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| Literature Literature is literally an acquaintance with letters. The term has, however, generally come to identify a collection of texts. The word literature, as a common noun, can refer to any form of writing, such as essays; while Literature, the proper noun, refers to a whole body of literary work. |
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Tuesday, December 6th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Vivo sin vivir en mí - Santa Teresa de Jesús (mística española)
Vivo sin vivir en mí, y tan alta vida espero, que muero porque no muero. Vivo ya fuera de mí después que muero de amor, porque vivo en el Señor que me quiso para si. Cuando el corazon le di, puso en él este letrero: que muero porque no muero. Esta divina prisión del amor con que yo vivo, ha hecho a Dios mi cautivo, y libro mi corazón; y causa en mí tal pasión ver a Dios mi prisionero, que muero porque no muero. ¡Ay! ¡Qué larga es esta vida! ¡Qué duros estos destierros, esta cárcel, estos hierros en que el alma esta metida! Sólo esperar la salida me causa un dolor tan fiero, que muero porque no muero. ¡Ay! ¡Qué vida tan amarga do no se goza el Señor! Porque si es dulce el amor, no lo es la esperanza larga; quíteme Dios esta carga, más pesada que el acero, que muero porque no muero. Sólo con la confianza vivo de que he de morir, porque muriendo el vivir me asegura mi esperanza; muerte de el vivir se alcanza, no te tardes, que te espero, que muero porque no muero. I live but not in myself - (Spanish Mystic) I live, yet no true life I know, And, living thus expectantly, I die because I do not die. Since this neew death-in-life I’ve known, Estrang’d from self my life has been, For now I live a life unseen: The Lord has claim’d me as His own. My heart I gave Him for His throne, Whereon He wrote indelibly: I die because I do not die. Within this prison-house divine, Prison of love whereby I live, My God Himself to me doth give, And liberate this heart of mine. And, as with love I yearn and pine, With God my prisoner, I sigh: I die because I do not die. How tedious is this life below, This exile, with its griefs and pains, This dungeon and these cruel chains In which the soul is forced to go! Straining to leave this life of woe, With anguish sharp and deep I cry: I die because I do not die. How bitter our existence ere We come at last the Lord to meet! For, though the soul finds loving sweet, The waiting-time is hard to bear. Oh, from this leaden with of care, My God, relieve me speedily, Who die because I do not die. I only live because I know That death’s approach is very sure, And hope is all the more secure Since death and life together go. O death, thou life-creator, lo! I wait upon thee, come though nigh: I die because I do not die. Consider, life, love’s potency, And cease to cause me grief and pain, Reflect, I beg, that, thee to gain, I frist must lose thee utterly. Then, death, come pleasantly to me. Come softly: undismay’d am I Who die because I do not die. http://www.forumishqiptar.com/archive/index.php/t-25648
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'Dardanidae duri, quae uos a stirpe parentum prima tulit tellus, eadem uos ubere laeto
accipiet reduces. Antiquam exquirite matrem: hic domus Aeneae cunctis dominabitur oris, et nati natorum, et qui nascentur ab illis.'  We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. –Plato– 
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Tuesday, December 6th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
(dedicated to Phlegethon
