Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
The Secret StaircaseMidwinter
When the days are the shortest, the nights are the coldest,
The frost is the sharpest, the year is the oldest,
The sun is the weakest, the wind is the hardest,
The snow is the deepest, the skies are the darkest,
So polish your whiskers and tidy your nest,
And dress in your richest and finest and best…
For winter has brought you the worst it can bring,
And now it will give you
The promise of SPRING!
Karen wrote: "This adorable rhyme comes from a favorite seasonal read aloud, one I read to my daughters 20+ years ago and one I read to my students during the week before winter break. Mice celebrate Midwinter i..."Polishing my whiskers then Karen, thank you! :-)
Karen wrote: "This adorable rhyme comes from a favorite seasonal read aloud, one I read to my daughters 20+ years ago and one I read to my students during the week before winter break."Thank you, so freaking cute!
As much as Sabine polishing her whiskers.
Mod
Aww, I love this, Karen. Thank you for sharing.
Everyone's whiskers look so shiny here! Wait — I think you still have some cupcake crumbs on yours, Sabine... :-D
Mod
:-D :-D :-D
Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare's Sonnet 130My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Mod
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires,..."
Read beautifully, yes?
Mod
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires,..."
Ah. Thanks, Antonella.
Mod
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires,..."
His voice is so amazing. Beautifully read. Thank you, Antonella.
Mod
A blue glow
Streams out from my clothes.
Midwinter.
A clinking tambour made of ice.
I close my eyes.
Somewhere there’s a silent world
And there is an opening
Where the dead
Are smuggled over the border.
By Tomas Tranströmer, translated from the Swedish by Robert Bly
Mod
A blue glow
Streams out from my clothes.
Midwinter.
A clinking tambour made of ice.
I close my eyes.
Somewhere there’s a silent world
And there is an opening
Where the dead
Ar..."
Beautiful. And very appropriate for midwinter.
I especially love the line: A clinking tambour made of ice.
Mod
Oooookay. That's exactly how tired I am. I thought I was in One Word A Day thread just now...
Mod
You need rest and quiet in front of a warm fire.
Mod
You need rest and quiet in front of a warm fire."
Yes, Ma'am. :-)
Mod
Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.
Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet,
That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear
The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells,
Wind-blown o'er misty hills and curtained dells.
One step aside and dewy buds unclose
The sweetness of the violet and the rose;
Song and romance still linger in the green,
Emblossomed ways by you so seldom seen,
And near at hand, would you but see them, lie
All lovely things beloved in days gone by.
You have forgotten what it is to smile
In your too busy lifecome, rest awhile.
Johanna wrote: "COME, REST AWHILE by Lucy Maud Montgomery"Lovely, and very apt ;-).
Josh wrote: "Midwinter"Thank you, I like poetry in pills.
It's more digestible for me than big chunks or a whole book ;-).
Mod
Thank you, I like poetry in pills.
It's more digestible for me than big chunks or a whole book ;-)."
:-D
Antonella wrote: "Josh wrote: "Midwinter"Thank you, I like poetry in pills.
It's more digestible for me than big chunks or a whole book ;-)."
So you take your couplets in caplets?
Stephen wrote: "Antonella wrote: "Josh wrote: "Midwinter"Thank you, I like poetry in pills.
It's more digestible for me than big chunks or a whole book ;-)."
So you take your couplets in caplets?"
LOL!
Today is the International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Here the poem introducing the book «Se questo è un uomo» (If This Is a Man) by Primo Levi.Se questo è un uomo
Voi che vivete sicuri
Nelle vostre tiepide case
voi che trovate tornando a sera
Il cibo caldo e visi amici:
Considerate se questo è un uomo
Che lavora nel fango
Che non conosce pace
Che lotta per mezzo pane
Che muore per un sì o per un no.
Considerate se questa è una donna
Senza capelli e senza nome
Senza più forza di ricordare
Vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo
Come una rana d'inverno.
Meditate che questo è stato
Vi comando queste parole.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore
Stando in casa andando per via
Coricandovi alzandovi
Ripetetele ai vostri figli.
O vi si sfaccia la casa
La malattia vi impedisca
I vostri nati torcano il viso da voi.
