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Favourite poem - any language | ||
Tags: Poetry | Multilingual | ||
 Language Learning Forum : Books, Literature & Reading |  | |
| Solfrid Cristin Heptaglot Winner TAC 2011 & 2012 Senior Member Norway Joined 5129 days ago 4143 posts - 8864 votes  Speaks: Norwegian*, Spanish, Swedish, French, English, German, Italian Studies: Russian | Message 1 of 60 05 June 2010 at 10:32pm | IP Logged |
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I am not a poetry lover, I prefer novels. However there are times when a poem grips your soul, and you never ever forget that poem. Curiously enough, two of the poems that fall into that category for me are in German. Curiously because German is a language I have learned almost entirely at school, and which I therefore have a more distant relationship to.
The first of these poems I heard in school, and although my teacher was the driest person ever, and a drunk to boot, he managed to touch my heart, for that enchanted moment where he read out these words to us. Mignon Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn, Im dunklen Laub die Goldorangen glühn, Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht? Kennst du es wohl? Dahin! Dahin Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn! Kennst du das Haus? Auf Säulen ruht sein Dach. Es glänzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach, Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an: Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan? Kennst du es wohl? Dahin! Dahin Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer, ziehn! Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg? Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg, In Hoehlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut, Es stuerzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut. Kennst du ihn wohl? Dahin! Dahin Geht unser Weg! o Vater, laß uns ziehn! The second poem is also by Goethe, and this one I listened to as a song, with music by Schubert. Every time I hear the song I shudder, and I start to weep, becuase of the emotions that come over me. Erlkonig lyrics wer reitet so spat durch nacht und wind es ist der vater mit seinem kind er hat den knaben wohl in den arm er fabt ihn sicher, er halt ihn warm mein sohn, was birgst du so bang dein gesicht? siehst vater du den erlkonig nicht? der erlkonig mit kron' und schweif? mein sohn, es ist ein nebelstreif mein liebes kind, komm spiel' mit mir! gar schone spiele spiel' ich mit dir manch bunte blumen sind an dem strand meine mutter hat manch gulden gewand mein vater, mein vater un horest du nicht was erlenkonig mir leise verspricht? sei ruhig, bleib' ruhig mein kind in durren blattern sauselt der wind willst feiner knabe du mit mir gehn? meine tochter sollen dich warten schon meine tochter fuhren den nachtlichen reihn und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein mein vater, mein vater, und siehst du nicht dort erlkonigs tochter an dusterem ort? mein sohn, mein, sohn, ich seh' es genau es scheinen die alten weiden so grau ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schone gestalt und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich gewalt mein vater, mein vater, jetzt fabt er mich an erlkonig hat mir ein leid getan! dem vater grauset, er reitet geschwind er halt in den armen das achzende kind erreicht den hof mit muhe und not in seine armen das kind war tot So what are your favourite poems, in your target languages or in your native languages? 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Derian Triglot Senior Member PolandRegistered users can see my Skype Name Joined 5103 days ago 227 posts - 464 votes Speaks: Polish*, English, German Studies: Spanish, Russian, Czech, French, Mandarin, Japanese | Message 2 of 60 05 June 2010 at 11:11pm | IP Logged |
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I liked the first poem!
I love poetry, and prefer it to prose. My favourite poet is Bolesław Leśmian. His command of the Polish language is captivating - a true genius he was. And this is a poem by him that has touched me like non other: [Gdybym spotkał ciebie znowu pierwszy raz] Gdybym spotkał ciebie znowu pierwszy raz, Ale w innym sadzie, w innym lesie - Może by inaczej zaszumiał nam las Wydłużony mgłami na bezkresie.... Może innych kwiatów wśród zieleni bruzd Jęłyby się dłonie dreszczem czynne - Może by upadły z niedomyślnych ust Jakieś inne słowa - jakieś inne... Może by i słońce zniewoliło nas Do spłynięcia duchem w róż kaskadzie, Gdybym spotkał ciebie znowu pierwszy raz, Ale w innym lesie, w innym sadzie... ----------------- A translation into English (which obviously can't be the same poem): [Were I to meet you for the first time again] Were I to meet you for the first time again But in a different orchard, a different wood Maybe it would sing us a different song then Its boundries covered with a misty hood... Maybe for different flowers just in their prime Would then still trembling hands of ours reach And maybe not being so foolish this time Whole different words we would say to each... Maybe the glorious Sun would convince us then that submerge in a rose cascade we should Were I to meet you for the first time again But in a different orchard, a different wood.... Edited by Derian on 05 June 2010 at 11:14pm 5 persons have voted this message useful | |
| Declan1991 Tetraglot Senior Member Ireland Joined 6234 days ago 233 posts - 359 votes Speaks: English*, German, Irish, French | Message 3 of 60 06 June 2010 at 12:04am | IP Logged |
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I like Goethe too, particularly Der Zauberlehrling.