 )Hombre necios que acusáis - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Hombres necios que acusáis a la mujer sin razón, sin ver que sois la ocasión de lo mismo que culpáis: si con ansia sin igual solicitáis su desdén, ¿por qué queréis que obren bien si las incitáis al mal? Combatís su resistencia, y luego con gravedad decís que fue liviandad lo que hizo la diligencia. Queréis con presunción necia hallar a la que buscáis, para pretendida, Tais, y en la posesión, Lucrecia. ¿Qué humor puede ser más raro que el que falta de consejo, él mismo empaña el espejo y siente que no esté claro? Con el favor y el desdén tenéis condición igual, quejándoos, si os tratan mal, burlándoos, si os quieren bien. Opinión ninguna gana, pues la que más se recata, si no os admite, es ingrata y si os admite, es liviana. Siempre tan necios andáis que con desigual nivel a una culpáis por cruel y a otra por fácil culpáis. ¿Pues cómo ha de estar templada la que vuestro amor pretende, si la que es ingrata ofende y la que es fácil enfada? Mas entre el enfado y pena que vuestro gusto refiere, bien haya la que no os quiere y quejaos enhorabuena. Dan vuestras amantes penas a sus libertades alas, y después de hacerlas malas las queréis hallar muy buenas. ¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido en una pasión errada, la que cae de rogada o el que ruega de caído? ¿O cuál es más de culpar, aunque cualquiera mal haga: la que peca por la paga o el que paga por pecar? Pues ¿para qué os espantáis de la culpa que tenéis? Queredlas cual las hacéis o hacedlas cual las buscáis. Dejad de solicitar y después con más razón acusaréis la afición de la que os fuere a rogar. Bien con muchas armas fundo que lidia vuestra arrogancia, pues en promesa e instancia juntáis diablo, carne y mundo. Arraignment of the Men Males perverse, schooled to condemn Women by your witless laws, Though forsooth you are prime cause Of that which you blame in them: If with unexampled care You solicit their disdain, Will your fair words ease their pain, When you ruthless set the snare? Their resistance you impugn, Then maintain with gravity That it was mere levity Made you dare to importune. . . . . . . . . What more elevating sight Than of man with logic crass, Who with hot breath fogs the glass, Then laments it is not bright! Scorn and favor, favor, scorn, What you will, result the same, Treat you ill, and earn your blame, Love you well, be left forlorn. Scant regard will she possess Who with caution wends her way,— Is held thankless for her “nay,” And as wanton for her “yes.” . . . . . . . . What must be the rare caprice Of the quarry you engage: If she flees, she wakes your rage, If she yields, her charms surcease. . . . . . . . . Who shall bear the heavier blame, When remorse the twain enthralls, She, who for the asking, falls, He who, asking, brings to shame? Whose the guilt, where to begin, Though both yield to passion's sway, She who weakly sins for pay, He who, strong, yet pays for Sin? Then why stare ye, if we prove That the guilt lies at your gate? Either love those you create, Or create those you can love. To solicitation truce,— Then, sire, with some show of right You may mock the hapless plight Or the creatures of your use! http://users.ipfw.edu/jehle/poesia/hombresn.htm
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'Dardanidae duri, quae uos a stirpe parentum prima tulit tellus, eadem uos ubere laeto
accipiet reduces. Antiquam exquirite matrem: hic domus Aeneae cunctis dominabitur oris, et nati natorum, et qui nascentur ab illis.' We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. –Plato–
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Wednesday, December 7th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
A poem I wrote some years ago. It has some formal imperfections, usual in those years.
(Sorry, no translation available) Adamo Nobre sentimento este Que me definha O coração agreste Com a sua ladainha. Lembra uma corça, caçada! Um corcel, no seu corcovo... Amá-la valeu a pena, apesar de tanto penar! Ao ver a sua beleza, de alteza, na fortaleza Não tenho como negar a alegria de a observar Em toda a sua delicadeza, de princesa. Trago no pensamento O dia e o conciso momento, Em que o sentimento Deixou de ser ferida E se transformou numa andorinha destemida. Numa Fénix, renascida!
