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Favourite poem - any language | ||
Tags: Poetry | Multilingual | ||
 Language Learning Forum : Books, Literature & Reading |  | |
| junsacaki Diglot Newbie Brazil Joined 4570 days ago 2 posts - 5 votes Speaks: Portuguese*, English Studies: Mandarin | Message 49 of 60 29 October 2011 at 7:20pm | IP Logged |
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For me the best porem is:
IF - RUDYARD KIPLING - BOMBAY - INDIA(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! 4 persons have voted this message useful | |
| On_the_road Diglot Newbie Sweden Joined 4550 days ago 23 posts - 29 votes Speaks: Swedish*, English Studies: German, Spanish | Message 50 of 60 24 November 2011 at 11:51pm | IP Logged |
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A poem that I really like is The Road not Taken by Robert Frost:
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| vonPeterhof Tetraglot Senior Member Russian FederationRegistered users can see my Skype Name Joined 4566 days ago 715 posts - 1527 votes  Speaks: Russian*, EnglishC2, Japanese, German Studies: Kazakh, Korean, Norwegian, Turkish | Message 51 of 60 25 November 2011 at 3:11am | IP Logged |
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I'm not much of a poetry fan, but I can share a couple. I saw these two poems in a Russian humour magazine, under the heading "Poetry of the Future". The rhythm and the rhymes only work in Russian (as far as I know; would be interesting to see if it works in any other language), but I adjusted the punctuation so that they can be recited by Google Translate. Unfortunately, I have no idea who came up with them.
"The happy poem" 2 15 42 42 15 37 08 2 - 20 20 20! 7 14, 105, 2 00 13 37 0 8 5 - 20 20 20! "The sad poem" 511 16 5 20, 337, 712 19, 2000047. Next, if you speak Russian or are learning it, chances are that you have already encountered this poem: Фёдор Тютчев (1866) Умом Россию не понять, Аршином общим не измерить: У ней особенная стать — В Россию можно только верить. Well, here is a response to that poem (it's actually the title of another poem, rather than a poem in itself, but it rhymes, so there): Игорь Губерман (1992?) Давно пора, ***на мать, Умом Россию понимать! And finally, did you know that the opening words of the Shema Yisrael prayer שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ יְהוָה אֶחָד can be considered a haiku? More about that here - http://www.aish.com/ci/a/48932982.html 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| yenome Hexaglot Newbie United States Joined 5168 days ago 37 posts - 45 votes Speaks: English*, German, Spanish, Russian, French, Persian Studies: Thai, Arabic (Iraqi), Mandarin | Message 52 of 60 13 December 2011 at 3:38am | IP Logged |
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Tried to translate this a few times, but it never worked out.
Николай Гумилев Жираф (1908) Сегодня, я вижу, особенно грустен твой взгляд, И руки особенно тонки, колени обняв. Послушай: далеко, далеко, на озере Чад Изысканный бродит жираф. Ему грациозная стройность и нега дана, И шкуру его украшает волшебный узор, С которым равняться осмелится только луна, Дробясь и качаясь на влаге широких озер. Вдали он подобен цветным парусам корабля, И бег его плавен, как радостный птичий полет. Я знаю, что много чудесного видит земля, Когда на закате он прячется в мраморный грот. Я знаю веселые сказки таинственных стран Про черную деву, про страсть молодого вождя, Но ты слишком долго вдыхала тяжелый туман, Ты верить не хочешь во что-нибудь, кроме дождя. И как я тебе расскажу про тропический сад, Про стройные пальмы, про запах немыслимых трав... - Ты плачешь? Послушай... далеко, на озере Чад Изысканный бродит жираф. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Mooby Senior Member Scotland Joined 5899 days ago 707 posts - 1219 votes Speaks: English* Studies: Polish | Message 53 of 60 13 December 2011 at 10:48am | IP Logged |
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This is from Tomas Transtromer, the Swedish poet who won this year's (2011) Nobel