If This Is a Man
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud,
Who does not know peace,
Who fights for a scrap of bread,
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman
Without hair and without name,
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.
translation by Stuart Woolf
Antonella wrote: "Today is the International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Here the poem introducing the book «Se questo è un uomo» (If This Is a Man) by Primo Levi.Se questo è un uomo
Voi che vivete si..."
Thank you, Antonella. Not only a powerful reminder of the history, but a relevant commentary on today's refugee situation.
I haven't read this topic for a few weeks and have enjoyed reading all these recent poems so much. Thanks, everyone. :)
I was looking online for a recipe the other day and ran across one of Pablo Neruda's odes. A lot of them are about food and I think they're wonderful. I thought I'd share this one:Ode to the Lemon
by Pablo Neruda
English translation by Margaret Sayers Peden
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth’s breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
***
Oda al Limón
De aquellos azahares
desatados
por la luz de la luna,
de aquel
olor de amor
exasperado,
hundido en la fragancia,
solió
del limonero el amarillo,
desde su planetario
bajaron a la tierra los limones.
Tierna mercadería!
Se llenaron las costas,
los mercados,
de luz, de oro
silvestre,
y abrimos
dos mitades
de milagro,
ácido congelado
que corría
desde los hemisferios
de una estrella,
y el licor más profundo
de la naturaleza,
intransferible, vivo,
irreductible
nació de la frescura
del limón,
de su casa fragante,
de su ácida, secreta simetría.
En el limón cortaron
los cuchillos
una pequeña
catedral,
el ábside escondido
abrió a la luz los ácidos vitrales
y en gotas
resbalaron los topacios,
los altares,
la fresca arquitectura.
Así, cuando tu mano
empuña el hemisferio
del cortado
limón sobre tu plato
un universo de oro
derramaste,
una
copa amarilla
con milagros,
uno de los pezones olorosos
del pecho de la tierra,
el rayo de la luz que se hizo fruta,
el fuego diminuto de un planeta.
The ConfirmationBy Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that's honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world seem bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.
Mod
By Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller find..."
Then found you as a traveller finds a place…
Just that abstracted phrase is beautiful in its own right.
Karen wrote: "Alison wrote: "The ConfirmationBy Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a..."
And the last one too; "But like yourself, as they were meant to be". Such a wonderful sentence filled with acceptance and love.
Mod
By Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then ..."
Yes.
Mod
Se questo è un uomo..."
Yes. What Anne said.
Mod
Ode to the Lemo..."
Ooooh! I need lemon! NOW! :-D
Thank you for posting this, Alison. :-)
Mod
By Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a..."
Oh yes.
Anne wrote: "Karen wrote: "Alison wrote: "The ConfirmationBy Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then ..."
Yes, I liked that bit too.
Johanna wrote: "Alison wrote: "I was looking online for a recipe the other day and ran across one of Pablo Neruda's odes. A lot of them are about food and I think they're wonderful. I thought I'd share this one:Ooooh! I need lemon! NOW! :-D"
Yeah, that's how I felt! :) He's written other lovely poems about onions and tomatoes and artichokes and wine and other things and they're all delightful and poignant.
Mod
By Edwin Muir
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller find..."
I love this -- particularly for the illusion of artlessness. It feels like the casual observation of, oh, a lumberjack or an explorer. ;-D But then you really read it and you see how thoughtful and precise the words are.
Don't Quit by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892) When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is strange with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns
And many a failure comes about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow—
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out—
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell just how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit—
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.
I read here: Critical opinion on the value of Whittier's poetry is mixed. Some dismiss it as overly emotional, while others believe the heartfelt simplicity is precisely its appeal. You can decide for yourselves ;-).
An acquaintance of mine trying to get funds for her new book found it inspiring and just shared it...
Antonella wrote: "Don't Quit by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 - 1892) When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And..."
@Antonella, omg. This was practically my mantra when I was in college. I love this poem very much. I suppose I am one of what others would call overly emotional but that's okay. Because before that I've been called heartless, stonehearted, without feelings, etc. Lol.
What good timing, Antonella. I've had a somewhat crappy day today and I needed to read something nice. Thanks. :)
Josephine: I didn't know that it is famous.Alison, I'm sorry to hear this. I hope it was a lonely occurrence.
Antonella wrote: "Josephine: I didn't know that it is famous.Alison, I'm sorry to hear this. I hope it was a lonely occurrence."
