Topic: Poems

[bgmnts]

Wish I could have sex like that.

[Gregory Torso]

I know it's translated by Galway Kinnel, and there's always a problem with translation as to which one is the good one, the poet or the translator, but I love this one from Rainer Maria Rilke -

From A Childhood

The darkening was like riches in the room
in which the boy sat, quite hidden from sight.
And when his mother entered, as in a dream,
a glass trembled in the quiet cupboard.
She felt how the room betrayed her,
and she kissed the boy: "Oh, you're here?..."
Then both looked fearfully at the piano,
because some evenings she'd play the child a song
in which he found himself strangely deeply caught.

He sat very still. His great gaze hung
on her hand, weighed down by its ring,
as if struggling through drifted snow
it went over the white keys.

[Gregory Torso]

David Berman, better known as frontman for the Silver Jews, from his book Actual Air:

If you have loved the light
of guest rooms in the morning,

and built plot and theme
and finally setting sun
onto the flat earth of chessboards,

then to die on contemporary furniture
with John Webster's antique jive on your lips,

after a long life lived in that pause
where a guest studies his ice cubes
and listens to the room tick,

would rinse the larger stillness with whole moments
lost in yawns.

[shh]

The Lie, from Don Paterson's Rain:

As was my custom, I’d risen a full hour
before the house had woken to make sure
that everything was in order with The Lie,
his drip changed and his shackles all secure.

I was by then so practiced in this chore
I’d counted maybe thirteen years or more
since last I’d felt the urge to meet his eye.
Such, I liked to think, was our rapport.

I was at full stretch to test some ligature
when I must have caught a ragged thread, and tore
his gag away; though as he made no cry,
I kept on with my checking as before.

Why do you call me The Lie? he said. I swore:
it was a child’s voice. I looked up from the floor.
The dark had turned his eyes to milk and sky
and his arms and legs were all one scarlet sore.

He was a boy of maybe three or four.
His straps and chains were all the things he wore.
Knowing I could make him no reply
I took the gag before he could say more

and put it back as tight as it would tie
and locked the door and locked the door and locked the door

[Twit 2]

I know it's translated by Galway Kinnel, and there's always a problem with translation as to which one is the good one, the poet or the translator, but I love this one from Rainer Maria Rilke -

From A Childhood

The darkening was like riches in the room
in which the boy sat, quite hidden from sight.
And when his mother entered, as in a dream,
a glass trembled in the quiet cupboard.
She felt how the room betrayed her,
and she kissed the boy: "Oh, you're here?..."
Then both looked fearfully at the piano,
because some evenings she'd play the child a song
in which he found himself strangely deeply caught.

He sat very still. His great gaze hung
on her hand, weighed down by its ring,
as if struggling through drifted snow
it went over the white keys.

I like that translation, I think I prefer it to CF MacIntyre’s, who I favour for Rilke and symbolist poetry in general:



Here’s CFM’s translation of Evening:

[newbridge]

I like that translation, I think I prefer it to CF MacIntyre’s, who I favour for Rilke and symbolist poetry in general:

I looked up the original German to see if the Oedipal undertone suggested to me by the singular "weighed down by its ring" was present (which it isn't - it's plural "Ringe"), but doing so reminded me of the sad fact that poetry is basically untranslatable. The original rhymes and has a lot of subtle word choices that are totally absent in the translations.

Das Dunkeln war wie Reichtum in dem Raume,
darin der Knabe, sehr verheimlicht, saß.
Und als die Mutter eintrat wie im Traume,
erzitterte im stillen Schrank ein Glas.
Sie fühlte, wie das Zimmer sie verriet,
und küsste ihren Knaben: Bist du hier?...
Dann schauten beide bang nach dem Klavier,
denn manchen Abend hatte sie ein Lied,
darin das Kind sich seltsam tief verfing.

Es saß sehr still. Sein großes Schauen hing
an ihrer Hand, die ganz gebeugt vom Ringe,
als ob sie schwer in Schneewehn ginge,
über die weißen Tasten ging.

[Twit 2]

[Twit 2]

Here’s one of my all time favourites, RF Langley’s Videlicet. Total barnstorming triumph:

[Twit 2]

I just bought Rebecca Watts’s ‘The Met Office Advises Caution’ and it’s a very impressive collection. Very graceful and precise, and as a Suffolk person, I presume fairly influenced by Langley. A touch of MacCaig and Menashe, perhaps. Those writers are who come to mind, anyway, so if you’re a fan of quality nature poems I really recommend this.

She’s also notable for giving the likes of Rupi Kaur and Kate Tempest the critical kicking they deserve:

http://www.pnreview.co.uk/cgi-bin/scribe?item_id=10090

[Dannyhood91]

Here's one I absolutely love.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

[Soup]

Ah if we're doing Bukowski, I love Nirvana, the poem that made me realise there was more to him than a novelist I found impressive but also a little... hateful? Written below, but read beautifully by Tom Waits here -  my favourite poetry reading I think. Perfect match of poet and performer. 

Nirvana
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

[Soup]

Sorry for the double post- recently read this absolute beauty from Baudelaire

Be Drunk

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking... ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

[Gregory Torso]

I bet he was pissed when he wrote that.

