Q&A with Josh Lanyon discussion
JUST FOR FUN
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Read Me a Poem Sing Me a Song
Mod
I have to agree with Antonella on this one. On the other hand, I actually do have one Japanese Lanyon. :) it was p..."
Yes, everyone will get their badges. Eventually. And that's a promise. :-)
mc wrote: "Hmmm. Badges. Food badges. Poetry badges. Gardening badges. Bumper stickers. Travel mugs. Fanyon Funyons. Fanyon Lanyons. Merchandising!TATTOOS! "
Tattoos? O.O That could be a real test of loyalty...
Badges... that would be fun. :-D How many books do you have to read in what amount of time to get your first badge as newly minted Fanyon fledgeling? ;-)
Well, *I* think there should be a willpower badge. :-)
mc wrote: "Well, *I* think there should be a willpower badge. :-)"For those who fanyon (hoard) un-read JL-books? Definitely!
Tattoos! I can see the rash of requests for permission to use Josh's logo now...
(You know, if when he looks in here he's gonna be appalled. Guess we'll have to plead excess of caffein or something.)
Mod
I can see the rash of requests for permission to use Josh's logo now...
(You know, if when he looks in here he's gonna be appalled. Guess we'll have to plead excess of caffein or som..."
Then don't tell him that I've been browsing through all custom temporarily tattoo sites I have found during the last half an hour. Oh, the sweeeeet ideas I have now... ;-)
Mod
LMAO. :-)
Johanna wrote: "mc wrote: "I can delete my posts, no problem."LMAO. :-)"
In all seriousness, I meant that, J.
I will throw in some poetry. I saw King Lear last night, and, as always, had to hold back tears at Lear's speech to Cordelia, when they are finally reunited in Act V, as they are led away by her evil sisters' troops. For some reason, this part strikes me deep in the heart, even more than the death scene:Come, let's away to prison;
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; —
And take upon's the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by the moon.
Mod
LMAO. :-)"
In all seriousness, I meant that, J."
No way. No deleting. How could we possibly do without our fresh and new Fanyon description?! :-)
mc wrote: "I will throw in some poetry. I saw King Lear last night, and, as always, had to hold back tears at Lear's speech to Cordelia, when they were finally reunited in Act V, as they were led away by her ..."That one gets to me every time. Make me rage inwardly about unfairness and all.
mc wrote: "Johanna wrote: "mc wrote: "I can delete my posts, no problem."LMAO. :-)"
In all seriousness, I meant that, J."
No deleting. Nope.
Mod
Thank you for posting it, mc. That's powerful, shattering.
Here is a poem about tattoos (sort of):
FIRST POEM FOR YOU by Kim Addonizio
I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
And yet, and yet...they have that moment of reconciliation. He loves, and she loves, and despite the blasted sisters, they are together. I think what breaks my heart is that, of course, I know what is to come, so the beauty of this moment is particularly bittersweet.One of the reasons I can see Shakespeare again and again - other than the sublime language - is that, of course, each production is very different, and too, I am different. Age-wise, I am mid-way between Lear and Cordelia, so I see his perspective better than I used to.
I saw a Twelfth Night this fall that was so utterly glorious that I started to spontaneously cry at the end. It's a comedy, of course, so it wasn't because 3/4 of the cast was dead as is the case with the tragedies, but it was the most superb production, and I was just so happy, that tears spouted. So unexpected. So wonderful.
Yes. I'm a little too overenthusiastic about theatre.
Mod
I think that a new Fanyon record was set by the people who bought the Japanese translations even though they don't unders..."
Uh oh. Guilty as charged.
Badges!
Calathea wrote: "mc wrote: "Well, *I* think there should be a willpower badge. :-)"For those who fanyon (hoard) un-read JL-books? Definitely! "
This is exactly what I thought when I read mc's comment ;-)
If any of you like to 'hear' your poetry, the following may be of interest:On BBC Radio, Jeremy Irons reads T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. The link is good for a week, I believe. 75 minutes total.