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Wednesday, December 7th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
In Old Irish (9th century)
Messe ocus Pangur bán (The Scholar and his White Cat) Messe ocus Pangur Bán, cechtar nathar fri saindán: bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg, mu menma céin im saincheirdd Caraim-se fos, ferr cach clú, oc mu lebrán, léir ingnu; ní foirmtech frimm Pangur Bán: caraid cesin a maccdán. Ó ru biam, scél cen scís, innar tegdais, ar n-óendís, táithiunn, díchríchide clius, ní fris tarddam ar n-áthius. Gnáth, h-úaraib, ar gressaib gal glenaid luch inna línsam; os mé, du-fuit im lín chéin dliged n-doraid cu n-dronchéill. Fúaichaid-sem fri frega fál a rosc, a n-glése comlán; fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis mu rosc réil, cesu imdis. Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul hi n-glen luch inna gérchrub; hi tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil os mé chene am fáelid. Cia beimmi a-min nach ré ní derban cách a chéle: maith la cechtar nár a dán; subaigthius a óenurán. h-É fesin as choimsid dáu in muid du-ngní cach óenláu; du thabairt doraid du glé for mo mud céin am messe. English translation I and Pangur Ban, my cat, 'Tis a like task we are at; Hunting mice is his delight, Hunting words I sit all night. Better far than praise of men 'Tis to sit with book and pen; Pangur bears me no ill will, He too plies his simple skill. 'Tis a merry thing to see At our tasks how glad are we, When at home we sit and find Entertainment to our mind. Oftentimes a mouse will stray In the hero Pangur's way; Oftentimes my keen thought set Takes a meaning in its net. 'Gainst the wall he sets his eye Full and fierce and sharp and sly; 'Gainst the wall of knowledge I All my little wisdom try. When a mouse darts from its den, O how glad is Pangur then! O what gladness do I prove When I solve the doubts I love! So in peace our tasks we ply, Pangur Ban, my cat, and I; In our arts we find our bliss, I have mine and he has his. Practice every day has made Pangur perfect in his trade; I get wisdom day and night Turning darkness into light.
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The traditions of the Irish people are the oldest of any race in Europe north and west of the Alps, and they themselves are the longest settled on their own soil - Edmund Curtis (A History of Ireland: From Earliest Times to 1922) The Irish are one of the most ancient nations that I know of at this end of the world, and are from as mighty a race as the world ever brought forth. For it is certain that Ireland hath had the use of letters very anciently and long before England; that they had letters anciently is nothing doubtful, for the Saxons of England are said to have their letters and learning, and learned men, from the Irish. - Edmund Spenser (writer, and British Government Official in Ireland, AD 1596). The renaissance began in Ireland seven hundred years before it was known in Italy. And Armagh, the ecclesiastical capital of Ireland, was at one time the metropolis of civilisation. - Arsene Darmesteter, Professor of Old French and Literature Ireland can indeed lay claim to a great past; she can not only boast of having been the birthplace and abode of high culture in the fifth and sixth centuries . . . but also of having made strenous efforts in the seventh and up to the tenth century to spread her learning among the German and Romance peoples, thus forming the actual fountain of our present continental civilisation. - Heinrich Zimmer, Professor of Celtic and Sanskrit, Member of the Prussian Academy of Sciences
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Wednesday, December 7th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
An Ghaeilge
Is mise an Ghaeilge Is mise do theanga Is mise do chultúr D'Úsáid na Filí mé D'Úsáid na huaisle D'Úsáid na daoine mé is d'Úsáid na lenaí Go bródúil a bhí siad Agus mise faoi réim. Ach tháinig an strainséir Chuir sé faoi chois mé Is rud ní ba mheasa Nior mhaith le mo chlann mé Anois táim lag Anois táim tréith Ach fós táim libh Is beidh mé go beo. Tóg suas mo cheann Cuir áthas ar mo chroí Labhraígí mé Ó labhraígí mé! (I am Irish I am your language I am your culture The poets used me The nobles used me The people used me and the children used me Proud they were And I flourished But the stranger came He suppressed me Something worse than that was my own people rejected me Now I am weak Now I am feeble But still I am with you and I will be forever. Raise up my head Put joy in my heart Speak me Oh speak me!)
