Favourite Poem

[Nerthus]

William Shakespeare

Sonnet 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee—and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

[MDIEIR]

A Dream within a Dream
by Edgar Allen Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow-You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet, if Hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it, therefore, the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of golden sand-How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep- while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?

[Breogan]

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Rima LIII

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas

en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,

y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales

jugando llamarán.

Pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban

tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar,

aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres...

¡ésas... no volverán!

Volverán las tupidas madreselvas

de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,

y otra vez a la tarde aún más hermosas

sus flores se abrirán.

Pero aquellas, cuajadas de rocío

cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar

y caer como lágrimas del día...

¡ésas... no volverán!

Volverán del amor en tus oídos

las palabras ardientes a sonar,

tu corazón de su profundo sueño

tal vez despertará.

Pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas

como se adora a Dios ante su altar,

como yo te he querido...; desengañate,

¡así... no te querrán!

(Translation into English)


Rima LIII


The black swallows will return

to nest on your balcony,

and with their wings they will knock

playfully at its windows.


But those who slowed down in their flight

to contemplate your beauty and my happiness,

those who learnt our names...

those....will not return!


The luscious honeysuckle will again

climb the walls of your garden,

and, even more beautiful in the afternoon,

its flowers will bloom again.


But those flowers adorned by dew -

drops we watched to tremble

and fall, as if they were the day's tears...

those... will not return!




Ardent words of love will echo again

in your ears,

your heart from its deep slumber

will perhaps awaken.

Mute, lost in thought and kneeling in worship

as if by the altar of a God,

that is how I loved you...; don't deceive yourself,

nobody will love you so!

Translation: All Rights Reserved © 1999 Guia K. Monti atotos@wol.es

[Breogan]

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Rima XXIII
22

(A ella. No sé...)

Por una mirada, un mundo;

por una sonrisa, un cielo;

por un beso... ¡Yo no sé

qué te diera por un beso!



(Translation into English)
Rima XXIII

(To her. I don't know...)

For a glance, the Earth,

for a smile, the Heavens,

for a kiss... I don't know

what I would give you for a kiss !


Translation: All Rights Reserved © 1999 Guia K. Monti atotos@wol.es

[MDIEIR]

[Carnyx]

MON PAYS ME FAIT MAL (Robert Brasillach)

Mon pays m'a fait mal par ses routes trop pleines,
Par ses enfants jetés sous les aigles de sang,
Par ses soldats tirant dans les déroutes vaines,
Et par le ciel de juin sous le soleil brûlant.

Mon pays m'a fait mal sous les sombres années,
Par les serments jurés que l'on ne tenait pas,
Par son harassement et par sa destinée,
Et par les lourds fardeaux qui pesaient sur ses pas.

Mon pays m'a fait mal par tous ses doubles jeux,
Par l'océan ouvert aux noirs vaisseaux chargés,
Par ses marins tombés pour apaiser les dieux,
Par ses liens tranchés d'un ciseau trop léger.

Mon pays m'a fait mal par tous ses exilés,
Par ses cachots trop pleins, par ses enfants perdus,
Ses prisonniers parqués entre les barbelés,
Et tous ceux qui sont loin et qu'on ne connaît plus.

Mon pays m'a fait mal par ses villes en flammes,
Mal sous ses ennemis et mal sous ses alliés,
Mon pays m'a fait mal dans son corps et son âme,
Sous les carcans de fer dont il était lié.

Mon pays m'a fait mal par toute sa jeunesse
Sous des draps étrangers jetés aux quatre vents,
Perdant son jeune sang pour tenir les promesses
Dont ceux qui les faisaient restaient insouciants,

Mon pays m'a fait mal par ses fosses creusées
Par ses fusils levés à l'épaule des frères,
Et par ceux qui comptaient dans leurs mains méprisées
Le prix des reniements au plus juste salaire.

Mon pays m'a fait mal par ses fables d'esclave,
Par ses bourreaux d'hier et par ceux d'aujourd'hui,
Mon pays m'a fait mal par le sang qui le lave,
Mon pays me fait mal. Quand sera-t-il guéri ?


MY COUNTRY HURTS ME

My country hurted me by its too full roads,
By his children thrown under the blood eagles,
By its soldiers shooting in the vain diverts,
And by the sky of June under the burning sun.

My country hurted me under the dark years,
By the oaths sworn that one did not hold,
By its harassing and its destiny,
And by the heavy burdens which weighed on his steps.

My country hurted me by all his double games,
By the ocean open to the blacks charged ships,
By his sailors fallen to alleviate the gods,
By his distinct bonds of a chisel barbed wires,

My country hurted me by all his exiled,
By his too full dungeons, by his lost children,
His prisoners parked between the barbed wires,
And all those whom are far and that one does not know anymore.