[Howj Begg]

I have only recently discovered Robert Burns, so here's a nice companion piece to the Baudelaire above:

Scotch Drink
Robert Burns

Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care:
There let him bowse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.
Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.
1.
Let other poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
2.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
To sing thy name!
3.
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!
4.
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.
5.
Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;
But oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.
6.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear,
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.
7.
Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,
The poor man's wine:
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
8.
Thou art the life o' public haunts:
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saints,
By thee inspired,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.
9.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin
In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!
10.
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
I' th' lugget caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.
11.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour.
12.
When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou make the gossips clatter bright,
How fumbling cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
13.
When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-brie
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.
14.
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter season,
E'er spier her price.
15.
Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O' half his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.
16.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
17.
May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi a glunch
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch
Wi' honest men!
18.
O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's arses!
19.
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotlands lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is taen awa!
20.
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn'd drinkers.
21.
Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

Here's the link to a needful modern English translation:
http://www.cobbler.plus.com/wbc/poems/translations/422.htm

[Twit 2]

I been enjoying the poetry of Don Paterson, like this translation/re-writing of Antonio Machado, that ascends into grandeur quite beautifully:

[Dionne Warlock]

One of my favourites from the master.

'Walking in a Rain Storm' by Norman MacCaig

There was no singing slope but ran
Down through its song to bogs of black
And walls were waterfalls. A man

Crawled on a landscape that spread round
Its fading distances and where
Rock masked with water was the ground

He crept into his dryness, deep
To his centre's self. Eyebrows of banks
Were juts of eaves for huddling sheep

And gulls passed like ideas through
The thickened air. And he, the man,
Sunk into his centre's dryness, knew

Only direction, till he found
The door, the room, the fire; and then
He filled his limits all around

And saw that that dry centre all
The time was slopes and bogs of black,
And sheep, and wall being waterfall;

And, with them in his bones like laws
Of his own self, he watched them and
Knew then what his direction was.

[FerriswheelBueller]

Here's one I absolutely love.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

There is a lovely version of this by Tom Waits floating about on youtube. Mmmm.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DhM-Dm2PHHo

[bgmnts]

I wish I could write poetry.

[saltysnacks]

1

Processionals in the exemplary cave,
Benediction of shadows. Pomfret. London.
The voice fragrant with mannered humility,
With an equable contempt for this world,
‘In honorem Trinitatis’. Crash. The head
Struck down into a meaty conduit of blood.
So these dispose themselves to receive each
Pentecostal blow from axe or seraph,
Spattering block-straw with mortal residue.
Psalteries whine through the empyrean. Fire
Flares in the pit, ghosting upon stone
Creatures of such rampant state, vacuous
Ceremony of possession, restless
Habitation, no man’s dwelling-place.


RIP lovely old bald man.

Here's the rest: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48460/funeral-music

All I can say at the moment is how it manages to be both latinate with it's polysyllables, but attains the raw power of anglo-saxon verse. Very rarely does poetry manage to be complex and muscular. He also manages to be paradoxically modern with his rather intense focus on the past, it is always from the perspective of an alienated modern relfecting on our nation's past. Another great poem is An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England.

[saltysnacks]

I wish I could write poetry.

You can only learn through trying, also pick up a dictionary and be like Hart Crane


All you need is a pencil and paper.

[bgmnts]

Drenched in words. Sounds sexual.


I could never come up with that.

[Twit 2]

He underminenes his point somewhere by using literally incorrectly, though. Still, ‘To Brooklyn Bridge’ tho...fair play.

One of my favourites from the master.

'Walking in a Rain Storm' by Norman MacCaig

There was no singing slope but ran
Down through its song to bogs of black
And walls were waterfalls. A man

Crawled on a landscape that spread round
Its fading distances and where
Rock masked with water was the ground

He crept into his dryness, deep
To his centre's self. Eyebrows of banks
Were juts of eaves for huddling sheep

And gulls passed like ideas through
The thickened air. And he, the man,
Sunk into his centre's dryness, knew

Only direction, till he found
The door, the room, the fire; and then
He filled his limits all around

And saw that that dry centre all
The time was slopes and bogs of black,
And sheep, and wall being waterfall;

And, with them in his bones like laws
Of his own self, he watched them and
Knew then what his direction was.

Any poetry fan who doesn’t have his complete poems...should. ALSO CHECK OUT AT THE LOCH OF THE GEEEN CORRIE.

[saltysnacks]

He underminenes his point somewhere by using literally incorrectly

Literally has been used for emphasis for years. It functions as a metaphor.

[bgmnts]

Poems are literally the shittest thing ever.
Mostly 'cos I can't understand them.
The rain clouds are dark.
Dark in my mind.
A mind bereft of poetry.
Literally bereft.

[FerriswheelBueller]

You can only learn through trying, also pick up a dictionary and be like Hart Crane

In fairness, the first bit of this could be inside the dustjacket of I, Partridge with the right delivery.

[Twit 2]

Literally has been used for emphasis for years. It functions as a metaphor.