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The traditions of the Irish people are the oldest of any race in Europe north and west of the Alps, and they themselves are the longest settled on their own soil - Edmund Curtis (A History of Ireland: From Earliest Times to 1922) The Irish are one of the most ancient nations that I know of at this end of the world, and are from as mighty a race as the world ever brought forth. For it is certain that Ireland hath had the use of letters very anciently and long before England; that they had letters anciently is nothing doubtful, for the Saxons of England are said to have their letters and learning, and learned men, from the Irish. - Edmund Spenser (writer, and British Government Official in Ireland, AD 1596). The renaissance began in Ireland seven hundred years before it was known in Italy. And Armagh, the ecclesiastical capital of Ireland, was at one time the metropolis of civilisation. - Arsene Darmesteter, Professor of Old French and Literature Ireland can indeed lay claim to a great past; she can not only boast of having been the birthplace and abode of high culture in the fifth and sixth centuries . . . but also of having made strenous efforts in the seventh and up to the tenth century to spread her learning among the German and Romance peoples, thus forming the actual fountain of our present continental civilisation. - Heinrich Zimmer, Professor of Celtic and Sanskrit, Member of the Prussian Academy of Sciences
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Thursday, December 8th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
I love this poem. There's something so primal in the thought that all our struggles, anxieties, successes and failures come to the same thing in the end as it concerns our physical being. Whatever may become of our consciousness, spirit or soul, at least our bodies - and those of all who have ever lived - ultimately simply vanish, in the earthy ether that is the world.
It was not possible for me to convey in English all the nuances of wordplay in this exquisitely crafted miniature - especially at the end, where the final image is not one of agonized suffering but rather of being rooted in the earth like a carrot. Yes, really.  In case you don't recognize the language, it's Afrikaans. Die ander plant By Henry J Cloete Tussen brood en brein sal tyd verdwyn stil, tevrede stil word mens 'n ander plant oo twee in ja, sê die aard see oo twee uit ons worstel nie, ons wortel. A different plant Translated by me!  Between bread and brain time shall vanish silently, contentedly, coming to a halt - and man become a different plant; oh, two in - yes, says the earth sea oh, two out - our writhen struggle, no, our enrooting.
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Thursday, December 8th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Marcha de Oriamendi
Por Dios, por la patria y el Rey Lucharon nuestros padres. Por Dios, por la patria y el Rey Lucharemos nosotros también. Lucharemos todos juntos Todos juntos en unión Defendiendo la bandera De la Santa Tradición. (bis) Cueste lo que cueste Se ha de conseguir Venga el rey de España A la corte de Madrid. (bis) Por Dios, por la patria y el Rey Lucharon nuestros padres. Por Dios, por la patria y el Rey Lucharemos nosotros también. March of Oriamendi For God, for the Fatherland and for the King Our fathers have fought. For God, for the Fatherland and for the King We fight as well. We all fight united, All united and in union And we defend the banner Of the Holy Tradition.(repeat) By hook or by crook, We have to succeed - The King of Spain shall ascend the throne On the court of Madrid. (repeat) For God, for the Fatherland and for the King Our fathers have fought For God, for the Fatherland and for the King We fight as well.
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Friday, December 9th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Some more poems I like. Sorry, but I've found no translations and I'm still too green to attempt translating a poem.