My country hurted me by his cities in flames,
Hurted under his enemies and hurted under his allies,
My country hurted me in his body and his soul,
Under the iron yokes of which he was bound.

My country hurted me by all its youth,
Under those foreign cloths thrown to the four winds,
Losing its young blood to hold the promesses,
Which those whom did them didn't care.

My country hurted me by his dug pits,
By his rifles raised to the shoulder of the brothers,
And by those whom counted in their depised hands,
The price of the disavowals.

My country hurted me by its fables of slave,
By his torturers of yesterday and by those of today,
My country hurted me by the blood which washes it,
My country hurts me. When will it be cured?

(This traduction could be approximative)

[Carnyx]

François Villon, a french Trouver, was the first of the modern lyric poets. He was also a criminal and when in jail he wrote his epitaph (condemned to be hung) but was pardonned by Louis XI and banished. Then he disappeared.


Ballade des pendus (L'Epitaphe de François Villon, 1462)

Frères humains qui après nous vivez,
N'ayez les coeurs contre nous endurcis,
Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez,
Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis.
Vous nous voyez ci attachés cinq, six :
Quant à la chair, que trop avons nourrie,
Elle est piéça dévorée et pourrie,
Et nous, les os, devenons cendre et poudre.
De notre mal personne ne s'en rie ;
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre !

Si frères vous clamons, pas n'en devez
Avoir dédain, quoique fûmes occis
Par justice. Toutefois vous savez
Que tous hommes n'ont pas bon sens rassis ;
Excusez-nous, puisque sommes transis,
Envers le fils de la Vierge Marie,
Que sa grâce ne soit pour nous tarie,
Nous préservant de l'infernale foudre.
Nous sommes morts, âme ne nous harie,
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre !

La pluie nous a débués et lavés,
Et le soleil desséchés et noircis ;
Pies, corbeaux, nous ont les yeux cavés,
Et arraché la barbe et les sourcils.
Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes assis ;
Puis çà, puis là, comme le vent varie,
À son plaisir sans cesser nous charrie,
Plus becquetés d'oiseaux que dés à coudre.
Ne soyez donc de notre confrérie ;
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre !

Prince Jésus, qui sur tous a maistrie,
Garde qu'Enfer n'ait de nous seigneurie :
À lui n'ayons que faire ni que soudre.
Hommes, ici n'a point de moquerie ;
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absoudre !

The ballad of the hanged men (François Villon's epitaph)
François Villon, 1462

Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For -- if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.

Of our pain let nobody laugh,
but pray God would us all absolve.

If you my brothers I call, do not
scoff at us in disdain, though killed
we were by justice. Yet þþ you know
all men are not of good sound sense.
Plead our behalf since we are dead naked
with the Son of Mary the Virgin
that His grace be not for us dried up
preserving us from hell's fulminations.

We're dead after all. Let no soul revile us,
but pray God would us all absolve.

Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.
Worse -- ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows.
Never ever have we sat down, but
this way, and that way, at the wind's
good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel,
more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.

Therefore, think not of joining our guild,
but pray God would us all absolve.

Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship,
care that hell not gain of us dominion.
With it we have no business, fast or loose.

People, here be no mocking,
but pray God would us all absolve.

[Galadriel]

It's all one and the same, you see.
Where you've been and where you'll be.
Understand that, and you'll fly free.
If Celtic quest is what you seek,
'T'will take far more than just a peek.
Awaken your mind, give your brain a tweak;
Learn and listen... 'til next we speak.

(from Druid Power, Amber Wolfe)

-------------------------------------------------------

sorry this one is in French but I love it.

Chant de Brocéliande

Tout comme hier, ici aujourd'hui,
des chevaliers et des Dames se replient;
Ils viennent en quête du Saint Graal,
leur sang réel, le vivant de leur âme.

Ils aiment tant Brocéliande,
leur coeur y trouvent les images qui le hantent,
ils y retrouvent la Nature
et les valeurs des chevaliers du Roi Arthur.

Maintenons vibrants
les souvenirs de Brocéliande!
Chantons la puissance et la sagesse
de ses légendes!

On t'aime tant, Brocéliande,
tes bois de hêtres enchantés et tes landes,
tous tes etangs ombragés,
précieux lambeaux de l'antique humanité.

Par l'Eau et le Feu, Brocéliande,
tes ennemis ont voulu te pourfendre
mais comme Merlin vivait là avec les fées,
il t'a sauvé du trépas.

Arthur, Merlin, en Brocéliande
on vous revoit dans ceux que vos vies enchantent.
Ils répondent tous a votre appel
pour protéger votre fief éternel.

De Viviane et de Perceval,
toujours nous nous souviendrons,
de Barenton, Tréhorenteuc et Paimpont,
du Val Sans Retour et du Château de Comper,
comme de la Licorne qui se cache en tes Terres.