@Antonella: ah, I'm not sure as well if it is famous. BUT, I do love to read especially when I was younger so it's unsurprising I stumbled on it. These are my favorite lines on this poem:
And you never can tell just how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit—
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.
The truth is, I've forgotten about this poem. It's been nineteen years since I discovered this. I'm so glad you posted it. :) Thank you.
To the memory of Luca Rossi. He was 20 years old and was killed by a policeman on the 23rd February 1986, as he was taking a bus. The policeman wanted to shoot two petty delinquents running away. From 1975 to 1989 there were 254 dead and 371 wounded (90% of them unarmed people) in Italy because the ''Legge Reale'' allowed policemen to use weapons freely. On Living by Nazim Hikmet (1902-1963)
I
Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example--
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people--
even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees--
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
II
Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery--
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast. . .
Let’s say we’re at the front--
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind--
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.
III
This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet--
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
--you have to feel this sorrow now--
for the world must be loved this much
if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .
From Poems of Nazım Hikmet, translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk, published by Persea Books.
Antonella wrote: "Josephine: I didn't know that it is famous.Alison, I'm sorry to hear this. I hope it was a lonely occurrence."
Thanks, friend. :) Just had a bad day yesterday. Today is going much better thus far. And today's my SPCA volunteering day, so I get to go play with kittens, which makes everything better! Yay! :)
A poem by a woman for the International Women's DayThe Onion by Wislawa Szymborska
The onion, now that’s something else.
Its innards don’t exist.
Nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist.
Oniony on the inside,
onionesque it appears.
It follows its own daimonion
without our human tears.
Our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare go,
an internal inferno,
the anathema of anatomy.
In an onion there’s only onion
from its top to its toe,
onionymous monomania,
unanimous omninudity.
At peace, of a piece,
internally at rest.
Inside it, there’s a smaller one
of undiminished worth.
The second holds a third one,
the third contains a fourth.
A centripetal fugue.
Polyphony compressed.
Nature’s rotundest tummy,
its greatest success story,
the onion drapes itself in its
own aureoles of glory.
We hold veins, nerves, and fat,
secretions’ secret sections.
Not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections.
From Poems New and Collected, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
For a comment, see for ex. http://literaryandculturaltheoryatwab...
Mod
onionoid perfections
..."
Oh yes.
Mod
"Recuerdo"
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "'God bless you!" for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (bisexual poet and feminist)
Today was World Poetry Day.The Palestinian poet Ashraf Fayadh, imprisoned in Saudi Arabia for renouncing Islam, has written his first poem since he was incarcerated two years ago, provoked by the loss of his father who died after hearing his son was to be beheaded. ''The Guardian'' published it.
Tense Times by Ashraf Fayadh
Tense times for me,
and sleep’s acting like a newly love-struck teen.
I shall disregard the state my heart’s in
and my mind’s upheavals like water bubbling
past the boiling point.
I am a part of the universe with which the universe is angry,
a part of the earth of which the earth feels utterly ashamed,
a wretched human towards whom
other humans cannot maintain neutrality.
...
Read the whole poem here:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2016...
See also http://www.theguardian.com/books/2016...
Ithaca by Constantine Cavafy [1863-1933]As you set out for Ithaca
hope that your journey is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laestrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare sensation
touches your spirit and your body.
Laestrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope that your journey is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and learn again from those who know.
Keep Ithaca always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so that you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.
Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would have not set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithacas mean.
==========================================
Here this poem read by Sean Connery with the music of Vangelis:
http://www.openculture.com/2012/09/se...
Mod
As you set out for Ithaca
hope that your journey is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laestrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don’t be a..."
Now there is the perfect storm of talents.
Q&A with Josh Lanyon
Books mentioned in this topic
Mr. Cogito (other topics)Don't Mention the Children (other topics)
Writing Haiku: A Beginner's Guide to Composing Japanese Poetry (other topics)
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life (other topics)
The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World (other topics)
More...
Authors mentioned in this topic
Zbigniew Herbert (other topics)Vanni Bianconi (other topics)
Pablo Neruda (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
Michael Rosen (other topics)
More...
De tudo ficaram três coisas:
A certeza de que estamos começando,
A certeza de que é preciso continuar e
A certeza de que podemos ser interrompidos an..."
Oh my gosh. This is so true. And if only we could always turn those falls into dance steps.