"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable."
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03q4pss
I did manage to listen to the Four Quartets which Jeremy Irons read quite wonderfully. I apologise for having been absent for the last several weeks having had to go over to Mayo and Wexford, with my children. So I'm giving you Paul Durcan's poem
"Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949"
(From "Greetings To Our Friends In Brazil" – 1999)
Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
'Daddy, Daddy,' I cried, 'Pass out the moon,'
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father's mother's house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life's seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings.
And in the evenings I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.
But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called 'new' tenements
–Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy's childhood.
Thank you! What a poignant ending!
Mod
Mod
Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet. At the age of 24 she released the first collection of poetry entitled Dikter (Poems), 1916. All these five poems are from that collection. Södergran died at the age of 31, having contracted tuberculosis as a teenager, and did not live to experience the appreciation of her poetry. Her poetry became very much loved in Finland a couple of decades after her death. These translations are by David McDuff.
Very simple, fancy-free, with a hint of melancholy and some breathing space between the lines — they way I seem to like them... :-)
THE STARS
When night comes
I stand on the stairway and listen,
the stars are swarming in the garden
and I am standing in the dark.
Listen, a star fell with a tinkle!
Do not go out on the grass with bare feet;
my garden is full of splinters.
A STRIP OF SEA
There is a strip of sea that glimmers grey
at the sky’s end,
it has a dark blue wall
that looks like land,
it is there my longing rests
before it flies away home.
EARLY DAWN
A few last stars glow exhaustedly.
I see them out of my window. The sky is pale,
one scarcely senses the day that is beginning in the distance.
There rests a silence spread out over the lake,
there lurks a whispering among the trees,
my old garden listens half-distraught
to the night’s breathing that murmurs over the road.
THE SORROWING GARDEN
Alas, that windows see
and walls remember,
that a garden can stand and sorrow
and a tree can turn round and ask:
Who has not come and what is not well,
why is the emptiness heavy and saying nothing?
The bitter carnations gather at the road,
there the spruce’s darkness becomes unknowable.
A WISH
Of all our sunny world
I wish only for a garden sofa
where a cat is sunning itself.
There I should sit
with a letter at my breast,
a single small letter.
That is what my dream looks like.
Lovely, thank you, Johanna!In fact no one ever posted awful poetry in this thread ;-)...
Johanna wrote: "Can't remember if I've ever posted Edith Södergran poems before? Anyway, here are five short ones.Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet. At the age of 24 she released th..."
Thank you, Johanna, I love her!
Antonella wrote: "Lovely, thank you, Johanna!In fact no one ever posted awful poetry in this thread ;-)..."
Must be time for some William MacGonagall then!
Johanna wrote: "Can't remember if I've ever posted Edith Södergran poems before? Anyway, here are five short ones.Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet...."
A new poet!
I see what you mean about there being breathing space in the poems. I also like the way her garden appears as a character in several of them. I'm torn between choosing A Strip of Sea or The Sorrowing Garden as my favourite of these five. There are more of her poems, translated by David McDuff on Nordic Voices in Print.
Caroline wrote: "Antonella wrote: "In fact no one ever posted awful poetry in this thread ;-)..."
Must be time for some William MacGonagall then!"
For everybody who has to go and check, I'll save you some clicks ;-):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_...
But apparently he is the most known Scottish poet after Robert Burns!
Mod
Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet...."
A new poet!..."
Thank you for the link, Caroline! I didn't know so many of her poems have been translated to English.
The problem with sharing Finnish poetry (whether it's written in Finnish or Swedish) is that there seems to be only painfully few poems that have been translated.
Mod
Johanna wrote: "Can't remember if I've ever posted Edith Södergran poems before? Anyway, here are five short ones.Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet. At the age of 24 she released th..."
I loved the Edith Södergran poems, Johanna. I was not familiar with her.
