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Favourite poem - any language | ||
Tags: Poetry | Multilingual | ||
 Language Learning Forum : Books, Literature & Reading |  | |
| urubu Pentaglot Groupie Germany Joined 6417 days ago 49 posts - 72 votes  Speaks: German*, Dutch, Portuguese, Indonesian, English | Message 9 of 60 10 June 2010 at 1:42pm | IP Logged |
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I seem to have a minimalist bent:
Jan Hanlo De Mus Tjielp tjielp - tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp - tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp Tjielp etc. English: The Sparrow Chirp chirp - chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp- chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp Chirp etc. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| anamsc Triglot Senior Member Andorra Joined 6014 days ago 296 posts - 382 votes Speaks: English*, Spanish, Catalan Studies: Arabic (Levantine), Arabic (Written), French | Message 10 of 60 10 June 2010 at 5:12pm | IP Logged |
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I much prefer poetry to novels (probably because it's shorter and there's not any annoying characters!). My favorite is Pablo Neruda:
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos". El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso. En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos. ¡La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito! Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. ¡Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos! Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido, Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella. Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío. Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla. La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo. Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos. Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo. La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles. Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise! Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído. De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos. Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como ésta, la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo. Gets me every time. 6 persons have voted this message useful | |
| TannerS Triglot Groupie United States Joined 5420 days ago 58 posts - 60 votes Speaks: English*, German, Spanish Studies: Russian, Latin, Ancient Greek | Message 11 of 60 14 June 2010 at 7:17am | IP Logged |
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The Colossus
by Sylvia Plath I shall never get you put together entirely, Pieced, glued, and properly jointed. Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles Proceed from your great lips. It's worse than a barnyard. Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser. Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol I crawl like an ant in mourning Over the weedy acres of your brow To mend the immense skull-plates and clear The bald, white tumuli of your eyes. A blue sky out of the Oresteia Arches above us. O father, all by yourself You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum. I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress. Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered In their old anarchy to the horizon-line. It would take more than a lightning-stroke To create such a ruin. Nights, I squat in the cornucopia Of your left ear, out of the wind, Counting the red stars and those of plum-color. The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue. My hours are married to shadow. No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel On the blank stones of the landing. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Medievals Newbie France Joined 5080 days ago 2 posts - 3 votes | Message 12 of 60 23 June 2010 at 10:59pm | IP Logged |
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I very enjoyed Le dormeur du val by Arthur Rimbaud (he wrote his first poem when he was 15 y.o)
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière, Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière, Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons. Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue, Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu, Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue, Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut. Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme : Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid. Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ; Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine, Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit. Edited by Medievals on 23 June 2010 at 11:00pm 2 persons have voted this message useful | |
| Sennin Senior Member Bulgaria Joined 5845 days ago 1457 posts - 1759 votes 5 sounds | Message 13 of 60 23 June 2010 at 11:39pm | IP Logged |
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On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye That clothe the world and meet the sky Down to many-towered Camelot. Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley, Hear the song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly Down to many-towered Camelot. For great walls and four great towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The lady of Shalott. ... Edited by Sennin on 23 June 2010 at 11:40pm 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| dolly Senior Member United States Joined 5601 days ago 191 posts - 376 votes Speaks: English* Studies: Latin | Message 14 of 60 24 June 2010 at 5:07am | IP Logged |
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Catherine Pozzi
AVE Très haut amour, s'il se peut que je meure Sans avoir su d'où je vous possédais, En quel soleil était votre demeure En quel passé votre temps, en quelle heure Je vous aimais, Très haut amour qui passez la mémoire, Feu sans foyer dont j'ai fait tout mon jour, En quel destin vous traciez mon histoire, En quel sommeil se voyait votre gloire, O mon séjour... Quand je serai pour moi-même perdue Et divisée à l'abîme infini, Infiniment, quand je serai rompue, Quand le présent dont je suis revêtue Aura trahi, Par l'univers en mille corps brisée, De mille instants non rassemblés encor, De cendre aux cieux jusqu'au néant vannée, Vous referez pour une étrange année Un seul trésor Vous referez mon nom et mon image De mille corps emportés par le jour, Vive unité sans nom et sans visage, Cœur de l'esprit, ô centre du mirage Très haut amour. 1 person has voted this message useful | |
| Doitsujin Diglot Senior Member Germany Joined 5131 days ago 1256 posts - 2363 votes Speaks: German*, English | Message 15 of 60 24 June 2010 at 10:06am | IP Logged |
I like Fisches Nachtgesang by Christian Morgenstern:
It's perfect because it doesn't require any translation. In case you wondering how this poem is read, check out the following youtube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgUZWpKCAcM#t=1m47s Morgenstern also wrote a funny poem about the pitfalls of German declination: Der Werwolf Ein Werwolf eines Nachts entwich von Weib und Kind, und sich begab an eines Dorfschullehrers Grab und bat ihn: Bitte, beuge mich! Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: "Der Werwolf", - sprach der gute Mann, "des Weswolfs"- Genitiv sodann, "dem Wemwolf" - Dativ, wie man's nennt, "den Wenwolf" - damit hat's ein End.' Dem Werwolf schmeichelten die Fälle, er rollte seine Augenbälle. Indessen, bat er, füge doch zur Einzahl auch die Mehrzahl noch! Der Dorfschulmeister aber mußte gestehn, daß er von ihr nichts wußte. Zwar Wölfe gäb's in großer Schar, doch "Wer" gäb's nur im Singular. Der Wolf erhob sich tränenblind - er hatte ja doch Weib und Kind!! Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. 4 persons have voted this message useful | |
| gedamara Diglot Newbie Albania Joined 5152 days ago 22 posts - 22 votes Speaks: German, Albanian* Studies: French, English | Message 16 of 60 25 June 2010 at 10:38am | IP Logged |
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Ca pika shiu ranë mbi qelq.
Për ty unë befas ndjeva mall. Jetojmë të dy në një qytet, Dhe rrallë shihemi sa rrallë. Edhe m'u duk pak e çuditshme Si erdh kjo vjeshtë, ky mëngjes. Qiejt e ngrysur pa lejlekë Dhe shirat pa ylber në mes. Dhe thënia e vjetër e Heraklitit Seç m'u kujtua sot për dreq: "Të zgjuarit janë bashkë në botë, Kurse të fjeturit janë veç". Në ç'ënderr kemi rënë kaq keq, Që dot s'po zgjohemi vallë?... Ca pika shiu ranë mbi qelq Dhe unë për ty seç ndjeva mall (By Ismail Kadare ) and this is quite funny Elegji për Qenin Më dhimsesh qen i vogël! s'pate fat, Të ktheheshe në oborrin e shtëpisë U shtrive i përgjakur mbi asfalt Nga një makinë e egër e pashpirt E ç'deshe ti që dole shpejt e shpejt Në mes të rrugës nga një dushk a ferrë? Njeriu shtyp mikun rrugën kur ia pret Dhe jo më pastaj një qen qyqar të mjerë! 2 persons have voted this message useful |
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