ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 30, 2017 17:46:14 GMT -5
Liliencron's poem is about the Battle of Kolin in 1757 where Frederick the Great fought and won.
It is one of the finest anti-war poems ever written and certainly the finest I know from a nineteenth-century German poet.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2017 8:24:04 GMT -5
From his book “History and Rhymes of the lost Battalion” One of the many writings of Buck Private McCollum A Doughboy of the Lost Battalion – Who dedicated this poem to “My Buddies” who gave their all “Up There.” Up There From two short words, “Up There” we glean, All that war can really mean, Sounds perhaps not much to you, Entire volume, what we’ve been thru. Telling many brave and daring tale, Of Chateau-Thierry and the Vesle, Or Argonne Woods, that deat5h-strewn hell, Where hordes of our brave comrades fell. Who gave their all, as men have done, Ever since wars first begun, Their blood enriching vale or hill, Patriot’s promise, or God’s will. They fell for a cause just and true, Undying tribute is their due, “God rest their souls,” our humble prayer, For those who gave their all – “Up There.” Great stuff, Randy!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2017 8:24:54 GMT -5
Das zerbrochene Ringlein
Joseph von Eichendorff
In einem kühlen Grunde Da geht ein Mühlenrad, Mein Liebste ist verschwunden, Die dort gewohnet hat.
Sie hat mir Treu versprochen, Gab mir ein'n Ring dabei, Sie hat die Treu gebrochen, Mein Ringlein sprang entzwei.
Ich möcht als Spielmann reisen Weit in die Welt hinaus, Und singen meine Weisen, Und gehn von Haus zu Haus.
Ich möcht als Reiter fliegen Wohl in die blut'ge Schlacht, Um stille Feuer liegen Im Feld bei dunkler Nacht.
Hör ich das Mühlrad gehen: Ich weiß nicht, was ich will - Ich möcht am liebsten sterben, Da wär's auf einmal still!
The broken ring:
in a cool spot of ground a mill-wheel turns, the one I loved no longer found where she once lived; my sorrow burns!
she gave her troth to me, she gave to me a ring; she broke her troth, you see, and the ring broke like a snapped string
I want to wander like a troubadour, journey far and wide, and sing my melodies for evermore, as from house to house I glide
I want to be a rider flying well in the bloody fight, around the fire lying in the field at dark of night
when I hear the mill-wheel turn I know not what it is that I desire - I want to die with my love, I yearn to silence that mill's too infernal choir!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on May 31, 2017 16:41:37 GMT -5
Gesang der Frauen an den Dichter
Rainer Maria Rilke
Sieh, wie sich alles auftut: so sind wir; denn wir sind nichts als solche Seligkeit. Was Blut und Dunkel war in einem Tier, das wuchs in uns zur Seele an und schreit
als Seele weiter. Und es schreit nach dir. Du freilich nimmst es nur in dein Gesicht, als sei es Landschaft: sanft und ohne Gier. Und darum meinen wir, du bist es nicht,
nach dem es schreit. Und doch, bist du nicht der, an den wir uns ganz ohne Rest verlören? Und werden wir in irgendeinem mehr?
Mit uns geht das Unendliche vorbei. Du aber sei, du Mund, dass wir es hören, du aber, du Uns-Sagender: du sei.
Song of the women to the poet:
Just look how we are opened for you: in your dreams The blood and darkness of a beast Grows in ourselves to be pure soul, a soul screaming for you, loving to hear our screams, begging to serve you, giving up control, as if we were pure snow, your gliding piste
But far from being what you think you are - the ones without whom we would lose our balance - your lack of will, desire, makes you appear like a cloud-watcher, spying us from afar, a visitor, admiring the valance from which our curtains hang. When you draw near, we wait for a God to speak words from your mouth, reveal the secrets of infinity, and at least rather than call us whores, make us believe we are fruitful, not cursed with barren drouth, more than the blood and darkness of a beast, that we at least exist, not simply born to grieve.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Jun 1, 2017 16:38:21 GMT -5
Brügge
Stefan Zweig
Lind weht der Abendfriede in die stille Stadt, Der Sonne goldnes Blut verströmt in den Kanälen, Und eine Sehnsucht, die nicht Weg und Worte hat, Beginnt nun von den grauen Türmen zu erzählen.
Die alten Glocken singen dumpf und wunderbar Von Tagen, da ihr Jubelruf das Land umspannte, Bessonter Glanz tief unten in den Strassen war Und fackelfroh das Wimpelspiel des Hafens brannte,
Von reichen Tagen wundersam und längst verglüht Und die wie erster Kindertraum so fern geworden, Das Ave schweigt … Und langsam stirbt der Glocken Lied Und zittert aus in leise bebenden Akkorden.
