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Favourite poem - any language | ||
Tags: Poetry | Multilingual | ||
 Language Learning Forum : Books, Literature & Reading |  | |
| unityandoutside Diglot Groupie United States Joined 5808 days ago 94 posts - 149 votes  Speaks: English*, Russian Studies: Latin, Mandarin | Message 17 of 60 02 July 2010 at 9:13pm | IP Logged | ||
This is one of my favorites selections of Akhmatova :). My favorite poem is another by Tarkovsky: Первые свидания Свиданий наших каждое мгновенье, Мы праздновали, как богоявленье, Одни на целом свете. Ты была Смелей и легче птичьего крыла, По лестнице, как головокруженье, Через ступень сбегала и вела Сквозь влажную сирень в свои владенья С той стороны зеркального стекла. Когда настала ночь, была мне милость Дарована, алтарные врата Отворены, и в темноте светилась И медленно клонилась нагота, И, просыпаясь: "Будь благословенна!" - Я говорил и знал, что дерзновенно Мое благословенье: ты спала, И тронуть веки синевой вселенной К тебе сирень тянулась со стола, И синевою тронутые веки Спокойны были, и рука тепла. А в хрустале пульсировали реки, Дымились горы, брезжили моря, И ты держала сферу на ладони Хрустальную, и ты спала на троне, И - Боже правый! - ты была моя. Ты пробудилась и преобразила Вседневный человеческий словарь, И речь поьгорло полнозвучной силой Наполнилась, и слово ты раскрыло Свой новый смысл и означало: царь. На свете все преобразилось, даже Простые вещи - таз, кувшин, - когда Стояла между нами, как на страже, Слоистая и твердая вода. Нас повело неведомо куда. Пред нами расступались, как миражи, Построенные чудом города, Сама ложилась мята нам под ноги, И птицам с нами было по дороге, И рыбы поднимались по реке, И небо развернулось перед нами... Когда судьба по следу шла за нами, Как сумасшедший с бритвою в руке. 1962 FIRST MEETINGS We celebrated every moment Of our meetings as epiphanies, Just we two in all the world. Bolder, lighter than a bird's wing, You hurtled like vertigo Down the stairs, leading Through moist lilac to your realm Beyond the mirror. When night fell, grace was given me, The sanctuary gates were opened, Shining in the darkness Nakedness bowed slowly; Waking up, I said: 'Be thou blessed!', knowing it To be daring: you slept, The lilac leaned towards you from the table To touch your eyelids with its universal blue, Those eyelids brushed with blue Were peaceful, and your hand was warm. And in the crystal I saw pulsing rivers, Smoke-wreathed hills, and glimmering seas; Holding in your palm that crystal sphere, You slumbered on the throne, And - God be praised! - you belonged to me. Awaking, you transformed The humdrum dictionary of humans Till speech was full and running over With resounding strength, and the word you Revealed its new meaning: it meant king. Everything in the world was different, Even the simplest things - the jug, the basin - When stratified and solid water Stood between us, like a guard. We were led to who knows where. Before us opened up, in mirage, Towns constructed out of wonder, Mint leaves spread themselves beneath our feet, Birds came on the journey with us, Fish leapt in greeting from the river, And the sky unfurled above... While behind us all the time went fate, A madman brandishing a razor. The English translation really does not do it any sort of justice :/. This video from the film "Mirror" is probably the best way to experience the poem if you can't understand Russian. The imagery is some of most powerful I've read in Russian or English poetry ever. A real masterpiece. 2 persons have voted this message useful | |||
| Sprachprofi Nonaglot Senior Member Germany learnlangs.comRegistered users can see my Skype Name Joined 6264 days ago 2608 posts - 4866 votes Speaks: German*, English, French, Esperanto, Greek, Mandarin, Latin, Dutch, Italian Studies: Spanish, Arabic (Written), Swahili, Indonesian, Japanese, Modern Hebrew, Portuguese | Message 18 of 60 03 July 2010 at 2:16pm | IP Logged | ||
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For German, I second the nomination of "Die Bürgschaft", which you can find