Prize for Literature: "Death stoops over me. I'm a problem in chess. He has the solution" Taken from his 'The Great Enigma' series. I have too many poets to choose a favourite from, but Transtromer is exquisite, accessible, insightful. Great. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Magdalene Diglot Senior Member United States Joined 4830 days ago 119 posts - 220 votes Speaks: English*, Spanish Studies: Mandarin, German, Modern Hebrew, French | Message 54 of 60 14 December 2011 at 9:22am | IP Logged |
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"La casada infiel" (1928) de Federico García Lorca
Y que yo me la llevé al río creyendo que era mozuela, pero tenía marido. Fue la noche de Santiago y casi por compromiso. Se apagaron los faroles y se encendieron los grillos. En las últimas esquinas toqué sus pechos dormidos, y se me abrieron de pronto como ramos de jacintos. El almidón de su enagua me sonaba en el oído, como una pieza de seda rasgada por diez cuchillos. Sin luz de plata en sus copas los árboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del río. * Pasadas las zarzamoras, los juncos y los espinos, bajo su mata de pelo hice un hoyo sobre el limo. Yo me quité la corbata. Ella se quitó el vestido. Yo el cinturón con revólver. Ella sus cuatro corpiños. Ni nardos ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, ni los cristales con luna relumbran con ese brillo. Sus muslos se me escapaban como peces sorprendidos, la mitad llenos de lumbre, la mitad llenos de frío. Aquella noche corrí el mejor de los caminos, montado en potra de nácar sin bridas y sin estribos. No quiero decir, por hombre, las cosas que ella me dijo. La luz del entendimiento me hace ser muy comedido. Sucia de besos y arena yo me la llevé del río. Con el aire se batían las espadas de los lirios. Me porté como quien soy. Como un gitano legítimo. Le regalé un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba al río. Edited by Magdalene on 14 December 2011 at 9:23am 3 persons have voted this message useful | |
| Magdalene Diglot Senior Member United States Joined 4830 days ago 119 posts - 220 votes Speaks: English*, Spanish Studies: Mandarin, German, Modern Hebrew, French | Message 55 of 60 20 December 2011 at 7:21pm | IP Logged |
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There are various versions of the following poem floating around; Goethe edited it a
lot, changing word choice, punctuation, and whole lines from one edit to the next. This later version (unexpected spellings and all) is my favorite. "Willkommen und Abschied." (1827) von Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Es schlug mein Herz; geschwind zu Pferde! Es war gethan fast eh’ gedacht; Der Abend wiegte schon die Erde Und an den Bergen hing die Nacht: Schon stand im Nebelkleid die Eiche Ein aufgethürmter Riese da, Wo Finsterniß aus dem Gesträuche Mit hundert schwarzen Augen sah. Der Mond von einem Wolkenhügel Sah kläglich aus dem Duft hervor, Die Winde schwangen leise Flügel, Umsaus’ten schauerlich mein Ohr; Die Nacht schuf tausend Ungeheuer; Doch frisch und fröhlich war mein Muth: In meinen Adern welches Feuer! In meinem Herzen welche Gluth! Dich sah ich, und die milde Freude Floß von dem süßen Blick auf mich; Ganz war mein Herz an deiner Seite Und jeder Athemzug für dich. Ein rosenfarbnes Frühlingswetter Umgab das liebliche Gesicht, Und Zärtlichkeit für mich – Ihr Götter! Ich hofft’ es, ich verdient’ es nicht! Doch ach schon mit der Morgensonne Verengt der Abschied mir das Herz: In deinen Küssen, welche Wonne! In deinem Auge, welcher Schmerz! Ich ging, du standst und sahst zur Erden, Und sahst mir nach mit nassem Blick: Und doch, welch Glück geliebt zu werden! Und lieben, Götter, welch ein Glück! Edited by Magdalene on 20 December 2011 at 7:21pm 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| tomtro Diglot Newbie Poland Joined 4505 days ago 7 posts - 8 votes Speaks: Polish*, English Studies: Spanish, Russian | Message 56 of 60 06 January 2012 at 5:33pm | IP Logged |
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I decided to choose one poem in every language that I speak or study.
