I don't know my favourite. But I like these threads and like to add to them.
Catullus 101 translated by Anne Carson
Many the peoples many the oceans I crossed -- I arrive at these poor, brother, burials so I could give you the last gift owed to death and talk (why?) with mute ash. Now that Fortune tore you from me, you oh poor (wrongly) brother (wrongly) taken from me, now still anyway this -- what a distant mood of parents handed down as the sad gift for burials -- accept! Soaked with tears of a brother and into forever, brother, farewell and farewell.
One clear night while the others slept, I climbed the stairs to the roof of the house and under a sky strewn with stars I gazed at the sea, at the spread of it, the rolling crests of it raked by the wind, becoming like bits of lace tossed in the air. I stood in the long, whispering night, waiting for something, a sign, the approach of a distant light, and I imagined you coming closer, the dark waves of your hair mingling with the sea, and the dark became desire, and desire the arriving light. The nearness, the momentary warmth of you as I stood on that lonely height watching the slow swells of the sea break on the shore and turn briefly into glass and disappear . . . Why did I believe you would come out of nowhere? Why with all that the world offers would you come only because I was here?
'A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.' And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling and running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kiking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
''When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.''
''Busque Amor novas artes, novo engenho, para matar me, e novas esquivanças; que não pode tirar me as esperanças, que mal me tirará o que eu não tenho.
Olhai de que esperanças me mantenho! Vede que perigosas seguranças! Que não temo contrastes nem mudanças, andando em bravo mar, perdido o lenho.
Mas, conquanto não pode haver desgosto onde esperança falta, lá me esconde Amor um mal, que mata e não se vê.
Que dias há que n'alma me tem posto um não sei quê, que nasce não sei onde, vem não sei como, e dói não sei porquê.''
'' Chi è questa che vèn, ch'ogn'om la mira, che fa di clarità l'aer tremare e mena seco Amor, s' che parlare null'omo pote, ma ciascun sospira? O Deo, che sembra quando li occhi gira, dical' Amor, ch'i' nol savria contare: cotanto d'umiltà donna mi pare, ch'ogn'altra ver' di lei i' la chiam' ira. Non si poria contar la sua piagenza, ch'a le' s'inchin' ogni gentil vertute, e la beltate per sua dea la mostra. Non fu s' alta già la mente nostra e non si pose 'n noi tanta salute, che propiamente n'aviàn conoscenza.''
Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care; Till the fierce love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,- Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,- Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear, Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail: Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
I Self Lord and Master shall bring disaster to evil factors Demonic chapters, shall be captured by Kings Through the storms of days after Unto the Earth from the Sun through triple darkness to blast ya With a force that can't be compared To any firepower, for it's mindpower shared The brainwave, causes vessels to circulate Like constellations reflect at night off the lake Word to the father, and Mother Earth Seeking everlasting life through this Hell for what it's worth Look listen and observe And watch another Cee Cipher pulling my peeps to the curb Heed the words, it's like ghetto style proverbs The righteous pay a sacrifice to get what they deserve Cannot afford to be confined to a cell Brainwaves swell, turning a desert to a well Experience the best teacher Thoughts will spray like street sweepers, little Daddy street preacher Illustrious feature, narrator you select Accompanied by Deck plus the DJ you respect The seven and a half combined, over the front line The ten percenters, promoting slander in the airtime Bear in mind jewels be the tools of the trade Sharp veins heavenly praise and dues are paid
My black hills have never seen the sun rising, Eternally they look north towards Armagh. Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been Incurious as my black hills that are happy When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.
My hills hoard the bright shillings of March While the sun searches in every pocket. They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.
The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken? A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor." I hear, and is my heart not badly shaken?
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane I was the smudge of ashen fluff--and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky, And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow 10 Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque, A dull dark white against the day's pale white And abstract larches in the neutral light. And then the gradual and dual blue As night unites the viewer and the view, And in the morning, diamonds of frost 20 Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed From left to right the blank page of the road? Reading from left to right in winter's code: A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat: Dot, arrow pointing back...A pheasant's feet! Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse, Finding your China right behind my house. Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes?
All colors made me happy: even gray. 30 My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit, Or, with a silent shiver, order it, Whatever in my field of vision dwelt-- An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte Stilettos of a frozen stillicide-- Was printed on my eyelids' nether side Where it would tarry for an hour or two, And while this lasted all I had to do Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves, 40 Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves.
I cannot understand why from the lake I could make out our front porch when I'd take Lake Road to school, whilst now, although no tree Has intervened, Ilook but fail tosee Even the roof. Maybe some quirk in space Has caused a fold or furrow to displace The fragile vista, the frame house between Goldworth and Wordsmith on its square of green.
I had a favorite young shagbark there 50 With ample dark jade leaves and a black, spare Vermiculated trunk. The setting sun Bronzed the black bark, around which, like undone Garlands, the shadows of the foliage fell. It is now stout and rough; it has done well. White butterflies turn lavender as they Pass through its shade where gently seems to sway The phantom of my little daughter's swing.