One poem I really like is the Convergence of the Twain by Hardy. I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls-grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"... VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her - so gaily great - A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be: No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, X Or sign that they were bent by paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event, XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres. And to finish, probably the finest Anglo-Irish poet ever, with Sailing to Byzantium by Yeats. Much of his poetry I find incredibly powerful (the great lines of September 1913 and Easter 1916), but this I feel is one of his finest. THAT is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. I'm not a great poetry fan either, I much prefer novels, but some of Keats' poetry is great too. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| TheMatthias Diglot Senior Member United StatesRegistered users can see my Skype Name Joined 6041 days ago 105 posts - 124 votes Speaks: English*, Spanish Studies: Mandarin | Message 4 of 60 06 June 2010 at 2:09am | IP Logged |
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Part of a poem by: William Blake - Auguries of Innocence
To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour. or by: William Ernest Henley OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my SOUL. 4 persons have voted this message useful | |
| schwa Tetraglot Newbie Germany Joined 5254 days ago 3 posts - 3 votes Speaks: German*, English, French, Italian | Message 5 of 60 09 June 2010 at 11:21am | IP Logged |
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I love tons of German poems. But to name a couple I like more because of their "story arc" and their form (rhymes, meter), in other words for their entertainment value instead of some intrinsic wisdom, I'd like to give a mention to "Die Bürgschaft" by Friedrich Schiller and "Max und Moritz" by Wilhelm Busch, the former a ballad, the latter a children's story.
In the same vein, when it comes to English poems I prefer poems with what I consider to be a pleasant rhythm to "deep" poetry that tries to change your soul. One example being "You Are Old, Father William" by Lewis Carroll. I realize I probably don't have the space to paste all their texts in here, so I'll just do it for prologue of "Max und Moritz": Ach, was muß man oft von bösen Kindern hören oder lesen! Wie zum Beispiel hier von diesen, <book has a picture> Welche Max und Moritz hießen, Die, anstatt durch weise Lehren Sich zum Guten zu bekehren, Oftmals noch darüber lachten Und sich heimlich lustig machten. Ja, zur Übeltätigkeit, Ja, dazu ist man bereit! Menschen necken, Tiere quälen! Äpfel, Birnen, Zwetschen stehlen Das ist freilich angenehmer Und dazu auch viel bequemer, Als in Kirche oder Schule Festzusitzen auf dem Stuhle. Aber wehe, wehe, wehe! Wenn ich auf das Ende sehe!! Ach, das war ein schlimmes Ding, Wie es Max und Moritz ging. Drum ist hier, was sie getrieben, Abgemalt und aufgeschrieben. Since I currently learn Italian and French, I would be very interested in knowing which poems are popular in those languages. *edit: okay, I just found the pertinent threads :) Edited by schwa on 09 June 2010 at 11:27am 1 person has voted this message useful | |
 Iversen Super Polyglot Moderator Denmark berejst.dk Joined 6498 days ago 9078 posts - 16473 votes Speaks: Danish*, French, English, German, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, Swedish, Esperanto, Romanian, Catalan Studies: Afrikaans, Greek, Norwegian, Russian, Serbian, Icelandic, Latin, Irish, Lowland Scots, Indonesian, Polish, Croatian Personal Language Map | Message 6 of 60 09 June 2010 at 1:08pm | IP Logged |
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While I still studied French I normally preferred poems because they were faster to read and more intriguing from a linguistical pount of view.