(song by "les derniers Trouvères")

[Milesian]

Your profile just reminded me of one

Dedication to Dowager Lady Chatterton



TO THE

DOWAGER LADY CHATTERTON,

CASTLE MAHON.





THEE, Lady, would I lead through Fairy-land
(Whence cold and doubting reasoners are exiled),
A land of dreams, with air-built castles piled;
The moonlight SHEFROS there, in merry band
With artful CLURICAUNE, should ready stand
To welcome thee - Imagination's child!
Till on thy ear would burst so sadly wild
The BANSHEE'S shriek, who points with wither'd hand
In the dim twilight should the PHOOKA come,
Whose dusky form fades in the sunny light,
That opens clear calm LAKES upon thy sight,
Where blessed spirts dwell in endless bloom.
I know thee, Lady - thou wilt not deride
Such Fairy Scenes. - Then onward with thy Guide.



T. Crofton Croker

[Menydh]

Originally Posted by Milesian

Your profile just reminded me of one

Gender: Female

Must be that "vestrid" stuff.

[Ebusitanus]

Its from Pedro Salinas (I know he was a Bolshevik fag..but anyhow )

No quiero que te vayas
dolor, última forma
de amar. Me estoy sintiendo
vivir cuando me dueles
no en ti, ni aquí, más lejos:
en la tierra, en el año
de donde vienes tú,
en el amor con ella
y todo lo que fue.
En esa realidad
hundida que se niega
a sí misma y se empeña
en que nunca ha existido,
que sólo fue un pretexto
mío para vivir.
Si tú no me quedaras,
dolor, irrefutable,
yo me lo creería;
pero me quedas tú.
Tu verdad me asegura
que nada fue mentira.
Y mientras yo te sienta,
tú me serás, dolor,
la prueba de otra vida
en que no me dolías.
La gran prueba, a lo lejos,
de que existió, que existe,
de que me quiso, sí,
de que aún la estoy queriendo.

[Perun]

Dark Soul of the Night - St. John of the Cross

. One dark night,
fired with love's urgent longings
- ah, the sheer grace! -
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.

2. In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
- ah, the sheer grace! -
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.


3. On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.


4. This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
- him I knew so well -
there in a place where no one appeared.


5. O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.


6. Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.


7. When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.


8. I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

[Perun]

I particularly like the Irish singer Loreena Mckennit's version of St. John's poem:

http://www.xs4all.nl/~josvg/cits/lm/lorecd53.html

Loreena McKennitt - The dark night of the soul


Upon a darkened night
the flame of love was burning in my breast
And by a lantern bright
I fled my house while all in quiet rest

Shrouded by the night
and by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead


Chorus
Oh night thou was my guide
oh night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other


Upon that misty night
in secrecy, beyond such mortal sight
Without a guide or light
than that which burned so deeply in my heart


That fire t'was led me on
and shone more bright than of the midday sun
To where he waited still
it was a place where no one else could come


Chorus


Within my pounding heart
which kept itself entirely for him
He fell into his sleep
beneath the cedars all my love I gave
And by the fortress walls
the wind would brush his hair against his brow
And with its smoothest hand
caressed my every sense it would allow


Chorus


I lost myself to him
and laid my face upon my lovers breast
And care and grief grew dim
as in the mornings mist became the light
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair

-----------------

Loreena writes in the CD booklet about this song:

May, 1993 - Stratford ... have been reading through the poetry of 15th century Spain, and I find myself drawn to one by the mystic writer and visionary St. John of the Cross; the untitled work is an exquisite, richly metaphoric love poem between himself and his god. It could pass as a love poem between any two at any time ... His approach seems more akin to early Islamic or Judaic works in its more direct route to communication to his god ... I have gone over three different translations of the poem, and am struck by how much a translation can alter our interpretation. Am reminded that most holy scriptures come to us in translation, resulting in a diversity of views.

Music by Loreena McKennitt
Lyrics by St. John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz), arr. and adapted by Loreena McKennitt
From: The mask and mirror (1994).

Perun: I don't know about Islamic poetry, but "Judaic" is rather simplistic. St. John's poem is based off the Book of Songs in the Old Testament; which is a poem expressing the mutual love between God and his people and expressed in deeply personal and romantic ways.

[Perun]

Ive also been a big fan of Robert Burns, if you can get past his Scottish jargon
Here's the first poem he wrote at the age of 15:


O once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
An' aye I love her still,
An' whilst that virtue warms my breast
I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonnie lass I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mein
The like I never saw.

A bonny lass I will confess,
Is pleasent to the e'e,
But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best for a',
Her reputation is compleat,
And fair without a flaw;

She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slight touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

'Tis this Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants me soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.

[Perun]