Die letzten Töne nimmt ein lauer Abendwind, Und einsam irrt der Nachhall in die toten Gassen, Die alle schweigsam und so schmerzverschüchtert sind, Ein blindes Kind, das jäh die Führerhand verlassen.
Durch stille Wasser streift ein wildes Schwanenpaar, Und leise raunt die Flut, die schwingensacht erschauert, Von einer schönen Frau, die Königin einst war Und nun im dunklen Nonnenkleide einsam trauert …
Bruges
The peace of evening wafts over the sleepy town, Into the canals the sun’s golden blood streams, And an undirected yearning without words seems to drown The town under the weight of the grey towers’ dreams
The old bells sing deep and wonderful chants, Of the days when the land was filled with happiness, In the streets below bright sun was plentiful, each glance Fell on joyful flares and pennants making the harbour gleam with richness The days glowed with radiant wonder shining, Now, like a child’s first dream, have long departed, The Angelus silent. Slowly the dying bells are ringing, The air trembling with the soft harmonies imparted
The last tone is caught by the evening wind, And lonely echoes are caught in the dead streets, All silent, wracked by pain’s relentless grind, A blind child, lost without a hand to greet.
Through the still water stride two wild swans, And softly murmur, a gentle shiver and sigh About a lovely girl, who was a queen once, Now in dark nun’s habit, sorrowful, lonely, her youth passed by
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Jul 26, 2017 16:01:32 GMT -5
Taj Mahal
Stefan Zweig
Im Teiche, wo klarspielend und genau Die Weißen Formen sich aus Bild verkleinern, Scheint er ein Spielzeug. Zart und elfenbeinern, Wie unter mattern Glas liegt er zur Schau; (Man hätte beinah Furcht, ihn zu zerbrechen.)
Und dann ein Blick: Und sich, es ist ein Bau! Aufragend, blendend, makellos und steinern Steigt er empor, lost blinkend seine Flächen Vom Blättergrün und steigt in immer reiner Bewegungen empor ins blanke Blau,
Auf, auf im Licht, und strahlet im Sonnenfunkeln, Als atmeten aus seiner Brust noch jene Vergangenen Herzen in der kühlen Krypte (der große fürst und die geliebte Frau).
Doch abends scheint er Traum. Wie eine Träne, Die marmorn wurde, glänzt er in das Dunkel Den Schmerz um die entschwundene Geliebte
Taj Mahal
Clearly reflected in the shining pond The small white shapes attempt to paint the scene; It seems a toy, tender, with ivory sheen, Seen through a dark glass, utterly beyond (Almost as if afraid of being broken). Gaze on it, see a monument arise, Raised up, dancing, spotless and stony, Rising so high, freeing itself from the dazzling surface With leaves of green rising up in their lonely Movement, as high as the vacant skies.
Up, up, into the light, sparkling in the radiance of the sun, As though each one drew only a single breath, Their twinned hearts lying in the cool crypt (The great prince and his beloved, one in their demise.)
At evening it seems a dream. Alone in death, A tear gleaming in marble through the darkness Against the hurt of love for a departed one.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Aug 25, 2018 16:58:24 GMT -5
One of my translations from the Romani poet Rajko Djuric
Rajko Djuric
Komunikacija aun keraw Naszikeraszi
E parta trujal co ilo vadže patravon, Ion terno astardol po ciro dikhipe
Khonik mandar ni džanela, kasko šut avava thaj kas me kamava.
0 ruv butivar on mor rat gilabel, trujal mande o tatipe buvljol to jek gadžikani chib mor lav achol.
Dud, phenav atoska me, ruvesko dud, vakarav, thaj khonik te na avel me bala te chinel.
At averesko you bešav thaj lavesa me man caljarav. Ma sa kava si but harno, thaj an mor vast nane manro,
thaj sa o vakto džal hasardo.
Gothe kaj than naj o lav e plainendar avel pilo. Phenipe pala o phenipe, dukhade, o Babylon moro. Feri e phukni pusadi achel.
Pala e thana neve, pucav me, amala, avela vadže jek nevo nilaj; E kašta dudvale, e sahata biastar, e ruže ispiden pe at piro džungadipe.
0 majpaluno iv kana dela, amala, to mange imelako krango, thaj majpaluno phurdipe e ivendeske mek po mor cikat.
Atoska, amala, anta leske, kotor e plajestar, mor vakabundikane rateske. Leske trubul, kana e detharin parol, mor jertisaripe te achel.
