Poet's Corner

[Ringo]

This is what the English language looked like at the time of the early 13th century.

Excerpt from the poem The Owl and the Nightingale

Ich habbe iherd, and soþ hit is,
þe mon mot beo wel storre-wis,
þat wite innoh of wucche þinge kume,
so þu seist þe is iwune.
Hwat canstu, wrecche þing, of storre,
bute þat þu bihauest hi feorre?

Can anyone read and understand this?

 

[ShahdagMountains]

To be silent the whole day, see no newspaper, hear no radio, listen to no gossip, be thoroughly and completely lazy, thoroughly and completely indifferent to the fate of the world is the finest medicine a man can give himself. ~Henry Miller

 

[ShahdagMountains]

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

JRR Tolkien.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[Ringo]

My translation from russian . A poem by Ion Degen, a soviet veteran tank driver of World War II.

In the middle of agony, my dear friend
You in vain don't call mother or God
Let me warm up my hands, you woul'd understand,
Over puddle of your steaming blood
Do not cry, do not groan, you are strong enough
You're not wounded, you are simply killed.
Let me take off your warm boots, we'll soon coming up
Through the snow to take over that hill.

 

[lg325]

My translation from russian . A poem by Ion Degen, a soviet veteran tank driver of World War II.

In the middle of agony, my dear friend
You in vain don't call mother or God
Let me warm up my hands, you woul'd understand,
Over puddle of your steaming blood
Do not cry, do not groan, you are strong enough
You're not wounded, you are simply killed.
Let me take off your warm boots, we'll soon coming up
Through the snow to take over that hill.

poetry straight from reality and deep inside his being.

 

[Ringo]

Another of my translations of a poem by Yulia Drunina, a woman who participated in the war.

I only once saw hand to hand fight
One time for real, in nightmares many more
The one who said, that never had the war fright
Know nothing absolutely about war.
1943

The non-rhyming translation looks like this:

I've only seen hand-to-hand once,
Once in real life. And a thousand times in my dreams.
Whoever says war is not scary,
He knows nothing about war.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[ShahdagMountains]

Come live with me, and be my love;
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Kit Marlow.

 

[Ropey]

UnNatural Citizen said:

Words he twists and turns around,
Put in mouths where they don't belong,
Speaking thoughts they've never found,
I am silenced, it's oh so wrong.

They shape my voice, they mold my name,
Misconstruing what I've not said,
Creating stories, playing games,
Leaving lies behind, instead.

Their bullshit lies paint my face,
With colors I've never worn,
Changing views, distorting grace,
Leaving my inner state forlorn.

So hear my plea, respect my voice,
Speak your mind, but not for me,
Let me have my own free choice,
And in truth, let my words be.

 

[beautress]

the heat of summer is not going away just because the garage fan in the room runs full blast

Iaying down on an oversized pillow that absorbs the sweat of summer's pervasive heat with the door closed to hide a skimpy tee-shirt from the empty upstairs hall and downstairs empty floor

oliver the fuzzy puppy has olive eyes closed and tan fuzzy coat for a blanket

oliver sleeps under the kitchen dinette that has a cool tile floor and guards all the lower rooms in his puppy dreams

the electric light is turned off as the sunset filters bright light through the sassafras jungle out ar west front windows

time to sleep approaches as tapping cell ends at last and the shade takes over tha approaching dusk

 

[ShahdagMountains]

“to live in this world
you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go”

Mary Oliver - In Blackwater Woods from her collection, American Primitive, 1983.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

Don’t prioritize your looks my friend, they won’t last the journey.
Your sense of humour though, will only get better.
Your intuition will grow and expand like a majestic cloak of wisdom.
Your ability to choose your battles, will be fine-tuned to perfection.
Your capacity for stillness, for living in the moment, will blossom.
And your desire to live each and every moment will transcend all other wants.
Your instinct for knowing what (and who) is worth your time, will grow and flourish like ivy on a castle wall.
Don’t prioritize your looks my friend, they will change forevermore,
that pursuit is one of much sadness and disappointment.
Prioritize the uniqueness that make you you, and the invisible magnet that draws in other like-minded souls to dance in your orbit.
These are the things which will only get better. ~Donna Ashworth.

 

[Dante]

Post your favorite poems and/or any original poems--here is one of my favorite poets:

I Know the Way You Can Get
by Hafiz

I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of Love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one's self.

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.

You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love's
Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

Almost a Conjuror​

By Lucie Brock-Broido

The slight white poet would assume non-human forms, homely
Grampus fish, a wahoo, nuthatch, nit.

He had no romance except
Remorse, which he used like fuzzy algebra. By pouring bluing

On black porous coal, he crystallized, pronounced himself almost
A sorcerer. He had an empty cloakroom

In the chest of him.
All the lost wool scarves

Of all the world collected there & muffled him
With wool.

