Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
>
Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
I keep coming back to lifelines.
Mod
Made me think of this poem.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose wo..."
One of my very favorite poems.
Anne wrote: "Another Norwegian poet for you, Tor Ulven, born 14. nov 1953 and died by his own hand in 1995, one much beloved by younger people. His poems are considered dark and depressive but also beautiful....".Thank you Anne - I'd say beautiful for this one rather than depressive
Susinok wrote: "Woke up to a hard frost and 20 degrees this morning. In two days it'll be 50s for the lows and 70s for the highs again...Made me think of this poem.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening..."
Such a timeless poem. The story Frost told about the writing of this poem was that he was working late into the night and crossed to the window seeing that dawn had arrived, whereupon the poem 'just came', all he needed to do was cross the floor and write it down.
Mod
MY NOVEMBER GUEST by Robert Frost
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Johanna wrote: "Here is one more Robert Frost poem for you guys. I keep The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged on my bedside table and read it often as a last thing b..."Perfect for these grey, bare November days. Thank you.
Josh wrote: "Johanna wrote: "This I have to give some time to sink in. I like it a lot. It has a very powerful feel to it, doesn't it. I keep coming back to the words linjene/lines, stier/paths and vei/road."..."
The line of the hand called the lifeline, proceeding towards something you don't know, the rest of your life, the unknown future, or death perhaps. This is what the poem makes me think of.
I loved November Guest. Not sure if I'd ever seen it before? Nice!
I've recently discovered an Austrian writer called Georg Trakl. Like one of my other favourite poets Wilfred Owen, Trakl died young at age 27 in his case. His poem Im Osten is featured by the Guardian on Poem of the Week as it has been translated by John Greening in his new collection To the War Poets To the War Poets. I also want to read some more of Greening's work but in the meantime here is Trakl. Im Osten by Georg Trakl
Den wilden Orgeln des Wintersturms
Gleicht des Volkes finstrer Zorn,
Die purpurne Woge der Schlacht,
Entlaubter Sterne.
Mit zerbrochnen Brauen, silbernen Armen
Winkt sterbenden Soldaten die Nacht.
Im Schatten der herbstlichen Esche
Seufzen die Geister der Erschlagenen.
Dornige Wildnis umgürtet die Stadt.
Von blutenden Stufen jagt der Mond
Die erschrockenen Frauen.
Wilde Wölfe brachen durchs Tor.
On the Eastern Front
The winter storm's mad organ playing
is like the Volk's dark fury,
the black-red tidal wave of onslaught,
defoliated stars.
Her features smashed, her arms silver,
night calls to the dying men,
beneath shadows of November's ash,
ghost casualties heave.
A spiky no-man's-land encloses the town.
The moon hunts petrified women
from their blood-spattered doorsteps.
Grey wolves have forced the gates.
Here is a musical poem (by Leonard Cohen) sung beautifully by four Norwegian men: http://www.godvine.com/Four-Top-Singe...(Now back to my Goodreads hiatus. :))
K.Z. wrote: "Here is a musical poem (by Leonard Cohen) sung beautifully by four Norwegian men: http://www.godvine.com/Four-Top-Singe...(Now back to my Goodreads hiat..."
Thank you for posting this, as you can imagine this was an enormous hit here. It is good of you to pop in, nice to see you, KZ.
Thank you, Anne. I thought of you when I heard it. :)I just need to be away from GR for a while. I'm working on a new book, and this can be a dispiriting place.
Mod
I just need to be away from GR for a while. I'm working on a new book, and this can be a dispiriting place."
Yeah, I've been wondering where you are and what are you up to, K.Z. :-) We definitely miss you. Enjoy the writing!
A dear colleague retired last week and at his retirement party he said this poem by Ingvar Moe, who was unknown to me. He wrote in dialect and the poem is rather rough around the edges, but I liked the message it conveys. I have tried the best I could to translate it for you.The poet himself died only thirty years old.
Du skal skaffa deg frø
før moldjordo fryse
Du skal ulma og glø
mens du ennå lyse
Du må handla litt fort,
for butikkane stengje
Me skal leva så kort
og vara daue så skrekkjele lengje.
Du ska dansa kvar dans
mens tonane strøyme.
Og drikk utan stans
nå’ livet det fløyme
Men rot di kje bort
dei draumar du vrengje
Me ska leva så kort
og vara daue så skrekkjele lengje.
Nå’ hu ber deg bli,
så skund deg å svara
D’e dårligt me ti’,
men la di då vara
tå finaste sort
di ordo du slengje
Me ska leva så kort
og vara daue så skrekkjele lengje.
Så kom an og lev,
for sjøl om du tøkje
at livet er strev,
så e der så møkje
du aldri får gjort
Og sorgjo, hu sprengje
Me ska leva så kort
og vara daue så skrekkjele lengje.