The one and only book I have ever published was a translation of Gaspard de la Nuit by Aloysius Bertrand. I translated it from a book I borrowed at the library, so I actually didn't own the French version until I bought it during my recent trip to Marseille. It has a long introduction and a number of 'books' of prose poems - of course I translated the whole thing, but not all of it is equally good, so not all of the poems were included in the book. A sample (from "Scarbo"): - « Que tu meures absous ou damné, marmottait Scarbo cette nuit à mon oreille, tu auras pour linceul une toile d'araignée, et j'ensevelirai l'araignée avec toi ! » - « Oh ! que du moins j'aie pour linceul, lui répondais-je, les yeux rouges d'avoir tant pleuré, - une feuille du tremble dans laquelle me bercera l'haleine du lac. » - « Non ! - ricanait le nain railleur, - tu serais la pâture de l'escarbot qui chasse, le soir, aux moucherons aveuglés par le soleil couchant ! » And if you say this is weird stuff then you are probably right. Since my final exam I have largely dropped fictional literature, but I still regard French late romantic poems as the most palatable kind of poetry, and occasionally I even read some of it (say once a year or so). Last time it was Le Bateau Ivre by Rimbaud: "Comme je descendais des Fleuves impassibles, Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs : Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles, Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs" ... and so forth (for a single poem it is fairly long) 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| BartoG Diglot Senior Member United States confession Joined 5242 days ago 292 posts - 818 votes Speaks: English*, French Studies: Italian, Spanish, Latin, Uzbek | Message 7 of 60 10 June 2010 at 12:57am | IP Logged |
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from Thomas Lovell Beddoes' Dirge:
We do lie beneath the grass In the moonlight, in the shade Of the yew-tree. They that pass Hear us not. We are afraid They would envy our delight, In our graves by glow-worm night. Come follow us, and smile as we; We sail to the rocks in the ancient waves, Where the snow falls, by thousands into the sea, And the drowned and the shipwrecked have happy graves. There's a peculiar cheerfulness to the morbid poems of Beddoes that fascinates me in a way that something that is simply dark or excessively cheery cannot. For French, I favor the overwrought Lamartine. Here's Le papillon: Naître avec le printemps, mourir avec les roses, Sur l’aile du zéphyr nager dans un ciel pur ; Balancé sur le sein des fleurs à peine écloses, S’enivrer de parfums, de lumière et d’azur ; Secouant, jeune encor, la poudre de ses ailes, S’envoler comme un souffle aux voûtes éternelles ; Voilà du papillon le destin enchanté : Il ressemble au désir, qui jamais ne se pose, Et sans se satisfaire, effleurant toute chose, Retourne enfin au ciel chercher la volupté. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Cherepaha Diglot Senior Member United States Joined 6384 days ago 126 posts - 175 votes Speaks: Russian*, English Studies: Spanish, Polish, Latin, French | Message 8 of 60 10 June 2010 at 9:51am | IP Logged |
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I'll list three, 2 in Russian and 1 in English:
1/ Арсений Тарковский ВЕРБЛЮД На длинных нерусских ногах Стоит, улыбаясь некстати, А шерсть у него на боках Как вата в столетнем халате. Должно быть, молясь на восток, Кочевники перемудрили, В подшерсток втирали песок И ржавой колючкой кормили. Горбатую царскую плоть, Престол нищеты и терпенья, Нещедрый пустынник-господь Слепил из отходов творенья. И в ноздри вложили замок, А в душу - печаль и величье, И верно, с тех пор погремок На шее болтается птичьей. По Черным и Красным пескам, По дикому зною бродяжил, К чужим пристрастился тюкам, Копейки под старость не нажил. Привыкла верблюжья душа К пустыне, тюкам и побоям. А все-таки жизнь хороша, И мы в ней чего-нибудь стоим. c. 1964 --------------------- Arseniy Tarkovsky The Camel On his long non-Russian legs He is standing smiling awkwardly, With the fur on the sides of his body Looking like cotton in a century old robe. It must be that while praying to the East, The nomads had complicated things: They'd rubbed sand into his down, And fed him a rusted thistle. So his hunchbacked royal flesh This altar of poverty and patience, Had been clumped together out of the waste of Creation By the parsimonious hermit - the Lord. And into his nostrils they'd inserted a lock, And into the soul they'd deposited sorrow and grandeur And most likely since then a rattle-box Hangs around his bird-like neck. In the black and red sands, In the wild heat he'd been wandering, He got addicted to the luggage of others, And had not amassed a penny for his old age. Camel's soul got used to The desert, the bags and the whippings, Yet still life is good, And we in it are worth something! c. 1964 2/ Анна Ахматова Мне голос был. Он звал утешно. Он говорил: "Иди сюда, Оставь свой край глухой и грешный. Оставь Россию навсегда. Я кровь от рук твоих отмою, Из сердца выну черный стыд, Я новым именем покрою Боль порожений и обид". Но равнодушно и спокойно Руками я замкнула слух, Чтоб этой речью недостойной Не осквернился скорбный слух. Осень 1917, Петербург --------------------------------- Anna Akhmatova I heard a voice. It promised solace. It said: "Come here, Leave your land, deaf and sinful. Leave Russia forever. I will wash blood off of your hands, And will draw shame out of your heart, I will give a new name To the pain of defeats and injuries." Yet indifferent and calm I closed my ears with my hands, Lest that ignoble speech would Defile my sorrowful spirit. Fall of 1917, Petersburg 3/ And finally, in English, e.e. cummings "when faces called flowers float out of the ground and breathing is wishing and wishing is having- but keeping is downward and doubting and never […]" 1 person has voted this message useful |
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