шелками схваченный, В туманном движется окне. И медленно, пройдя меж пьяными, Всегда без спутников, одна Дыша духами и туманами, Она садится у окна. И веют древними поверьями Ее упругие шелка, И шляпа с траурными перьями, И в кольцах узкая рука. И странной близостью закованный, Смотрю за темную вуаль, И вижу берег очарованный И очарованную даль. Глухие тайны мне поручены, Мне чье-то солнце вручено, И все души моей излучины Пронзило терпкое вино. И перья страуса склоненные В моем качаются мозгу, И очи синие бездонные Цветут на дальнем берегу. В моей душе лежит сокровище, И ключ поручен только мне! Ты право, пьяное чудовище! Я знаю: истина в вине. English version: Of evenings hangs above the restaurant A humid, wild and heavy air. The Springtime spirit, brooding, pestilent, Commands the drunken outcries there. Far off, above the alley's mustiness, Where bored gray summerhouses lie, The baker's sign swings gold through dustiness, And loud and shrill the children cry. Beyond the city stroll the exquisites, At every dusk and all the same: Their derbies tilted back, the pretty wits Are playing at the ancient game. Upon the lake but feebly furious Soft screams and creaking oar-locks sound. And in the sky, blase, incurious, The moon beholds the earthly round. And every evening, dazed and serious, I watch the same procession pass; In liquor, raw and yet mysterious, One friend is mirrored in my glass. Beside the scattered tables, somnolent And dreary waiters stick around. "In vino veritas!" shout violent And red-eyed fools in liquor drowned. And every evening, strange, immutable, (Is it a dream no waking proves?) As to a rendezvous inscrutable A silken lady darkly moves. She slowly passes by the drunken ones And lonely by the window sits; And from her robes, above the sunken ones, A misty fainting perfume flits. Her silks' resilience, and the tapering Of her ringed fingers, and her plumes, Stir vaguely like dim incense vaporing, Deep ancient faiths their mystery illumes. I try, held in this strange captivity, To pierce the veil that darkling falls-- I see enchanted shores' declivity, And an enchanted distance calls. I guard dark secrets' tortuosities. A sun is given me to hold. An acrid wine finds out the sinuosities That in my soul were locked of old. And in my brain the soft slow flittering Of ostrich feathers waves once more; And fathomless the azure glittering Where two eyes blossom on the shore. My soul holds fast its treasure renitent, The key is safe and solely mine. Ah, you are right, drunken impenitent! I also know: truth lies in wine. ▲ Collapse | | | Tom in London United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 Member (2008) Italian to English Eugenio Montale | Feb 19, 2011 |
Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato l'animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato. Ah l'uomo che se ne va sicuro, agli altri ed a se stesso amico, e l'ombra sua non cura che la canicola stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro! Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti, sì qualche s... See more Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato l'animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato. Ah l'uomo che se ne va sicuro, agli altri ed a se stesso amico, e l'ombra sua non cura che la canicola stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro! Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti, sì qualche storta sillaba e secca come un ramo. Codesto solo oggi possiamo dirti: ciò che non siamo, ciò che non vogliamo. (from "Ossi di seppia" 1925) MY QUICK TRANSLATION Don't ask us to find the word that could square our formless soul from every side, and in letters of fire declare itself, and bloom as splendid as a crocus forgotten in the middle of a dusty lawn. Etc....
[Edited at 2011-02-19 17:25 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | Exposed on the cliffs of the heart | Feb 19, 2011 |
this one speaks to me Exposed on the cliffs of the heart Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there, look: the last village of words and, higher, (but how tiny) still one last farmhouse of feeling. Can you see it? Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground under your hands. Even here, though, something can bloom; on a silent cliff... See more this one speaks to me Exposed on the cliffs of the heart Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there, look: the last village of words and, higher, (but how tiny) still one last farmhouse of feeling. Can you see it? Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground under your hands. Even here, though, something can bloom; on a silent cliff-edge an unknowing plant blooms, singing, into the air. But the one who knows? Ah, he began to know and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart. While, with their full awareness, many sure-footed mountain animals pass or linger. And the great sheltered birds flies, slowly circling, around the peak's pure denial. But without a shelter, here on the cliffs of the heart... translator unknown
[Edited at 2011-02-19 19:29 GMT] ▲ Collapse | |
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Tom in London United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 Member (2008) Italian to English
Vojin Radulovic wrote: this one speaks to me translator unknown [Edited at 2011-02-19 19:29 GMT] Me too - who was the author? | | | Alice Crisan United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 English to Romanian + ... | Alice Crisan United Kingdom Local time: 11:19 English to Romanian + ...
Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) 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... See more Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) 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 impostors 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 worn-out 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 breathe 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 at 2011-02-20 01:02 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | To report site rules violations or get help, contact a site moderator: You can also contact site staff by submitting a support request » Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! Anycount & Translation Office 3000 | Translation Office 3000
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