Ingvar Moe
You should gather seed
Before the rich mold freezes
You should smoulder and glow
While you’re still on fire
You should go shopping quickly
Before the shops close
We shall live such a short time
And be dead for so terribly long
You should dance every dance
While the notes are sounding
And drink without stop
While life is flowing
But don’t squander
The dreams you twist
We shall live such a short time
And be dead for so terribly long
When she asks you to stay
Hurry up and answer
The time is short
But make sure they are
of the finest kind
The words you throw out
We shall live such a short time
And be dead for so terribly long
So come on and live
Because even if you find
Life is terribly hard
There is so much
You’ll never achieve
And the grief, it crushes
We shall live such a short time
And be dead for so terribly long
Wow, this is beautiful. Thank you two times, dear Anne! For offering this to us and, especially, for translating! I know how long it takes...
Antonella wrote: "Wow, this is beautiful. Thank you two times, dear Anne! For offering this to us and, especially, for translating! I know how long it takes..."
You're welcome, dear, and I am glad you liked it. The words have been running around in my head since I heard it on Friday, I find it so beautiful and powerful.
Mod
Mod
Fain. There's a good old fashioned word for you.
So interesting to read early Frost -- I don't think I've previously read that.
I just had to share this poem with you a fitting tribute to Mandela from the National Poet of Wales.Telir deyrnged i Nelson Mandela gan Fardd Cenedlaethol Cymru, Gillian Clarke, gyda'i cherdd Madiba. (National Poet for Wales, Gillian Clarke, pays tribute to Nelson Mandela with poem Madiba)
Madiba
'he fed black ravens on the rampart of a fortress
though he was no Arthur'
Gododdin. Aneurin. 6th century
Nor Achilles, washed in waters of Styx, immortal
but for his infant heel held in his mother's hand.
Nor Hercules, son of Zeus, maddened a spell
by jealous Hera. Nor great Odysseus,
fierce for Athenians in the Trojan war,
Nor Theseus who killed the Minotaur,
He was Madiba, who raged but never blamed,
who was prepared to die for this, a dream:
all people will be free under the sun.
For this they held him twenty seven years,
hard labour, solitude, islanded by seas.
Twenty seven years.
He came out smiling to the world's applause,
Remember those patient lines, his people
waiting hours under the African sun
for his gift, a slip of paper, a cross,
a name, a right. They queued in joy
after a lifetime's wait.
His final gift, his death.
Widow and estranged wife embrace.
Nations locked in hostility shake hands.
He made the lion lie down with the lamb.
He brought white doves to a weeping nation,
though he was no Arthur.
Caroline wrote: "I just had to share this poem with you a fitting tribute to Mandela from the National Poet of Wales.Telir deyrnged i Nelson Mandela gan Fardd Cenedlaethol Cymru, Gillian Clarke, gyda'i cherdd Mad..."
Wonderful, and very fitting. Thank you Caroline.
Mod
Telir deyrnged i Nelson Mandela gan Fardd Cenedlaethol Cymru, Gillian Clarke, gyda'i cherdd Mad..."
Wow.
Mod
It is eerily appropriate that this lament for a great statesman should be published on 11th December for this is the day when those from North Wales remember the death of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, ein llyw Olaf (our lost leader) who was killed on this day in 1282. His bard, Gruffydd ap yr Ynad Coch (son of the red Judge) wrote an anguished lament for his lost lord which resonates down the centuries. Here is an extract Pony welwch chwi hynt y gwynt a’r glaw?
Pony welwch chwi’r deri yn ymdaraw?
Pony welwch chwi’r môr yn merwinaw yr tir?
Pony welwch chwi r syr wedyr syrthiaw?
See you not the way of the wind and rain
See you not the oak trees buffet together
See you not the sea stinging the land
See you not that the stars are fallen.
Och hyt attat ti Duw na daw mor tros dir!
Pa beth yn gedir y ohiriaw?
Nyt oes le y kyrcher rac carchar braw,
nyut oes le y trigyer: och or trigyaw!
Why does not the sea cover the land?
Why are we left here to linger?
There's no place to hide from fear's prison,
Nowhere left to dwell, such a dwelling!
You can hear the poem in Welsh on this link http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01280kk
Mod
That is powerful. It makes your chest ache -- all across the centuries.
I am giving you another Olav H. Hauge poem for the New Year :)Når det kjem til stykket.
År ut og år inn har du site bøygd yver bøkene,
du har samla deg meir kunnskap
enn du treng til ni liv.
Når det kjem til stykket, er det
so lite som skal til, og det vesle
har hjarta alltid visst.
I Egypt hadde guden for lærdom
hovud som ei ape.
At the end of the day.
Year out and year in you have sat over the books,
you have collected more knowledge
than you need for nine lives.
At the end of the day, there is
so little that is needed, and that small thing
the heart has always known.
In Egypt, the god of knowledge
had a monkey's head.
