Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
Rule #2 (by tearlessrain)
Don’t ever hug a lobster ..."
Well, this is fun! :-D
Mod
Oh! Ouch.
What an excellent choice.
Mod
Dover Beach
By Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Here's a YouTube recording of this piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sUjP...
39 years ago Gianni Rodari, one of the best Italian authors of children books, died. Here one of his poems: Il cielo è di tutti/The sky belongs to everyone by Gianni Rodari
Would someone brilliant please
please explain this mystery:
the sky belongs to every eye
to each eye one sky entirely.
It’s mine, when I observe it.
It’s the child’s, it’s the senior’s,
the sovereign’s and the grocer’s
it’s the poet’s and the cleaner’s.
There is no poor man so poor
that he too does not own it.
And the lion has none more
than a little frightened rabbit.
The sky belongs to every eye,
and if inclined, well, every one
can view the moon entirely,
the stars, the comets and the sun.
Every eye can view everything
and nothing is ever lacking there,
those who view the sky for last
will find it just as bright and fair.
So please explain, do,
in prose or even poetry
if the sky is only one,
why is the earth fragmentary?
((Translation ©Matilda Colarossi))
Qualcuno che la sa lunga
mi spieghi questo mistero:
il cielo è di tutti gli occhi
di ogni occhio è il cielo intero.
È mio, quando lo guardo.
È del vecchio, del bambino,
del re, dell’ortolano,
del poeta, dello spazzino.
Non c’è povero tanto povero
che non ne sia il padrone.
Il coniglio spaurito
ne ha quanto il leone.
Il cielo è di tutti gli occhi,
ed ogni occhio, se vuole,
si prende la luna intera,
le stelle comete, il sole.
Ogni occhio si prende ogni cosa
e non manca mai niente:
chi guarda il cielo per ultimo
non lo trova meno splendente.
Spiegatemi voi dunque,
in prosa od in versetti,
perché il cielo è uno solo
e la terra è tutta a pezzetti.
Karen wrote: "A local chamber group (including two of my school colleagues) performed Samuel Barber's version of this despairing and beautiful poem last weekend."Uh, he was feeling the approaching war...
Mod
Dover Beach
By Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm t..."
I love this poem so, so much. It's been a favorite since college.
Mod
Uh, he was feeling the approachin..."
That makes it doubly interesting.
Eleven Arabic-Language Poets: Muhammad al-Maghout, Saniyya Saleh, Suheir Abu Oksa Daoud, Tariq al-Karmi, Khawla Dunia, Widad Nabi, Mohamed Ali Yousfi, Fowziyya Abu-Khalid, Adel Mahmoud, Taleb Abdulazeez, and Essayed TahaI admit that I didn't know any of them in advance, but the interesting introduction says something about all of these men and women. The poems are beautiful, you'll find for sure something to your taste.
The «Loch Raven Review» is a Maryland-based Literary Journal (The Loch Raven Reservoir provides drinking water for Baltimore and most of Baltimore County, Maryland).
Mod
That's wonderful!
The uses of notThirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn’t
is where it’s useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot’s not
is where it’s useful.
Cut doors and windows
to make a room.
Where the room isn’t,
there’s room for you.
So the profit in what is
is in the use of what isn’t.
From Ursula K. Le Guin's translation of Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching: A Book about the Way and the Power of the Way: One of the things I love about Lao Tzu is he is so funny. He’s explaining a profound and difficult truth here, one of those counterintuitive truths that, when the mind can accept them, suddenly double the size of the universe. He goes about it with this deadpan simplicity, talking about pots.
Mod
Thirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn’t
is where it’s useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot’s not
is where it’s useful.
Cut doors and windows..."
So true!
Mod
Thirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn’t
is where it’s useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot’s not
is where it’s useful.
Cut doors and windows..."
Profundity with humor. I love this and love your explanation.
I've just seen a documentary where this poem, written immediately before WW2, plays a role. I took the translation from this article, where there is also the original and a commentary. You can hear Brecht reading it in 1939.To Those Who Follow in Our Wake by Bertolt Brecht
I
Truly, I live in dark times!
