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Favourite poem - any language | ||
Tags: Poetry | Multilingual | ||
 Language Learning Forum : Books, Literature & Reading |  | |
| ReneeMona Diglot Senior Member Netherlands Joined 5129 days ago 864 posts - 1274 votes  Speaks: Dutch*, EnglishC2 Studies: French | Message 41 of 60 11 September 2011 at 12:00am | IP Logged |
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This is a poem I see every day as I walk past the central station of Amsterdam, where
it is written on the wall: Daar Vonkt een dierbre gloed in eigen huis en haard Neemt men van daar zijn vlucht met sterk gespierde vleuglen De Wijze weet zijn kracht te vieren en te teuglen Hij kent de weelde hem in 't welkom thuis bewaard - J.A. Alberdingk Thijm Edited by ReneeMona on 11 September 2011 at 12:01am 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Марк Senior Member Russian Federation Joined 4850 days ago 2096 posts - 2972 votes Speaks: Russian* | Message 42 of 60 11 September 2011 at 4:37pm | IP Logged |
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no verbs:
Шёпот, робкое дыханье, Трели соловья, Серебро и колыханье Сонного ручья, Свет ночной, ночные тени, Тени без конца, Ряд волшебных изменений Милого лица, В дымных тучках пурпур розы, Отблеск янтаря, И лобзания, и слёзы, И заря, заря!.. A. Fet, 1850 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| my lost lenore Diglot Newbie Turkey Joined 4591 days ago 6 posts - 12 votes Speaks: Turkish*, English Studies: Russian, Arabic (classical) | Message 43 of 60 08 October 2011 at 2:48am | IP Logged |
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There are so many masterpiece poems in my native language. But I want to share my favorite poem in English. So, everybody can understand... And, yes, it's related with my nickname :)
THE RAVEN 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 visiter," 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 name 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visiter 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 stillness 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 upon 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 farther 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 my sad fancy 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 hath 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 name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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! Edgar Allan Poe - 29 jannuary 1845 Edited by my lost lenore on 08 October 2011 at 10:09pm 2 persons have voted this message useful | |
| Sennin Senior Member Bulgaria Joined 5828 days ago 1457 posts - 1759 votes 5 sounds | Message 44 of 60 14 October 2011 at 2:30pm | IP Logged |
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СТЕНИ @ Веселин Ханчев
Трите стени в моята стая бяха бели и тихи. Четвъртата стенеше нощем: - Вода ! Тя вика три нощи подред, на четвъртата нощ стана бяла и тиха като другите, бяла, студена и няма. Страшна стена. Edited by Sennin on 14 October 2011 at 2:31pm 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| nafows Diglot Newbie Austria Joined 4617 days ago 11 posts - 14 votes Speaks: German*, English Studies: French, Mandarin, Lithuanian | Message 45 of 60 16 October 2011 at 11:26am | IP Logged |
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Paul Celan – DIE TODESFUGE
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts wir trinken und trinken wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith Read by himself At http://www.celan-projekt.de/ you can find some material on it, including translations and clues for interpretation. Edited by nafows on 16 October 2011 at 11:28am 3 persons have voted this message useful | |
| aabram Pentaglot Senior Member Estonia Joined 5327 days ago 138 posts - 263 votes Speaks: Estonian*, English, Spanish, Russian, Finnish Studies: Mandarin, French | Message 46 of 60 28 October 2011 at 9:47pm | IP Logged |
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For some reason this one by Aleksandr Blok always gets me. It reminds me of summers
long gone and brings about bittersweet memories. Sorry, can't find English translation at the moment. Накануне Иванова дня... Александр Блок 24 июня 1899 Накануне Иванова дня Собирал я душистые травы, И почуял, что нежит меня Ароматом душевной отравы. Я собрал полевые цветы И росистые травы ночные И на сон навеваю мечты, И проходят они, голубые... В тех мечтаньях ночных я узнал Недалекую с милой разлуку, И как будто во сне целовал Я горячую нежную руку... И катилися слезы мои, Дорогая меня обнимала, Я проснулся в слезах от любви И почуял, как сердце стучало... С этих пор не заманишь меня Ароматом душевной отравы, Не сберу я душистые травы Накануне Иванова дня... 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Ari Heptaglot Senior Member Norway Joined 6376 days ago 2314 posts - 5695 votes Speaks: Swedish*, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Mandarin, Cantonese Studies: Czech, Latin, German | Message 47 of 60 29 October 2011 at 9:57am | IP Logged |
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"Beautiful Woman"
The spring in her step has turned to fall ---A. R. Ammons 2 persons have voted this message useful | |
| Ari Heptaglot Senior Member Norway Joined 6376 days ago 2314 posts - 5695 votes Speaks: Swedish*, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Mandarin, Cantonese Studies: Czech, Latin, German | Message 48 of 60 29 October 2011 at 10:01am | IP Logged |
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And we should probably have something from this year's Nobel Prize winner, too. This is "Palatset" by Tomas
Tranströmer: Vi steg in. En enda väldig sal, tyst och tom, där golvets yta låg som en övergiven skridskois. Alla dörrar stängda. Luften grå. Målningar på väggarna. Man såg bilder livlöst myllra: sköldar, våg- skålar, fiskar, kämpande gestalter i en dövstum värld på andra sidan. En skulptur var utställd i det tomma: ensam mitt i salen stod en häst, men vi märkte honom inte först när vi fångades av allt det tomma. Svagare än suset i en snäcka hördes ljud och röster ifrån staden kretsande i detta öde rum, sorlande och sökande en makt. Också något annat. Något mörkt ställde sig vid våra sinnens fem trösklar utan att gå över dem. Sanden rann i alla tysta glas. Det var dags att röra sig. Vi gick bort mot hästen. Den var jättelik, svart som järn. En bild av makten själv som blev kvar när furstarna gått bort. Hästen talade: »Jag är den Ende. Tomheten som red mig har jag kastat. Detta är mitt stall. Jag växer sakta. Och jag äter tystnaden härinne.« 1 person has voted this message useful |
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