Nah, literally should be used precisely to state that something is not a metaphor. The whole ‘actually it’s a legitimate secondary meaning, the dictionary had to put it in through sheer misuse by fuckwits’ doesn’t wash. Face it, Hart fucked up.

[tookish]

I'm reading a lot of Diane di Prima at the moment. Here's 'The Window', which is really stunning.

you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea

you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks

this is not time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)

I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground

[Twit 2]

Alice Oswald has been made Oxford Professor of poetry. Fair play.

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone

very eroded faded
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone

exhausted        utterly worn down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
being the last known speaker of her language
she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little distant sound of dry grass        try again

a Roman water nymph made of bone
very endangered now
in a largely unintelligible monotone
she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little distant sound as of dry grass     try again

exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn
in her passionate self-esteem she smiles looking sideways
she seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle
as of dry grass                                        try again

she tries leaning
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn

little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full night-gear,
who lies so low in the rickety willowherb
that a fox trots out of the woods
and over his back and away              try again

she tries leaning
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn
little lapping sounds        yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again

little lapping sounds    yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again

Roman bone figurine
year after year in a sealed glass case
having lost the hearing of her surroundings
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone

little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers

year after year in a sealed glass case
a Roman water nymph made of bone
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone

little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried-up woman
not really moving through the fields
having had the gleam taken out of her
to the point where she resembles twilight        try again

little shuffling clicking
she opens the door of the church
little distant sounds of shut-away singing    try again

little whispering fidgeting of a shut-away congregation
wondering who to pray to
little patter of eyes closing                                    try again

very small and damaged and quite dry
a Roman water nymph made of bone
she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone

little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried-up river
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of it
to the point where it resembles twilight.
little grumbling shivering last-ditch attempt at a river
more nettles than water                                        try again

very speechless very broken old woman
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down
she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little stoved-in sucked thin
low-burning glint of stones
rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights
victim of Swindon
puddle midden
slum of over-greened foot-churn and pats
whose crayfish are cheap tool-kits
made of the mud stirred up when a stone's lifted

it's a pitiable likeness of clear running
struggling to keep up with what's already gone
the boat the wheel the sluice gate
the two otters larricking along                                     go on

and they say oh they say
in the days of better rainfall
it would flood through five valleys
there'd be cows and milking stools
washed over the garden walls
and when it froze you could skate for five miles      yes go on

little loose end shorthand unrepresented
beautiful disused route to the sea
fish path with nearly no fish in

[chveik]

« I wake and feel the fell of dark... » (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent
This night ! what sights you, heart, saw ; ways you went !
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas ! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste : my taste was me ;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and the scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves ; but worse.

The Starlight Night (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

Look at the stars ! look, look up at the skies !
O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air !
The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there !
Down in dim woods the diamond delves ! the elves' eyes !
The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies !
Wind-beat whitebeam ! airy abeles set on a flare !
Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scare ! -
Ah well ! it is all a purchase, all is a prize.

Buy then ! bid then !– what ? – Prayer, patience, alms, vows :
Look, look : a May-mess, like on orchard boughs !
Look ! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellows sallows !
These are indeed the barn ; withindoors house
The shocks. This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse
Chris home, Christ and his mother and all is hallows.

Lebensweisheitspielerei (Wallace Stevens)

Weaker and weaker, the sunlight falls
In the afternoon. The proud and the strong
Have departed.

Those that are left are the unaccomplished,
The finally human,
Natives of a dwindled sphere.

There indigence is an indigence
That is an indigence of light,
A stellar pallor that hangs on the threads.

Little by little, the poverty
Of autumnal space become
A look, a few words spoken.

Each person completely touches us
With what he is and as he is,
In the stale grandeur of annihilation.

[Monsieur Verdoux]

'L'angoisse' by Paul Verlaine. You could claim that this is the first punk lyric

Nature, rien de toi ne m’émeut, ni les champs
Nourriciers, ni l’écho vermeil des pastorales
Siciliennes, ni les pompes aurorales,
Ni la solennité dolente des couchants.

Je ris de l’Art, je ris de l’Homme aussi, des chants,
Des vers, des temples grecs et des tours en spirales
Qu’étirent dans le ciel vide les cathédrales,
Et je vois du même œil les bons et les méchants.

Je ne crois pas en Dieu, j’abjure et je renie
Toute pensée, et quant à la vieille ironie,
L’Amour, je voudrais bien qu’on ne m’en parlât plus.

Lasse de vivre, ayant peur de mourir, pareille
Au brick perdu jouet du flux et du reflux,
Mon âme pour d’affreux naufrages appareille.

----
English translation by Martin Sorrell

Nature, you don't move me, not at all, not your
Rich fields, not your rose-touched country scenes
In Sicily, not your dawn pomp,
And not the solemn grandeur of your setting suns.

I laugh at Art, I laugh at Mankind too, at songs,
At verse, Greek temples and the spiral towers
Cathedrals push up into empty skies;
Good folk and bad are all the same to me.

I don't believe in God, I turn my back
On thought, and as for that old irony
Called Love, I want to hear no more of that again

Too tired to live, too scared to die,
Unmasted boat loosed on the sea,
My soul prepares itself for grim catastrophe.