Happy New Year, everyone, and thank you Josh and all, for creating and keeping this lovely place.
Where's the like button when you need it. Thanks Anne for sharing Olav Hauge with us and thanks to everyone else for the poems and discussions. Godt nyttår. Blwyddyn newydd dda.
Mod
Caroline wrote: "Where's the like button when you need it. Thanks Anne for sharing Olav Hauge with us and thanks to everyone else for the poems and discussions. Godt nyttar. Blwyddyn newydd dda."
Godt nyttår, kjære Caroline!
Johanna wrote: "That's a perfect poem for today (and for all the days to come, obviously). Thank you for sharing it with us, Anne. Happy New Year, dear."Happy new year, dear Johanna! Godt nyttår!
Thank you, dear Anne!Happy 2014 to everybody!
Antonella wrote: "Thank you, dear Anne!Happy 2014 to everybody!"
And to you, dear!
CLEARING by Martha PostlethwaiteDo not try to save the whole world or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create a clearing in the dense forest of your life
and wait there patiently,
until the song that is your life
falls into your own cupped hands
and you recognize and greet it.
Only then will you know how to give yourself
to this world
so worth the rescue.
Thanks for the encouragement and peace of this space. This community has created a beautiful place. Happy New Year to all you special people!
(((HUGS)))
Wow, Reggie, that's a great poem, and a good piece of advice! Thank you and best wishes also to you!
So many beautiful entries since I've been here!I took an online Modern Poetry survey course this fall, and I'm doing an additional section right now as well...but if i may offer a poem that that has more to do with the season (and the many inches of snow that have fallen here overnight...and the fact that the high temp today is 18 degrees!):
Dust of Snow
Robert Frost (1923)
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
mc wrote: "So many beautiful entries since I've been here!I took an online Modern Poetry survey course this fall, and I'm doing an additional section right now as well...but if i may offer a poem that that ..."
Lovely.
One of the (thousand) things this group has given me is knowledge of Robert Frost's poems. Now I have a collection on my night stand together with Olav H. Hauge :)
Anne, these are the two Hauge poems I could find easily:http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/o...
I very much thank you for the introduction; I am pretty much in love with "Up on Top" already.
In my class, we started with Dickinson/Whitman through William Carlos Williams, Allen Ginsberg, the Harlem Renaissance and into poets which really ask a lot of the reader...some more than I was willing to give.
The series I'm involved with now is all about Rae Armantrout, who I find endlessly fascinating.
Mod
Do not try to save the whole world or do anything grandiose...."
Happy New Year to you, too, dear Reggie — hugs coming your way. Thank you for the poem!
Mod
I took an online Modern Poetry survey course this fall, and I'm doing an additional section right now as well...but if i may offer a poem that that ..."
Aww. I LOVE Dust of Snow. Thank you, mc.
I think I might have posted this one before, but here it is again anyway. When we came back to Finland today we were shocked to see that there isn't almost any snow here. It has all melted away during the Christmas time.
A PATCH OF OLD SNOW by Robert Frost
There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.
Johanna, I love this poem. Thanks for posting it.
As I'm not much of a poetry-person this topic holds something new for me everytime I take a look at it. Thank you all for posting the poems here. I like learning somethin new. 
Mod
Når det kjem til stykket.
År ut og år inn har du site bøygd yver bøkene,
du har samla deg meir kunnskap
enn du treng til ni liv.
Når..."
Monkey's head. That's wonderful.
Mod
..."
I could not agree more.
Mod
I took an online Modern Poetry survey course this fall, and I'm doing an additional section right now as well...but if i may offer a poem that that ..."
I love this one. One of my favorite Frost's.
:-)
Mod
I took an online Modern Poetry survey course this fall, and I'm doing an additional section right now as well...but if i may offer a poem..."
So vivid.
Mod
That's lovely. One of the best parts of this thread is that you all so naturally, instinctively choose such beautifully accessible and universal works.
I've become a new fan of W.S. Merwin; I posted one of his New Year's poems at the beginning of the year (too late to post it here), but here's one that I just love. And love.Thanks by W. S. Merwin
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
Thanks to all the people keeping posting here such beautiful, moving, enriching stuff!
It's a little late for twelfth night but here's Eliot's poem about the Magi.The Journey Of The Magi
'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.
You can hear him read it on this link.
mc wrote: "I've become a new fan of W.S. Merwin; I posted one of his New Year's poems at the beginning of the year (too late to post it here), but here's one that I just love. And love.Thanks by W. S. Merwin..."
This is definitely one to carry around with you to read and re-read. Thanks for posting 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...
Anne, I don't "have" Norwegian at all, but I tried to read this one aloud. It sounds quite lovely, although I've given ..."
They don't actually rhyme even if they end with -en, but they have a kind of rythm to them. The suffix -en is hardly pronounced, so it is the y in byen, the i in siden and the o in fjorden that is the important sound.I am not sure that makes sense ;)