An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead
Points to insensitivity. He who laughs
Has not yet received
The terrible news.
What times are these, in which
A conversation about trees is almost a crime
For in doing so we maintain our silence about so much wrongdoing!
And he who walks quietly across the street,
Passes out of the reach of his friends
Who are in danger?
It is true: I work for a living
But, believe me, that is a coincidence. Nothing
That I do gives me the right to eat my fill.
By chance I have been spared. (If my luck does not hold,
I am lost.)
They tell me: eat and drink. Be glad to be among the haves!
But how can I eat and drink
When I take what I eat from the starving
And those who thirst do not have my glass of water?
And yet I eat and drink.
I would happily be wise.
The old books teach us what wisdom is:
To retreat from the strife of the world
To live out the brief time that is your lot
Without fear
To make your way without violence
To repay evil with good —
The wise do not seek to satisfy their desires,
But to forget them.
But I cannot heed this:
Truly I live in dark times!
II
I came into the cities in a time of disorder
As hunger reigned.
I came among men in a time of turmoil
And I rose up with them.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.
I ate my food between slaughters.
I laid down to sleep among murderers.
I tended to love with abandon.
I looked upon nature with impatience.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.
In my time streets led into a swamp.
My language betrayed me to the slaughterer.
There was little I could do. But without me
The rulers sat more securely, or so I hoped.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.
The powers were so limited. The goal
Lay far in the distance
It could clearly be seen although even I
Could hardly hope to reach it.
And so passed
The time given to me on earth.
III
You, who shall resurface following the flood
In which we have perished,
Contemplate —
When you speak of our weaknesses,
Also the dark time
That you have escaped.
For we went forth, changing our country more frequently than our shoes
Through the class warfare, despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
And yet we knew:
Even the hatred of squalor
Distorts one’s features.
Even anger against injustice
Makes the voice grow hoarse. We
Who wished to lay the foundation for gentleness
Could not ourselves be gentle.
But you, when at last the time comes
That man can aid his fellow man,
Should think upon us
With leniency.
SamSpayedPI wrote: "The uses of notThirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn’t
is where it’s useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot’s not
is where it’s useful.
..."
Thank you!
Mod
Goes around comes around. Many of us today feel like exiles in our own land. I'm not sure that we will deserve, or dare beg, for leniency in the future.
Karen wrote: "Many of us today feel like exiles in our own land. I'm not sure that we will deserve, or dare beg, for leniency in the future."I try to act against circumstances I don't like, to feel at ease with my conscience, but also because I enjoy it ;-).
Mod
Thirty spokes
meet in the hub.
Where the wheel isn’t
is where it’s useful.
Hollowed out,
clay makes a pot.
Where the pot’s not
is where it’s useful.
Cut doors and windows..."
Ha! Brilliant.
He Tells Her by Wendy Cope (1945 - )(for Ruth B.)
He tells her that the earth is flat —
He knows the facts, and that is that.
In altercations fierce and long
She tries her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
He calls her arguments unsound
And often asks her not to yell.
She cannot win. He stands his ground.
The planet goes on being round.
From
If I Don't Know. Apparently a couple of years ago this poem about mansplaining went viral in the UK on National Poetry Day.
The song Fiume Sand Creek by one of the biggest Italian songwriters and singers ever, Fabrizio De André is about the Sand Creek massacre, Colorado (warning: the details of the massacre are particularly gruesome). The story is told from the point of view of a Native American child, which survives and thinks that everything was a dream.Sand Creek River
Under a dark cover they have taken our souls
Under a dead young Moon we were sleeping without fear
He was a general of twenty years old
with blue eyes and a blue coat
He was a general of twenty years old
son of a thunderstorm…
There is a silver dollar on the bottom of Sand Creek.
Our warriors went too far looking for bisons
and that distant music grew always louder
For three times I closed my eyes
but I was always standing there
I asked him: ‘Is it just a dream?’
and my grandpa told me ‘yes’.