He imagined he could move a broom if he desired, just by wishing
It. If he spoke of ghosts, he thought he could make of art vast

Tattersall & spreading wings.
When they found him in the nurse’s office,

He was awkward as a charlatan, slightly queasy
In an emperor’s real clothes.

The thermos in his lunchbox was perpetually
Broken and he lied. The small world smelled of oil

Of peppermint, for a broken spell. Everything is plaid
And sour in oblivion, as well.

Almost a Conjuror

All the lost wool scarves Of all the world collected there & muffled him With wool. The small world smelled of oil Of peppermint, for a broken spell.

www.poetryfoundation.org

 

[beautress]

Truck stopped running near a dead end
To haul, fix would have been a big spend.
Joyless fright there, when a new friend
Ran to the place where the truck broke
He then fixed it well and never spoke.
I watched him go and said "thanks,"
But he was already going to his home
With a friendly wave, but my heart broke
To think the kind act had no reward
I fretted on having nothing to give
So I crocheted a coaster for his prize,
That it took two days was no surprise.
I took it to his front door, with a smile
He ushered me in to meet his aging mom
I never thought I'd be treated so kindly,
I fell in love with their welcoming ways,
Inviting me back any time or days..
Our friendship grew and love did too
I felt at home when he showed his mom's quilt, which was a masterpiece, when I told him of my quilt store in country cold, to prove my praise for her lovely work. I will n'er forget such diligent kindness that day and the treasure of their friendship.
Friendship is our Texas State motto. Friendship, love, and kindness rock!
Lucky me.

 

[Dante]

Almost a Conjuror​

By Lucie Brock-Broido

The slight white poet would assume non-human forms, homely
Grampus fish, a wahoo, nuthatch, nit.

He had no romance except
Remorse, which he used like fuzzy algebra. By pouring bluing

On black porous coal, he crystallized, pronounced himself almost
A sorcerer. He had an empty cloakroom

In the chest of him.
All the lost wool scarves

Of all the world collected there & muffled him
With wool.

He imagined he could move a broom if he desired, just by wishing
It. If he spoke of ghosts, he thought he could make of art vast

Tattersall & spreading wings.
When they found him in the nurse’s office,

He was awkward as a charlatan, slightly queasy
In an emperor’s real clothes.

The thermos in his lunchbox was perpetually
Broken and he lied. The small world smelled of oil

Of peppermint, for a broken spell. Everything is plaid
And sour in oblivion, as well.

Almost a Conjuror

All the lost wool scarves Of all the world collected there & muffled him With wool. The small world smelled of oil Of peppermint, for a broken spell.

www.poetryfoundation.org

Ahh Lucie. I miss her.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

As twilight paints the sky in hues, the day unwinds, the night ensues. Stars emerge, like diamonds bright, in evening's gentle, soothing light.

The moon ascends, a silver sphere, casting shadows, whispers near. Beneath its glow, we find our peace, in quiet moments that never cease.

So enjoy this eve, serene and still, let worries fade, let hearts refill. Whether day or night, let joy take flight, embrace each moment, bask in its light.

In Oporto, Portugal.

 

[beautress]

It's very sad to say
My hope, shattered away
Because the wedding bells
Will be for someone else.

My blindness did not see
His love was not for me
And so I said a little prayer
God.help me take .what seems unfair
And help them be a happy pair. Amen

 

[ShahdagMountains]

This is what the English language looked like at the time of the early 13th century.

Excerpt from the poem The Owl and the Nightingale

Ich habbe iherd, and soþ hit is,
þe mon mot beo wel storre-wis,
þat wite innoh of wucche þinge kume,
so þu seist þe is iwune.
Hwat canstu, wrecche þing, of storre,
bute þat þu bihauest hi feorre?

Can anyone read and understand this?

Before the Norman conquest, the primary language in England was Anglo-Saxon, also called Old English, the ancestor of Middle English and Modern English. The Norman occupation marked the transition from Old English to Middle English and profoundly contributed to the English lexicon and grammar.

During the Norman period, for instance, the English language lost up to 85% of its Anglo-Saxon words and became a simple vernacular, the language of peasants and the uneducated. As spoken English declined and written English nearly disappeared, French gained more power and popularity among the general public and elite. It became the language of the rulers, the educated, and the upper classes and the official language of England for more than 300 years.

French influence on the English language is most apparent in its vocabulary.
Under the Norman occupation, English embraced new words and expressions. Today, an estimated 30% of the modern English vocabulary derives from French. English speakers will also typically know at least 1,500 French words, without even needing to learn the language.

Words of French origin that have entered the English language include “abandon” from abandoner, “accord” from accorder, “adopt” from adopter, and “danger” from danger.

 

[beautress]

View attachment 963898

My favorite poem in school days, I still love it!