here. Another one of my favorites is "Prometheus" by Goethe. Poem and translation here And a more recent one that's not so well-known, that I'll post here because it's shorter and then attempt to translate myself: "Unaufhaltsam" by Hilde Domin Das eigene Wort, wer holt es zurück, das lebendige eben noch ungesprochene Wort? Wo das Wort vorbeifliegt verdorren die Gräser, werden die Blätter gelb, fällt Schnee. Ein Vogel käme dir wieder. Nicht dein Wort, das eben noch ungesagte, in deinen Mund. Du schickst andere Worte hinterdrein, Worte mit bunten, weichen Federn. Das Wort ist schneller, das schwarze Wort. Es kommt immer an, es hört nicht auf, an- zukommen. Besser ein Messer als ein Wort. Ein Messer kann stumpf sein. Ein Messer trifft oft am Herzen vorbei. Nicht das Wort. Am Ende ist das Wort, immer am Ende das Wort. -- in English: "Unstoppable" by Hilde Domin One's own word, who can take it back, the living, the until just now unsaid word? Where the word flies by grass will wither, leaves will turn yellow, snow falls. A bird would return to you. Not your word, The until just now unsaid one, in your mouth. You send other words after it, Words with colourful, soft feathers. The word is faster, the black word. It always arrives, doesn't stop, arriving. Rather a knife than a word. A knife can be blunt. A knife often misses the heart. Not the word. In the end there is the word, always in the end the word. Finally, let me recommend "Ithaca" by Constantine P. Cavafy. I haven't read many poems in Modern Greek, my knowledge of the language is too weak, but somehow I encountered this one and it stuck. in Greek in translation Edited by Sprachprofi on 03 July 2010 at 3:05pm 3 persons have voted this message useful | |||
| Kounotori Triglot Senior Member Finland Joined 5138 days ago 136 posts - 264 votes Speaks: Finnish*, English, Russian Studies: Mandarin | Message 19 of 60 14 November 2010 at 3:45pm | IP Logged | ||
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Lauri Viita's poem "Moraali" (moral) has always been my favorite. I like these kinds of short and down to earth poems that make a point in a succinct way. Long epic poems have always left me cold.
Moraali "Siisti täytyy aina olla!" sanoi kissa hietikolla. - Raapi päälle tarpeenteon pienen, sievän santakeon. And here's my own translation: Moral "One must always be clean!" said the cat on the strand. And on his waste he scratched a small, neat pile of sand. Edited by Kounotori on 14 November 2010 at 10:16pm 1 person has voted this message useful | |||
| getreallanguage Diglot Senior Member Argentina youtube.com/getreall Joined 5265 days ago 240 posts - 371 votes Speaks: Spanish*, English Studies: Italian, Dutch | Message 20 of 60 14 November 2010 at 5:24pm | IP Logged | ||
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'Funeral Blues' by W. H. Auden is one of my favorite poems in English. You can hear it read on this clip from the movie 'Four weddings and a funeral': http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMX2svFVcXM
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. As for Spanish, I'm partial to the 'Cantar de Mio Cid', which is written in Old Spanish, also known as Medieval Spanish or Medieval Castilian. I know the first 'tirada' by heart: De los sos ojos tan fuerte mientre lorando tornava la cabeça y estava los catando. Vio puertas abiertas e uços sin cañados, alcandaras vazias sin pielles e sin mantos e sin falcones e sin adtores mudados. Sospiro mio Çid ca mucho avie grandes cuidados. Ffablo mio Çid bien e tan mesurado: '¡Grado a ti, señor, padre que estas en alto! ¡Esto me an buelto mios enemigos malos!' You can hear me read this and the second 'tirada' on this video from my youtube channel: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWJInYhHT18 Another admittedly better reading of the same extract can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=58MJT80XbKc 3 persons have voted this message useful | |||
| Liface Triglot Senior Member United States youtube.com/user/Lif Joined 5652 days ago 150 posts - 237 votes Speaks: English*, German, Spanish Studies: Dutch, French | Message 21 of 60 14 November 2010 at 7:39pm | IP Logged | ||
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Es war Weihnacht. Ich ging über die weite Ebene. Der Schnee war wie Glas. Es war kalt. Die Luft war tot. Keine Bewegung, kein Ton. Der Horizont war rund. Der Himmel schwarz. Die Sterne gestorben. Der Mond gestern zu Grabe getragen. Die Sonne nicht aufgegangen. Ich schrie. Ich hörte mich nicht. Ich schrie wieder. Ich sah einen Körper auf dem Schnee liegen. Es war das Christkind. Die Glieder weiß und starr. Der Heiligenschein eine gelbe gefrorene Scheibe. Ich nahm das Kind in die Hände. Ich bewegte seine Arme auf und ab. Ich öffnete seine Lider. Es hatte keine Augen. Ich hatte Hunger. Ich aß den Heiligenschein. Er schmeckte wie altes Brot. Ich biß ihm den Kopf ab. Alter Marzipan. Ich ging weiter.