Sometimes fishes sing on the bottom of Sand Creek.
I was so intensely dreaming that my nose started bleeding,
the lighting in one ear, Heaven in the other,
Smaller tears,
Bigger tears,
When the snow tree
bloomed with reddish stars…
Now children are sleeping on the bottom of Sand Creek.
When the Sun rose his head above the Night’s shoulders
There were just dogs, smoke and overturned tepees,
I threw an arrow at the sky
for it to breathe
I threw an arrow at the wind
for it to bleed…
Look for the third arrow on the bottom of Sand Creek.
Under a dark cover they have taken our souls
Under a dead young Moon we were sleeping without fear
He was a general of twenty years old
with blue eyes and a blue coat
He was a general of twenty years old
son of a thunderstorm…
Now children are sleeping on the bottom of Sand Creek.
I found the translation in this blog
Mod
(for Ruth B.)
He tells her that the earth is flat —
He knows the facts, and that is that.
In altercations fierce and long
She tries her best to prove him wron..."
Ha! :-D <3
Mod
That is haunting.
Mod
Rule #2 (by tearlessrain)
Don’t ever hug a lobster ..."
LOL
Mod
NOCTURNE by Eino Leino (1903)
The corncrake's song rings in my ears,
above the rye a full moon sails;
this summer night all sorrow clears
and woodsmoke drifts along the dales,
I do not laugh or grieve, or sigh;
the forest's darkness breathes nearby,
the red of clouds where day sinks deep,
the blue of windy hills asleep,
the twinflower's scent, the water's shade-
of these my heart's own song is made.
You, girl as sweet as summer hay,
my heart's great peace, I sing to you,
O my devotion, tune and play
a wreath of oak twigs, green and new.
I have stopped chasing Jack-o'-Lantern,
I hold gold from the Demon's mountain;
around me life tightens its ring,
time stops, the vane has ceased to swing;
the road before me through the gloom
is leading to the unknown room.
Translated by Keith Bosley
The original version:
Ruislinnun laulu korvissani,
tähkäpäiden päällä täysi kuu;
kesä-yön on onni omanani,
kaskisavuun laaksot verhouu.
En ma iloitse, en sure, huokaa;
mutta metsän tummuus mulle tuokaa,
puunto pilven, johon päivä hukkuu,
siinto vaaran tuulisen, mi nukkuu,
tuoksut vanamon ja varjot veen;
niistä sydämeni laulun teen.
Sulle laulan neiti, kesäheinä,
sydämeni suuri hiljaisuus,
uskontoni, soipa säveleinä,
tammenlehvä-seppel vehryt, uus.
En ma enää aja virvatulta,
onpa kädessäni onnen kulta;
pienentyy mun ympär' elon piiri;
aika seisoo, nukkuu tuuliviiri;
edessäni hämäräinen tie
tuntemattomahan tupaan vie.
Mod
Lovely and mysterious.
Johanna wrote: "It's Poetry Day today here in Finland in honor of Eino Leino who was born 6th of July, 1878. He was a Finnish poet and journalist and is considered one of the pioneers of Finnish poetry. Here is on..."Lovely!
Mod
Yes. The unknown room!
Mod
In Finnish language there are lots of vowel combinations and diphtongs—Finnish is one of the 'vowel harmony' languages—which makes the language sound kind of smooth and flowing at its best (if that makes sense?). IMO Eino Leino uses that idiosyncrasy brilliantly. I don't know if you noticed that from the Finnish version of the poem?
Aaaaanyways, this poem, Nocturne, has also been composed into a song. In case any of you are interested in listening to it—and maybe interested in listening to the words sang in Finnish—here is a link to a YouTube video. I don't have the finest idea who the fellow in the video is. It looks like he might be a high school music teacher, according to the comments below the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64ghg...
Mod
I enjoyed the video very much. I followed along with the Finnish text on my phone while listening. I did notice all the vowels and the rhyme pattern (a b a b c c d d e e). It’s quite beautiful.