Mod
Edith Södergran (1892–1923) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish poet. At the age of 24..."
I'm glad I had the chance to introduce her poetry to you, then. :-)
After many months of leisurely poem reading, I have now reached the front end of this topic! That means that I can now finally say a great big THANK YOU to everyone for the sharing of poetry and brightening up of my days. I used to leave this topic open and would read a few poems here and there as the mood struck me and it's been a lovely journey. There have been so many poems and poets that I was not familiar with and it's been such a delightful experience. I love reading poetry, but I don't very often, so I've enjoyed very much reading what you all have shared here. I love this topic. Many thanks to you all. :)
In honor of me being caught up in this thread, I thought I'd post one of my favourite poems from when I was very small. My dad would sometimes read us poetry when we were little and I always loved this one. It's very visual and straightforward and short, which I'm sure made it easy for my tiny brain to appreciate. I grew up to become a great fan of the Romantics and my tiny brain still loves it now. Ozymandias
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Mod
Thank you for sharing this poem and the memory with us, Alison. I wasn't familiar with Ozymandias and Percy Bysshe Shelley before. Very powerful stuff.
Alison wrote: "In honor of me being caught up in this thread, I thought I'd post one of my favourite poems from when I was very small. My dad would sometimes read us poetry when we were little and I always loved ..."So lovely. Thank you, Alison.
Mod
An old favorite. ;-)
In honour of Jordan ;-)What it is
by Erich Fried
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says insight
It is what it is
says love
It is ridiculous
says pride
It is careless
says caution
It is impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love
Translation found here with other ones. Here the German original and the autograph written by Fried: http://www.erichfried.de/Was%20es%20i...
Antonella wrote: "In honour of Jordan ;-)What it is
by Erich Fried
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says in..."
I love this one. "Es ist, was es ist. Sagt die Liebe." :-D
Thanks for posting and reminding of this poem! :-)
Mod
What it is
by Erich Fried
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says in..."
That pretty much sums it all up. Thanks Antonella. *hugs* You're awesome.
Mod
"Wanting"
Wanting to be with you
in the middle of what I'm doing
wanting to be gone
lost within you
Nothing but with you
closer than hand to hand
more intimate than lips to lips
wanting to be with you
Being tender within you
kissing you from the outside
and caressing you from within
this and that way and also differently
And wanting to inhale you
nothing but inhaling
deeper deeper
and to drink without exhaling
And while doing so searching the distance
to see you
just two hands away
and then kiss you again
_____
This is the kind of romance I'd love to be able to write about. Never mind BE in. lol.
Antonella wrote: "In honour of Jordan ;-)What it is
by Erich Fried
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says in..."
I love that. Thanks for posting, Antonella. :)
Jordan wrote: "His other translated poems are great too. I especially like this one:"Wanting"
Wanting to be with you
in the middle of what I'm doing
wanting to be gone
lost within you
Nothing but with you
clo..."
That's lovely, Jordan. Yay for love! :)
Mod
Jordan wrote: "His other translated poems are great too. I especially like this one:"Wanting"
Wanting to be with you
in the middle of what I'm doing
wanting to be gone
lost within you
Nothing but with you
clo..."
It is absolutely stunning, and I agree, this is how romance should be described, so loving, tender and beautiful.
Mod
What it is
by Erich Fried
It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It is misfortune
says calculation
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says in..."
:-) I love this.
Mod
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.
The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.
With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
Sara Teasdale
Josh wrote: "Spring RainI thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain"
This is lovely.
Mod
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm sw..."
Oh, how lovely. I love the vivid atmosphere and that it's about a seemingly small has-been moment, a thought that had been forgotten. And then, with the first spring thunder, its sounds and smells, it's all back like it happened yesterday. So lovely. :-)
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...
:-)
What about Fanyons (noun, plural) a group o..."
Ooooh, yes. :)