Friedrich Dürrenmatt - Weihnachten (1942) 1 person has voted this message useful | |||
| Sierra Diglot Senior Member Turkey livinginlights.comRegistered users can see my Skype Name Joined 6918 days ago 296 posts - 411 votes Speaks: English*, SwedishB1 Studies: Turkish | Message 22 of 60 15 November 2010 at 6:38am | IP Logged | ||
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Part of "Adonis" by Shelley:
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, Oh not of him, but of our joy. 'Tis nought That ages, empires, and religions, there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend--they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey: And he is gathered to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 49. Go thou to Rome,--at once the paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness, Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 50. And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand 5 Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 51. Here pause. These graves are all too young as yet To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and, if the seal is set Here on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find 5 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is why fear we to become? 52. The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light for ever shines, earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.--Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is fled!--Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 53. Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart? Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! A light is past from the revolving year, And man and woman; and what still is dear 5 Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near: 'Tis Adonais calls! Oh hasten thither! No more let life divide what death can join together. ----- Menelaus and Helen by Rupert Brooke: HOT through Troy’s ruin Menelaus broke To Priam’s palace, sword in hand, to sate On that adulterous whore a ten years’ hate And a king’s honour. Through red death, and smoke, And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode, ; Till the still innermost chamber fronted him. He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim Luxurious bower, flaming like a god. High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. He had not remembered that she was so fair, And that her neck curved down in such a way; And he felt tired. He flung the sword away, And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen. II So far the poet. How should he behold &n bsp; That journey home, the long connubial years? He does not tell you how white Helen bears Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold, Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys ’Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old. Often he wonders why on earth he went Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came. Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent; Her dry shanks twitch at Paris’ mumbled name. So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried; And Paris slept on by Scamander side. -------- And my absolute favorite, Lepanto by G.K. Chesterton: WHITE founts falling in the Courts of the sun, And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run; There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared, It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard; It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips; For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships. They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy, They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea, And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss, And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross. The cold queen of England is looking in the glass; The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass; From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun, And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun. Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard, Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred, Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall, The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall, The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung, That once went singing southward when all the world was young. In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid, Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade. Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far, Don John of Austria is going to the war, Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold, Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums, Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes. Don John laughing in the brave beard curled, Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world, Holding his head up for a flag of all the free. Love-light of Spain—hurrah! Death-light of Africa! Don John of Austria Is riding to the sea. Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star, (Don John of Austria is going to the war.) He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees, His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas. He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease, And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees; And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing. Giants and the Genii, Multiplex of wing and eye, Whose strong obedience broke the sky When Solomon was king. They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn, From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn; They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be, On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl, Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl; They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,— They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound. And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide, And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide, And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest, For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west. We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun, Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done. But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago: It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate; It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate! It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth, Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth." For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar, (Don John of Austria is going to the war.) Sudden and still—hurrah! Bolt from Iberia! Don John of Austria Is gone by Alcalar. St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.) Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift. He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone; The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone; The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes, And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise, And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room, And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom, And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,— But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea. Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips, Trumpet that sayeth ha! Domino gloria! Don John of Austria Is shouting to the ships. King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.) The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin, And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in. He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon, He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon, And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day, And death is in the phial and the end of noble work, But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk. Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed— Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid. Gun upon gun, ha! ha! Gun upon gun, hurrah! Don John of Austria Has loosed the cannonade. The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke, (Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.) The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year, The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear. He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery; They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark, They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark; And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs, And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs, Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines. They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young. They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon. And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell, And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign— (But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!) Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop, Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop, Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds, Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds, Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty. Vivat Hispania! Domino Gloria! Don John of Austria Has set his people free! Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath (Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.) And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain, Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain, And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade.... (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.) Edited by Sierra on 15 November 2010 at 6:39am 1 person has voted this message useful | |||
| microsnout TAC 2010 Winner Senior Member Canada microsnout.wordpress Joined 5265 days ago 277 posts - 553 votes Speaks: English* Studies: French | Message 23 of 60 15 November 2010 at 5:43pm | IP Logged | ||
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Two years ago, on a language immersion in France I took the hostess's dog for a walk. Returning to the house I
said the following which I realized later sounded a bit poetic. Même après il fait ses affaires Alton se promène, le nez par terre 1 person has voted this message useful | |||
| Gorgoll2 Senior Member Brazil veritassword.blogspo Joined 4940 days ago 159 posts - 192 votes Speaks: Portuguese* | Message 24 of 60 22 November 2010 at 10:18pm | IP Logged | ||
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A poem of Camões - A great Portugese poet:
Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver; É ferida que dói e não se sente; É um contentamento descontente É dor que desatina sem doer; É um não querer mais que bem querer; É solitário andar por entre a gente; É nunca contentar-se de contente; É cuidar que se ganha em se perder; É querer estar preso por vontade; É servir a quem vence, o vencedor; É ter com quem nos mata lealdade. Mas como causar pode seu favor Nos corações humanos amizade, Se tão contrário a si é o mesmo amor? I don´t have abilitie to do a good translation, could some good soul to do this - Your can edit to put the translation? Other many good poem is Poe´s "The Raven". 1 person has voted this message useful |
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