Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
This is such an inspirational poem, Jordan. Thank you for posting it.
Mod
Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...
http://..."
I LOVE that. :-)
Mod
That is very touching.
An «aubade» is a song/poem in praise of the dawn. Here «Aubade» read by the author. For me at the moment it would be: «I work all day, and go to the cinema at night.» ;-). It's a great poem, and I hope it won't depress you.Aubade by Philip Larkin
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Man, that's heavy. Nicely written, though, and vivid.
Alison wrote: "Man, that's heavy. Nicely written, though, and vivid."It was quoted in a film I've seen, wrongly by the way, because Larkin wrote it only around 1977 and part of the film plays in the 60ies.
The film is «The Sense of an Ending», an adaptation of The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
Mod
That is painful and evocative.
Mod
SEASONS by W.S. MERWIN
This hour along the valley this light at the end
of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer
I've just found this poem. Often only the first three lines are quoted, but then the reader doesn't have an idea about what is this about. Here the complete version. The somehow strange line separation is in the original:Poetry by Marianne Moore
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician –
nor is it valid
to discriminate against ‘business documents and
school-books’; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
‘literalists of the imagination-‘ above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, ‘imaginary gardens with real toads in them,’ shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
Mod
I like this very much!
I'm always melancholy at summer's end. Even though I love autumn and then the holidays, the end of summer always aches.
Mod
Ha!
Antonella wrote: "I've just found this poem. Often only the first three lines are quoted, but then the reader doesn't have an idea about what is this about. Here the complete version. The somehow strange line separa..."Thanks for this! I read this in my 11th grade poetry class, and you inspired me to pull down my old "Norton Introduction to Poetry" which is now falling apart in my hands as I leaf through it.
The Marianne Moore poem is right behind "Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff" by A.E. Housman: one of my favorite poems ever, even before I read Strong Poison in which it was (view spoiler). I mean, what can be better than a poem about beer?
And here's "beware: do not read this poem" by Ishmael Reed. I remember the histrionics the class clown put on when he was asked to read that one aloud to the class. It's funny how high school is so terrible while you're going through it, but so much fun when you look back on it.
Mod
I have that very book!
A poem by Erich Fried (1921-1988), German original below. I found the English version here where it is called:
Life ((no literal translation))
Life
would perhaps
be easier
if I had
never met you
Less sadness
each time
when we must part
less fear
of the next parting
and the next after that
And not so much either
of the powerless longing
when you’re not there
which wants only the
impossible
and that right away
next minute
and then
when that can’t be
is hurt
and finds breathing difficult
Life
would perhaps be
simpler
if I hadn’t met you
only it wouldn’t be
my life
Nur Nicht
Das Leben
wäre
vielleicht einfacher
wenn ich dich
gar nicht getroffen hätte
Weniger Trauer
jedes Mal
wenn wir uns trennen müssen
weniger Angst
vor der nächsten
und übernächsten Trennung
Und auch nicht soviel
von dieser machtlosen Sehnsucht
wenn du nicht da bist
die nur das Unmögliche will
und das sofort
im nächsten Augenblick
und die dann
weil es nicht sein kann
betroffen ist
und schwer atmet
Das Leben
wäre vielleicht
einfacher
wenn ich dich
nicht getroffen hätte
Es wäre nur nicht
mein Leben
beautiful, thank you for posting it, Antonella!
Antonella wrote: "A poem by Erich Fried (1921-1988), German original below. I found the English version here where it is called:
Life ((no literal translation))
Life
would perhaps
be easier
if I had
never met yo..."
This is lovely, Antonella. Thank you.
Mod
I found the English version here where it is called:
Life ((no literal translation))
Life
would perhaps
be easier
if I had
never met yo..."
Lovely.
It's that time of year...ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
And I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I don’t need to hang my stocking
There upon the fireplace
Santa Claus won’t make me happy
With a toy on Christmas Day
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas
Is you.
Oh, I won't ask for much this Christmas
I won't even wish for snow
And I'm just gonna keep on waiting
Underneath the mistletoe
I won't make a list and send it
To the North Pole for Saint Nick
I won't even stay awake to
Hear those magic reindeer click
'Cause I just want you here tonight
Holding on to me so tight
What more can I do?