The house itself is much the same. One wing We've had revamped. There's a solarium. There's 60 A picture window flanked with fancy chairs. TV's huge paperclip now shines instead Of the stiff vane so often visited By the naive, the gauzy mockingbird Retelling all the programs that she had heard; Switching from chippo-chippo to a clear To-wee, to-wee; then rasping out: come here, Come here, come herrr'; flitting her tail aloft, Or gracefully indulging in a soft Upward hop-flop, and instantly (to-wee) 70 Returning to her perch--the new TV.
I was an infant when my parents died. They both were ornithologists. I've tried So often to evoke them that today I have a thousand parents. Sadly they Dissolve in their own virtues and recede, But certain words, chance words I hear or read, Such as"bad heart" always to him refer, And "cancer of the pancreas" to her.
A preterist: one who collects cold nests. 80 Here was my bedroom, now reserved for guests. Here, tucked away by the Canadian maid, I listened to the buzz downstairs and prayed For everybody to be always well, Uncles and aunts, the maid, her niece Adele, Who'd seen the Pope, people in books, and God.
I was brought up by dear bizarre Aunt Maud, A poet and a painter with a taste For realistic objects interlaced With grotesque growths and images of doom. 90 She lived to hear the next babe cry. Her room We've kept intact. Its trivia create A still life in her style: the paperweight Of convex glass enclosing a lagoon, The verse open at the Index (Moon, Moonrise, Moor, Moral), the forlorn guitar The human skull; and from the local Star A curio: Red Sox Beat Yanks 5-4 On Chapman's Homer, thumbtacked to the door
My God they died young. Theolatry I found 100 Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs a God; but was I free? How fully I felt nature glued to me And how my childish palate loved the taste Half-fish, half-honey, of that golden paste
My picture book was at an early age The painted parchment papering our cage: Mauve rings around the moon; blood-orange sun; Twinned Iris; and that rare phenomenon The iridule--when beautiful and strange, 110 In a bright sky above a mountain range One opal cloudlet in an oval form Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm Which in a distant valley has been staged-- For we are most artistically caged.
And there's the wall of sound: the nightly wall Raised by a trillion crickets in the fall. Impenetrable! Halfway up the hill I'd pause in thrall of their delirious trill. That's Dr. Sutton's light. That's the Great Bear. 120 A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
The regular vulgarian, I daresay, Is happier: He sees the Milky Way Only when making water. Then as now I walked at my own risk: whipped by the bough, Tripped by the stump. Asthmatic, lame and fat, 130 I never bounced a ball or swung a bat.
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By feigned remoteness in the windowpane. I had a brain, five senses (one unique), But otherwise I was a cloutish freak. In sleeping dreams I played with other chaps But really envied nothing--save perhaps The miracle of a lemniscate left Upon wet sand by nonchalantly deft Bicycle tires.
A thread of subtle pain, 140 Tugged at by playful death, released again, But always present, ran through me. One day, When I'd just turned eleven, as I lay Prone on the floor and watched a clockwork toy-- A tin wheelbarrow and pushed by a tin boy-- Bypass chair legs and stray beneath the bed, There was a sudden sunburst in my head.
And then black night. That blackness was sublime. I felt distributed through space and time: One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand 150 Under the pebbles of a panting strand, One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain, In caves, my blood, and the stars, my brain. There were dull throbs in my Triassic; green Optical spots in Upper Pleistocene, An icy shiver down my Age of Stone, And all tomorrows in my funny bone.
During one winter every afternoon I'd into that momentary swoon. And then it ceased. Its memory grew dim. 160 My health improved. I even learned to swim. But like some little lad forced by a wench With his pure tongue her abject thirst to quench, I was corrupted, terrified, allured, And though old Doctor Colt pronounced me cured Of what, he said, were mainly growing pains, The wonder lingers and the shame remains.
There are two powers, two fateful powers. We spend our lives under their ban. From cradle to grave our lives are never ours. They are Death and the Judgement of Man. .......... You don't resist them, you just kneel and they don't answer for their deeds. They show no mercy. They don't heed our protests. Their verdicts allow no appeal. ..........
Death's a gentleman who does not dissemble. Unmoved by all considerations, he's of single mind. He reaps his brethren, struggling or submitting blind when beneath his scythe as equals they assemble. .......... Society is different: disharmony and strife this jealous leader will not tolerate. He will not cut you honest and straight but by the roots will rive your life. .......... And woe to him, alas, twofold woe to that youthful, energetic pride which with smiling gaze and decisive stride into that unequal battle dares to go. .......... When, fatefully aware of all his rights, with the blossoming courage which beauty has planted in him, unflinching, by his task enchanted, he encounters slander and he fights, .......... no mask covers his eyes He'll not be humbled, beaten, pushed. See, from his brow he's brushed abuse and menaces: 'Let them criticise!' .......... Yes, woe to him: the more artless, the more guilty he'll appear. Such is the World: it plays the brute where the guilt's more humanly sincere.