Sou bem diferente de mim Sou bem diferente de mim Dentro do meu coração: — O Momento, dou-O: à que me diz SIM. — A Eternidade: à que me diz NÃO! Acordo sempre sem ti, sempre que contigo sonho, Nesta condenação, até sempre, indefinida — De ter-te perto: no Sonho, — De ter-te longe: na Vida!… Aonde ela for, eu vá; que ela me siga, onde eu for. Eu e ela, ela e eu; eu — por ela, ela — por mim: Paralelas do Amor Sem um príncipio ou um fim. E, na luz do fim que o tempo doura, Ser-me-ás o princípio, o fim e o centro, Pela Vida fora, Pela Morte dentro... Rodrígo Emílio Barca Bela Pescador da barca bela, Onde vás pescar com ela. Que é tão bela, Oh pescador? Não vês que a última estrela No céu nublado se vela? Colhe a vela, Oh pescador! Deita o lanço com cautela, Que a sereia canta bela... Mas cautela, Oh pescador! Não se enrede a rede nela, Que perdido é remo e vela Só de vê-la, Oh pescador. Pescador da barca bela, Inda é tempo, foge dela Foge dela Oh pescador! Almeida Garret Navegar é Preciso Navegadores antigos tinham uma frase gloriosa: "Navegar é preciso; viver não é preciso". Quero para mim o espírito desta frase, transformada a forma para a casar como eu sou: Viver não é necessário; o que é necessário é criar. Não conto gozar a minha vida; nem em gozá-la penso. Só quero torná-la grande, ainda que para isso tenha de ser o meu corpo e a minha alma a lenha desse fogo. Só quero torná-la de toda a humanidade; ainda que para isso tenha de a perder como minha. Cada vez mais assim penso. Cada vez mais ponho da essência anímica do meu sangue o propósito impessoal de engrandecer a pátria e contribuir para a evolução da humanidade. É a forma que em mim tomou o misticismo da nossa Raça. Fernando Pessoa (I love this guy!)
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Monday, December 12th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600-1681)
La vida es sueño (obra de teatro; monólogo de Segismundo) Sueña el rey que es rey, y vive con este engaño mandando, disponiendo y gobernando; y este aplauso, que recibe prestado, en el viento escribe, y en cenizas le convierte la muerte, ¡desdicha fuerte! ¿Que hay quien intente reinar, viendo que ha de despertar en el sueño de la muerte? Sueña el rico en su riqueza, que más cuidados le ofrece; sueña el pobre que padece su miseria y su pobreza; sueña el que a medrar empieza, sueña el que afana y pretende, sueña el que agravia y ofende, y en el mundo, en conclusión, todos sueñan lo que son, aunque ninguno lo entiende. Yo sueño que estoy aquí destas prisiones cargado, y soñé que en otro estado más lisonjero me vi. ¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí. ¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión, una sombra, una ficción, y el mayor bien es pequeño: que toda la vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son. Life is a Dream (theater play; monologue of Segismundo) The king dreams he is a king, and lives in this deception commanding, disposing of, reigning, ruling, And the applause, thus on loan received so gets in the wind written. And in ashes Death will turn him - great disgrace! Who will dare so to govern seeing himself come awake to the sorry dream of Death? The rich one dreams of his riches which more care and comfort yields him; the poor one dreams that he suffers his sheer misery and poverty. Dreams he who to live begins, and he who toils and pretends, and he who grieves and offends and in the world, in conclusion, they all thus what they are dream although no one will so see it. I dream that I am in here with these chains and prisons burdened yet I dreamt that I in other, more fulsome state saw myself. What is life? A frantic moment, What is life? But an illusion, but a shadow, but a fiction, and the greatest good is small: for life is all but a dream and dreams are just that, they're dreams. Tr. by Jorge Solís
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'Dardanidae duri, quae uos a stirpe parentum prima tulit tellus, eadem uos ubere laeto
accipiet reduces. Antiquam exquirite matrem: hic domus Aeneae cunctis dominabitur oris, et nati natorum, et qui nascentur ab illis.' We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light. –Plato–
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Tuesday, December 13th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Einst und Jetzt
Nikolaus Lenau »Möchte wieder in die Gegend, Wo ich einst so selig war, Wo ich lebte, wo ich träumte Meiner Jugend schönstes Jahr!« Also sehnt ich in der Ferne Nach der Heimat mich zurück, Wähnend, in der alten Gegend Finde sich das alte Glück. Endlich ward mir nun beschieden Wiederkehr ins traute Tal; Doch es ist dem Heimgekehrten Nicht zumute wie dazumal. Wie man grüßet alte Freunde, Grüß ich manchen lieben Ort; Doch im Herzen wird so schwer mir, Denn mein Liebstes ist ja fort. Immer schleicht sich noch der Pfad hin Durch das dunkle Waldrevier; Doch er führt die Mutter abends Nimmermehr entgegen mir. Mögen deine Grüße rauschen Vom Gestein, du trauter Bach; Doch der Freund ist mir verloren, Der in dein Gemurmel sprach. Baum, wo sind die Nachtigallen, Die hier sangen einst so süß? Und wo, Wiese, deine Blumen, Die mir Rosa sinnend wies? - Blumen fort und Nachtigallen Und das gute Mädchen auch! Meine Jugend fort mit ihnen; Alles wie ein Frühlingshauch!