Cause all I want for Christmas is you.
Oh-ho, all the lights are shining
So brightly everywhere
And the sound of children
Laughter fills the air
And everyone is singing
I hear those sleigh bells ringing
Santa won't you bring me the one I really need?
Won't you please bring my baby to me?
Oh, I don't want a lot for Christmas
This is all I'm asking for
I just wanna see my baby
Standing right outside my door
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
Baby all I want for Christmas is
You.
Mariah Carey/Walter N. Afanasieff
Mod
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
And I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I don’..."
I love that song!
Mod
I found the English version here where it is called:
Life ((no literal translation))
Life
would perhaps
be easier
if I had
never met yo..."
That's nice. Touching and true.
Mod
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
And I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I don’..."
<3 <3 <3
You're right! It's the time of year we share Christmas song lyrics!
Mod
My dear acquaintance, it's so good to know you
For strength of your hand
That is loving and giving
And a happy new year
With love overflowing
With joy in our hearts
For the blessed new year
Raise your glass and we'll have a cheer
For us all who are gathered here
And a happy new year to all that is living
To all that is gentle, kind, and forgiving
Raise your glass and we'll have a cheer
My dear acquaintance, a happy new year
All of those who are hither and yonder
With love in our hearts
We grow fonder and fonder
Hail to those who are gathered here
And a happy new year to all that is living
To all that is gentle, young, and forgiving
Raise your glass and we'll have a cheer
My dear acquaintance, a happy new year
Happy new year
Songwriters: Paul William Roger Horner / Peggy Lee
The first few times I heard this, I sort of assumed it was old lovers meeting again at New Years, but now I think maybe it's two lonely strangers on New Year's Eve?
Either way, interesting possibilities for backstory. :-)
For the people celebrating today the International Holocaust Remembrance Day, but letting people drown in the Mediterranean or die in the concentration camps in Libya: Aeneis by Vergil, Book 1, verses 538-543
((...))
we few have drifted here to your shores.
What race of men is this? What land is so barbaric as to allow
this custom, that we’re denied the hospitality of the sands?
They stir up war, and prevent us setting foot on dry land.
If you despise the human race and mortal weapons,
still trust that the gods remember right and wrong.
...huc pauci vestris adnavimus oris.
Quod genus hoc hominum? Quaeve hunc tam barbara morem permittit patria?
Hospitio prohibemur harenae;
bella cient primaque vetant consistere terra.
Si genus humanum et mortalia temnitis arma,
at sperate deos memores fandi atque nefandi.
A Litany for Survival by Audre LordeFor those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
Mod
Aeneis by V..."
Antonella, this is so profound and so important for us to remember that after over two centuries this persists. Very moving.
Ithaka by Constantine Cavafy (1863-1933)As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians 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 excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians 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 the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen 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 gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
(Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard)
Cavafy was approaching 50 before he published an overtly homoerotic poem. Here an interesting article: Mixing History and Desire: The Poetry of C.P. Cavafy
Mod
Josh wrote: "Antonella, you're outdoing yourself with these!!!"LOL! It was just a coincidence...
But thank you for appreciating it.
Among The Multitudes by Wislawa Szymborska (1923-2012)I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.
I could have different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from another tree.
Nature's wardrobe
holds a fair supply of costumes:
spider, seagull, fieldmouse.
Each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully worn
into shreds.
I didn't get a choice either,
but I can't complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate.
Someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape ruffled by the wind.
Someone much less fortunate,
bred for my fur
or Christmas dinner,
something swimming under a square of glass.
A tree rooted to the ground
as the fire draws near.
A grass blade trampled by a stampede
of incomprehensible events.
A shady type whose darkness
dazzled some.
What if I'd prompted only fear,
loathing,
or pity?
If I'd been born
in the wrong tribe
with all roads closed before me?
Fate has been kind
to me thus far.
I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments.
My yen for comparison
might have been taken away.
I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different.
((From Poems New and Collected, different translators))
About Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel Prize in Literature in 1996: the obituary from «The Nation».
Mod
I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.
I could have different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from an..."
Ha! I love that!
Mod
Amy Lowell
Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls,
Slant lines of black rain
In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings.
Below,
Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal,
The street.