Message from Exile
Leaves are still flourishing around your heart, and a pinch of salt lives in your eyes
Nobody wants to know about me I am the source of spice and how long does love last
We often sing the wolf in our blood, then I get warm in the language of strangers
Light, I say, the light of the wolf, I say, and no one comes to me to cut my hair
I germinate like a seed in foreign crumbs and I am word enough. Ephemeral, I tell myself, because soon it will be made of every seed
and every hour the rest will flow
When there is no place, the word feeds on the immutable mountain. Sentence after sentence, desperately, my Babylon. Only the stung wound is silent
I ask of you for other places, my friend, and if there will ever come another spring; the trees are clear, the hours intact, the folded rose bush slowly wakes
When the last snowstorm comes, my friend, pick just for me a branch of mistletoe, and scatter a last pinch of winter on my forehead
Then, my friend, bring it to me, the start of the mountain, my vagabond blood. She wants it forgive me even before the break of day
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toby1
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Post by toby1 on Sept 18, 2020 20:33:44 GMT -5
Rudyard Kipling wrote this, he understood what Tribalism is.
The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind, But he does not talk my talk— I cannot feel his mind. I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock, They may do ill or well, But they tell the lies I am wonted to, They are used to the lies I tell; And we do not need interpreters When we go to buy or sell.
The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good, But I cannot tell what powers control— What reasons sway his mood; Nor when the Gods of his far-off land Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock, Bitter bad they may be, But, at least, they hear the things I hear, And see the things I see; And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.
This was my father's belief And this is also mine: Let the corn be all one sheaf— And the grapes be all one vine, Ere our children's teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 1, 2020 16:40:37 GMT -5
The Ladies
Rudyard Kipling
I’VE taken my fun where I've found it; I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time; I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweethearts, An' four o' the lot was prime. One was an 'arf-caste widow, One was a woman at Prome, One was the wife of a jemadar-sais, An' one is a girl at 'ome.
Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies, For, takin' 'em all along, You never can say till you've tried 'em, An' then you are like to be wrong. There's times when you'll think that you mightn't, There's times when you'll know that you might; But the things you will learn from the Yellow an' Brown, They'll 'elp you a lot with the White!
I was a young un at 'Oogli, Shy as a girl to begin; Aggie de Castrer she made me, - An' Aggie was clever as sin; Older than me, but my first un - More like a mother she were Showed me the way to promotion an' pay, An' I learned about women from 'er !
Then I was ordered to Burma, Actin' in charge o' Bazar, An' I got me a tiddy live 'eathen Through buyin' supplies off 'er pa. Funny an' yellow an' faithful Doll in a teacup she were But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair, An' I learned about women from 'er !
Then we was shifted to Neemuch (Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now), An' I took with a shiny she-devil, The wife of a nigger at Mhow; 'Taught me the gipsy-folks' bolee; Kind o' volcano she were, For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white, And I learned about women from 'er !
Then I come 'ome in a trooper, 'Long of a kid o' sixteen 'Girl from a convent at Meerut, The straightest I ever 'ave seen. Love at first sight was 'er trouble, She didn't know what it were; An' I wouldn't do such, 'cause I liked 'er too much, But - I learned about women from 'er !
I've taken my fun where I've found it, An' now I must pay for my fun, For the more you 'ave known o' the others The less will you settle to one; An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin', An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see; So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not), An' learn about women from me !
What did the Colonel's Lady think ? Nobody never knew. Somebody asked the Sergeant's Wife, An' she told 'em true! When you get to a man in the case, They're like as a row of pins - For the Colonel's Lady an' Judy O'Grady Are sisters under their skins !
jemadar-sais Head-groom bolee Slang
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Post by mouse on Nov 2, 2020 6:28:46 GMT -5
such a long time since i heard that one... it used to be one of my brothers party pieces... long long ago.... in the days before PC or any other nonsence
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Nov 3, 2020 18:10:55 GMT -5
Yes, Kipling is one of my favourite poets!
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toby1
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Post by toby1 on Nov 3, 2020 19:06:35 GMT -5
Bill Fraser used to do Kipling as part of his music hall act and this was part of his repertoire. Bill Fraser was a brilliant comedian and he never got the fame he deserved.
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Post by mouse on Nov 4, 2020 10:07:12 GMT -5
Bill Fraser used to do Kipling as part of his music hall act and this was part of his repertoire. Bill Fraser was a brilliant comedian and he never got the fame he deserved. theres a little green eyed idol to the north of Katmandhu.. proberly wrong but you will know the one
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toby1
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Post by toby1 on Nov 4, 2020 11:55:00 GMT -5
""theres a little green eyed idol to the north of Katmandhu.. proberly wrong but you will know the one ""
Yes I do, this used to be a favourite in the Music Halls in the early part of the last century but I suppose most of the audience had served in the forces and they would recognize the various military mentions in the piece. I remember seeing Bill Frazer sing, "On the road to Mandalay", when I was young, he was very good.
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Post by mouse on Nov 5, 2020 10:48:04 GMT -5
on the road to mandalay where the flying fishes play and the sun comes up like thunder
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