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Friday, December 16th, 2005
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Re: Favorite Poem
Bernardo López: La Oda al Dos de Mayo.
Oigo, patria, tu aflicción, y escucho el triste concierto que forman tocando a muerto, la campana y el cañón; sobre tu invicto pendón miro flotantes crespones, y oigo alzarse a otras regiones en estrofas funerarias, de la iglesia las plegarias, y del arte las canciones. Lloras, porque te insultaron los que su amor te ofrecieron... ¡a tí, a quien siempre temieron porque tu gloria admiraron: a tí, por quien se inclinaron los mundos de zona a zona; a tí, soberbia matrona que libre de extraño yugo, no has tenido más verdugo que el peso de tu corona...! Do quiera la mente mía sus alas rápidas lleva, allí un sepulcro se eleva cantando tu valentía; desde la cumbre bravía que el sol indio tornasola, hasta el África , que inmola sus hijos en torpe guerra, ¡no hay un puñado de tierra sin una tumba española!... Tembló el orbe a tus legiones, y de la espantada esfera sujetaron la carrera las garras de tus leones; nadie humilló tus pendones ni te arrancó la victoria; pues de tu gigante gloria no cabe el rayo fecundo, ni en los ámbitos del mundo, ni en el libro de la historia. Siempre en lucha desigual cantan tu invicta arrogancia, Sagunto, Cádiz, Numancia, Zaragoza y San marcial; en tu suelo virginal no arraigan extraños fueros;... porque indómitos y fieros, saben hacer tus vasallo, frenos para sus caballos con los cetros extranjeros... Y aun hubo en la tierra un hombre, que osó profanar tu manto... ¡Espacio falta a mi canto para maldecir su nombre!... Sin que el recuerdo me asombre con ansia abriré la historia; presta luz a mi memoria, y el mundo y la patria a coro, oirán el himno sonoro de tus recuerdos de gloria. Aquel genio de ambición que en su delirio profundo captando guerra, hizo al mundo sepulcro de su nación, hirió al ibero león ansiando a España regir; y no llegó a percibir, ebrio de orgullo y poder, que no puede esclavo ser, pueblo que sabe morir. ¡Guerra! clamó ante el altar el sacerdote con ira; ¡guerra! repitió la lira con indómito cantar: ¡guerra! gritó al despertar el pueblo que al mundo aterra; y cuando en hispana tierra pasos extraños se oyeron, hasta las tumbas se abrieron gritando: ¡Venganza y guerra!... La virgen con patrio ardor ansiosa salta del lecho; el niño bebe en su pecho odio a muerte al invasor; la madre mata su amor, y cuando calmado está grita al hijo que se va: "¡Pues que la patria lo quiere, lánzate al combate, y muere: tu madre te vengará!..." Y suenan patrias canciones cantando santos deberes; y van roncas las mujeres empujando los cañones; al pie de libres pendones el grito de patria zumba y el rudo cañón retumba, y el vil invasor se aterra, y al suelo le falta tierra para cubrir tanta tumba!... *** Mártires de la lealtad que del honor al arrullo fuisteis de la patria orgullo y honra de la humanidad... en la tumba descansad, que el valiente pueblo ibero jura con rostro altanero que hasta que España sucumba, no pisará vuestra tumba la planta del extranjero.
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Monday, December 19th, 2005
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