I enjoyed the video too, even though I couldn't follow the words specifically, the combination of the words, music and his voice was really lovely.
Leisure by W. H. Davies (1871 – 1940)What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Antonella wrote: "Leisure by W. H. Davies (1871 – 1940)What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see..."
Lovely, Antonella. Thank you for sharing this.
Mod
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see..."
So true.
Rep. Ilhan Omar responds to 'send her back' chant with Maya Angelou poem. She tweeted the first lines of this poem.Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Antonella wrote: "Rep. Ilhan Omar responds to 'send her back' chant with Maya Angelou poem. She tweeted the first lines of this poem.Still I Rise by Maya Angelou"
I have always loved this poem. So stirring, and a great response. Thank you, Antonella.
Mod
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter..."
Like Susan said, that's such a great response, quoting this poem. What U.S. desperately needs right now is more people like Ilhan Omar.
Mod
ANSWER JULY by Emily Dickinson
Answer July—
Where is the Bee—
Where is the Blush—
Where is the Hay?
Ah, said July—
Where is the Seed—
Where is the Bud—
Where is the May—
Answer Thee—Me—
Nay—said the May—
Show me the Snow—
Show me the Bells—
Show me the Jay!
Quibbled the Jay—
Where be the Maize—
Where be the Haze—
Where be the Bur?
Here—said the Year—
Johanna wrote: "I found this fun:ANSWER JULY by Emily Dickinson
Answer July—
Where is the Bee—
Where is the Blush—
Where is the Hay?
Ah, said July—
Where is the Seed—
Where is the Bud—
Where is the May—
Answer..."
That is adorable! Thanks, Johanna.
Thank you for the summer fun. Here my contribution:Ode to the Watermelon by Pablo Neruda
The tree of intense
summer,
hard,
is all blue sky,
yellow sun, fatigue in drops,
a sword
above the highways,
a scorched shoe
in the cities:
the brightness and the world
weigh us down,
hit us
in the eyes
with clouds of dust,
with sudden golden blows,
they torture
our feet
with tiny thorns,
with hot stones,
and the mouth
suffers
more than all the toes:
the throat
becomes thirsty,
the teeth,
the lips, the tongue:
we want to drink
waterfalls,
the dark blue night,
the South Pole,
and then
the coolest of all
the planets crosses
the sky,
the round, magnificent,
star-filled watermelon.
It's a fruit from the thirst-tree.
It's the green whale of the summer.
The dry universe
all at once
given dark stars
by this firmament of coolness
lets the swelling
fruit
come down:
its hemispheres open
showing a flag
green, white, red,
that dissolves into
wild rivers, sugar,
delight!
Jewel box of water, phlegmatic
queen
of the fruitshops,
warehouse
of profundity, moon
on earth!
You are pure,
rubies fall apart
in your abundance,
and we
want
to bite into you,
to bury our
face
in you, and
our hair, and
the soul!
When we're thirsty
we glimpse you
like
a mine or a mountain
of fantastic food,
but
among our longings and our teeth
you change
simply
into cool light
that slips in turn into
spring water
that touched us once
singing.
And that is why
you don't weigh us down
in the siesta hour
that's like an oven,
you don't weigh us down,
you just
go by
and your heart, some cold ember,
turned itself into a single
drop of water.
--translated by Robert Bly, here the Spanish original.
Antonella wrote: "Thank you for the summer fun. Here my contribution:Ode to the Watermelon by Pablo Neruda
The tree of intense
summer,
hard,
is all blue sky,
yellow sun, fatigue in drops,
a sword
above the..."
Fabulous, Antonella. I really want some watermelon, right now! :-)
Susan wrote: "Fabulous, Antonella. I really want some watermelon, right now! :-)"Me too! Fortunately, I have some (well, quite a lot actually) in the fridge (I bought a watermelon at the farmer's market on Saturday. I live alone, so even though it's a small watermelon, relatively speaking, it still takes quite a while to finish it).
You are welcome.A friend just told me that he cuts longish and square bits of watermelon, puts a stick in them and freezes them as icicles ;-).