And over it, umbrellas,
Black polished dots
Struck to white
An instant,
Stream in two flat lines
Slipping past each other with the smoothness of oil.
Like a four-sided wedge
The Custom House Tower
Pokes at the low, flat sky,
Pushing it farther and farther up,
Lifting it away from the house-tops,
Lifting it in one piece as though it were a sheet of tin,
With the lever of its apex.
The cross-hatchings of rain cut the Tower obliquely,
Scratching lines of black wire across it,
Mutilating its perpendicular grey surface
With the sharp precision of tools.
The city is rigid with straight lines and angles,
A chequered table of blacks and greys.
Oblong blocks of flatness
Crawl by with low-geared engines,
And pass to short upright squares
Shrinking with distance.
A steamer in the basin blows its whistle,
And the sound shoots across the rain hatchings,
A narrow, level bar of steel.
Hard cubes of lemon
Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings
As the windows light up.
But the lemon cubes are edged with angles
Upon which they cannot impinge.
Up, straight, down, straight — square.
Crumpled grey-white papers
Blow along the side-walks,
Contorted, horrible,
Without curves.
A horse steps in a puddle,
And white, glaring water spurts up
In stiff, outflaring lines,
Like the rattling stems of reeds.
The city is heraldic with angles,
A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable
And countercoloured bends of rain
Hung over a four-square civilization.
When a street lamp comes out,
I gaze at it for fully thirty seconds
To rest my brain with the suffusing, round brilliance of its globe.
Mod
Mod
Amy Lowell
Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls,
Slant lines of black rain
In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings.
Below,
Greasy, shiny, b..."
Wow. Never heard this one before. Such rich description—it's like she's painting with words. I really, really like it.
Mod
Early morning gentle rain,
two big bumblebees
Humming at their work
The rain has filled
the birdbath
Again, almost
After the shower
among the drenched roses
the bird thrashing in the bath.
Mod
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
Mod
Early morning gentle rain,
two big bumblebees
Humming at their work
The rain has filled
the birdbath
Again, almost
After the shower
am..."
Those are so nice. And not at all what one associates with Kerouac
Mod
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain ..."
:-) Nice. Such a sharp eye and deft turn of phrase.
Mod
Mod
Josh wrote: "Now adding the option of discussing song lyrics."That's a wonderful idea, thank you!
A poem and a question:"My life closed twice before its close" by Emily Dickinson
My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
---
How would you interpret the last two lines?
Thank you KC. The poem is beautiful, but I needed an interpretation also for the rest of the lines ;-). So I looked for ex. here and here.
Mod
"My life closed twice before its close" by Emily Dickinson
My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So hu..."
Such harrowing, yet beautiful poem.
A friend shared this with me the other day, and I found this lovely. More even reading about what inspired this poem by Pedro Salinas. (He was an unknown poet for me before I came across this poem). So, as I've just learned how to add images at Goodreads, I wanted to share it ;D
I can't find it translated into English, so this is my translation. Maybe isn't all that accurate, but I think the feeling of the poem is there :D
If you would called me… by Pedro Salinas
If you would call me, yes,
if you would call me!
I would leave everything,
I would throw everything:
the prices, the catalogues,
the blue of the sea in the maps,
the days and its nights,
the old telegrams,
and a love.
You, you that aren’t my love,
¡if you would call me!
*Edit to fix my English fail. Thank you, Antonella! <3
Rosa wrote: "A friend shared this with me the other day, and I found this lovely. More even reading about what inspired this poem by Pedro Salinas. (He was an unknown poet for me before I came across this poem)..."Thank you, also and especially for taking the time to translate the poem. Sometimes I see noteworthy articles or poems, but if there isn't an already made translation, I let them be, because it would take too much time to translate them.
Antonella wrote: "Rosa wrote: "A friend shared this with me the other day, and I found this lovely. More even reading about what inspired this poem by Pedro Salinas. (He was an unknown poet for me before I came acro..."I'm glad you liked it. And thank you for telling me about the tense of the verbs :D
Mod
Such passion in it.
Thank you for the translation, Rosa!
Rosa wrote: "I'm glad you liked it. And thank you for telling me about the tense of the verbs :D"You are welcome, but you were supposed to silently fix it ;-).
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...
Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...”
:-)