My native language, Polish, Wislawa Szymborska (Nobel Prize Winner, 1996): "Trzy słowa najdziwniejsze" Kiedy wymawiam słowo Przyszłość, plerwsza sylaba odchodzi już do przeszłości. Kiedy wymawiam słowo Cisza, niszczę ją. Kiedy wymawiam słowo Nic, stwarzam coś, co nie mieści się w żadnym niebycie. And English translation: "The Three Oddest Words" When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it. When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no non-being can hold. Now one of my favourites poems in English, by W.H. Auden. "Musee des Beaux Arts" (it's good to look at Breughel's "The Fall of Icarus" before reading) About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well, they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. Spanish, a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca. "Gacela del amor imprevisto" Nadie comprendía el perfume de la oscura magnolia de tu vientre. Nadie sabía que martirizabas un colibrí de amor entre los dientes. Mil caballitos persas se dormían en la plaza con luna de tu frente, mientras que yo enlazaba cuatro noches tu cintura, enemiga de la nieve. Entre yeso y jazmines, tu mirada era un pálido ramo de simientes. Yo busqué, para darte, por mi pecho las letras de marfil que dicen siempre. Siempre, siempre: jardín de mi agonía, tu cuerpo fugitivo para siempre, la sangre de tus venas en mi boca, tu boca ya sin luz para mi muerte. And English translation (but not really good, so if you don't need to, don't read it): "Gacela of Unforseen Love" No one understood the perfume of the dark magnolia of your womb. Nobody knew that you tormented a hummingbird of love between your teeth. A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep in the plaza with moon of your forehead, while through four nights I embraced your waist, enemy of the snow. Between plaster and jasmins, your glance was a pale branch of seeds. I sought in my heart to give you the ivory letters that say "siempre", "siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony, your body elusive always, that blood of your veins in my mouth, your mouth already lightless for my death. And finally, a Russian poem by one of the greatest poets in the history, Osip Mandelstam. "Tristia" Я изучил науку расставанья В простоволосых жалобах ночных. Жуют волы, и длится ожиданье — Последний час вигилий городских, И чту обряд той петушиной ночи, Когда, подняв дорожной скорби груз, Глядели вдаль заплаканные очи И женский плач мешался с пеньем муз. Кто может знать при слове "расставанье" Какая нам разлука предстоит, Что нам сулит петушье восклицанье, Когда огонь в акрополе горит, И на заре какой-то новой жизни, Когда в сенях лениво вол жует, Зачем петух, глашатай новой жизни, На городской стене крылами бьет? И я люблю обыкновенье пряжи: Снует челнок, веретено жужжит. Смотри, навстречу, словно пух лебяжий, Уже босая Делия летит! О, нашей жизни скудная основа, Куда как беден радости язык! Все было встарь, все повторится снова, И сладок нам лишь узнаванья миг. Да будет так: прозрачная фигурка На чистом блюде глиняном лежит, Как беличья распластанная шкурка, Склонясь над воском, девушка глядит. Не нам гадать о греческом Эребе, Для женщин воск, что для мужчины медь. Нам только в битвах выпадает жребий, А им дано гадая умереть. And English translation (really, really good one!) The essence of farewell I have extracted From hatless laments of the sleepless night As oxen chew, and waiting grows protracted, And end of city vigil is in sight - And I recall the rooster night with fear When lost in doleful journey for too long Into the void the tear-drenched eyes did peer And woman's cry mingled with muse's song. Who yet again can say farewell, unknowing What longing and what sorrow waits for us, What good is it to judge the rooster's crowing When fire is burning in Acropolis; And on the somewhere dawn of some new lifetime, While in the shed the oxen calmly stall, Why does the rooster, herald of new lifetime, Flap his flamboyant wings on city wall? And yet I love the way fate weaves her gown: The shuttle runs, the spindle turns apace, And straight ahead, look now, for like swan's down The barefoot Delia is flying in your face! Oh, of a life is but a shoddy structure When tongue is starved so utterly for light! All was before, all will repeat then rupture And only recognition brings respite. Thus it will be: A figurine, transparent, Stands on an earthen dish that's clean and wide, And like a snow-white winter squirrel pelt A girl leans over wax and looks inside. Ours not is to divine the Greek Erebus: Wax is to her what bronze is to her mate. Our dice falls only in the field of battle; With divination women seal their fate. 1 person has voted this message useful |
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