Mod
Ode to the Watermelon by Pablo Neruda
The tree of intense
summer,
hard,
is all blue sky,
yellow sun, fatigue in drops,
a sword
above the..."
Oh, I like this! :-)
Mod
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see..."
This made me smile, but it's the truth.
Mod
Ode to the Watermelon by Pablo Neruda
The tree of intense
summer,
hard,
is all blue sky,
yellow sun, fatigue in drops,
a sword
above the..."
wonderful
Mod
Josh wrote: "Am I the only one who loves warm watermelon?"Warm, or room temperature?
I have very sensitive teeth, especially to cold, so I eat all fruit at room temperature. It has more flavor that way, anyway.
But I've never actually heated it. Watermelon, that is (or any melon, come to think of it). I've eaten other fruits stewed (or in a pie).
I think my tongue is permanently scarred from eating McDonald's hot apple pies when I was a kid (they were deep fried then, not baked). No matter how long I waited for the McPie to cool, the filling was always scalding when I bit into it.
Ode to the Happy Day by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)This time let me
be happy.
Nothing has happened to anybody,
I am nowhere special,
it happened only
that I am happy
through the four chambers
of my heart, walking,
sleeping or writing.
What can I do? I am
happy,
I am more uncountable
than the meadow
grass
I feel my skin like a wrinkled tree
and the water below,
the birds above,
the sea like a ring
around my waist,
the Earth is made of bread and stone,
the air sings like a guitar.
You,by my side in the sand,
you are the sand,
you sing and you are a song,
today the world
is my soul:
song and sand,
today the world
is your mouth:
Let me
be happy
on your mouth, on the sand,
be happy just because, because I am breathing
and because you are breathing,
be happy, because I am touching
your knee
and it is as though I am touching
the blue skin of heaven
and its pristine air.
Today let me
and me only
be happy,
with everybody or without them,
be happy,
with the grass
and the sand,
be happy
with the air and the earth,
be happy,
with you, with your mouth,
be happy.
=================
Oda al día feliz
Esta vez dejadme
ser feliz,
nada ha pasado a nadie,
no estoy en parte alguna,
sucede solamente
que soy feliz
por los cuatro costados
del corazón, andando,
durmiendo o escribiendo.
Qué voy a hacerle, soy
feliz.
Soy más innumerable
que el pasto
en las praderas,
siento la piel como un árbol rugoso
y el agua abajo,
los pájaros arriba,
el mar como un anillo
en mi cintura,
hecha de pan y piedra la tierra
el aire canta como una guitarra.
Tú a mi lado en la arena
eres arena,
tú cantas y eres canto,
el mundo
es hoy mi alma,
canto y arena,
el mundo
es hoy tu boca,
dejadme
en tu boca y en la arena
ser feliz,
ser feliz porque si, porque respiro
y porque tú respiras,
ser feliz porque toco
tu rodilla
y es como si tocara
la piel azul del cielo
y su frescura.
Hoy dejadme
a mí solo
ser feliz,
con todos o sin todos,
ser feliz
con el pasto
y la arena,
ser feliz
con el aire y la tierra,
ser feliz,
contigo, con tu boca,
ser feliz.
((today I bought a Neruda's poetry collection with the original text and the translation, which ist the best thing ever for poetry, for the languages I know))
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...
Rule #2 (by tearlessrain)
Don’t ever hug a lobster when you see one on the street,
For decorum is essential when a lobster you must greet.
You may comment on the weather, compliment his choice of hat,
But crustaceans like their space if one should stop them for a chat.
Don’t ever hug a lobster when you’re strolling down the coast,
Simply nod and give a greeting, or a handshake at the most,
For a lobster’s first priority is formal social graces,
And one seemes over-familiar if a lobster one embraces.
Don’t ever hug a lobster when you meet one in the sea,
For a lobster’s spines and chitin make it difficult, you see,
And he might become self-conscious if you bring that fact to light,
So don’t ever hug a lobster, simply put, it’s impolite.