DEMOGORGON This is the day which down the void abysm At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism, And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep; Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs 560 And folds over the world its healing wings.
Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance-- These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length, These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom.
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; 570 To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life; Joy, Empire, and Victory!
Jag ärvde en mörk skog dit jag sällan går. Men det kommer en dag när de döda och de levande byter plats. Då sätter sig skogen i rörelse. Vi är inte utan hopp. De svåraste brotten förblir ouppklarade trots insats av många poliser. På samma sätt finns någonstans i våra liv en stor ouppklarad kärlek. Jag ärvde en mörk skog men i dag går jag i en annan skog, den ljusa. Allt levande sjunger slingrar viftar och kryper! Det är vår och luften är mycket stark. Jag har examen från glömskans universitet och är lika tomhänt som skjortan på tvättstrecket.
And so more than 10 people can read it:
I inherited a dark wood where I seldom go. But a day will come when the dead and the living trade places. The wood will be set in motion. We are not without hope. The most serious crimes will remain unsolved in spite of the efforts of many policemen. In the same way there is somewhere in our lives a great unsolved love. I inherited a dark wood, but today I’m walking in the other wood, the light one. All the living creatures that sing, wriggle, wag, and crawl! It’s spring and the air is very strong. I have graduated from the university of oblivion and am as empty-handed as the shirt on the clothesline.
Yes,I find Marina touch overblown, which is also true of much of the later Eliot. Part of what I like about Journey of the Magi is that the tone and, somewhat paradoxically, the religiosity is a little more subdued. I find that late Eliot is a little like a dish with a really strong flavor: it's very nice for a little while, but by the end of the poem you're quite exhausted. I also admit to not really understanding Marina: I don't know Latin (although I could deduce that the quote is asking something about the location), and I don't know where it comes from. Perhaps if I understood the context better, I'd have a somewhat better opinion of it.
>>7680227 Marina is the name of pericles daughter in a Greek myth and Shakespeare play. She was thought to have drowned by her father. I think this poem is about an old man in his last days before death. When you lucidly remember the past, thing you may not even consciously remember. This was written when Eliot was older and may be about his own childlessness.
>>7680281 That was my take on marina above and I like journey of the magi better too. Im not the original guy talking about it. The Latin says something like "where is this place, what region, what (something)"
Cut the top off, call it Amber Rose Just bought a big body, time to paint the toes Known to act a donkey on the camel-toe Then take the camel-toe and turn it into casserole
-Tauheed Epps 2 Chainz talking on the FLX phone Poof, just like that the whole check gone Former Posturepedic I was slept on So many chains on it look like my neck gone My girl came through and brought an extra body Now that's an after party for the after party Two-gun gang, all-black Ferrari His and her Armani, put it in her tummy And yeah, the bread good if the head good Before Benihana's it was canned goods Before canned goods it was Similac I'm from where they send shots then we send em back A half a million dollars worth of crack money Wrap your parents up, now you got a black Mommy Yeah I did it, true to my religion Two guns on me, both with extensions If you on the pole, play your position I got enough dough to pay your tuition Corduroy Trues, with the skull cap I just woke up, tell me where the drugs at And after the drugs, where the girls at And after the girls, where the love at And if it ain't no love, I'm like fuck that Nigga I'm so dope, you could catch a fucking contact
I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep with you, to enter your sleep as its smooth dark wave slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent wavering forest of bluegreen leaves with its watery sun & three moons towards the cave where you must descend, towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CiK7C3wrKGU My thoughts 'n' oughts are nothing fixed Hooray! for Joy's the world that's downed unmixed this way! and all who'd be good mates of mine to clink 'n' drink just suit me fine for lees of life and wine!
I'd trained my trade on gold 'n' gain Hooray! but so I sold my joy for pain; I say, the coins were rolling here and there, but every time I chased a where the here was over there.
To women then I gave my heart O belles! but how those damsels made me smart o hells! The false were true to others, true, but true ones bored me through and through; the best ... were not for woo.
Next, I thought I ought to roam Hooray! but then I lost my ways of home, that way, and nothing seemed to suit me quite, the board was bad, the bed a fright, and no one got me right.
I tuned my dream to name and fame Excel! but better men put me to shame O hell! or when I gave some good I had they made me out to be a cad; my good was worse than bad.
I sought the right in battle might Hooray! and often was our might so right (hooray!) the enemy's land was ours to run; but still the score was won to none, and a leg became undone.
So now I call my calling nought So what! The world's all mine that comes unsought that's what! Now that it's song and sup all day, come clink 'n' drink me all the way these lees to the last hooray!
All trademarks and copyrights on this page are owned by their respective parties. Images uploaded are the responsibility of the Poster. Comments are owned by the Poster.
This is a 4chan archive - all of the shown content originated from that site. This means that 4Archive shows their content, archived. If you need information for a Poster - contact them.
If a post contains personal/copyrighted/illegal content, then use the post's [Report] link! If a post is not removed within 24h contact me at email@example.com with the post's information.