ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:07:50 GMT -5
Another stunningly original and modernistic poem by Adah Isaacs Menken.
The Autograph on the Soul
In the Beginning, God, the great Schoolmaster, wrote upon the white leaves of our souls the text of life, in His own autograph. Upon all souls it has been written alike. We set forth with the broad, fair characters penned in smoothness and beauty, and promise to bear them back so, to the Master, who will endorse them with eternal life. But, alas! how few of us can return with these copy-books unstained and unblotted? Man—the school-boy Man—takes a jagged pen and dips it in blood, and scrawls line after line of his hopeless, shaky, weak-backed, spattering imitation of the unattainable flourish and vigor of the autograph at the top of our souls. And thus they go on, in unweary reiteration, until the fair leaves are covered with unseemly blots, and the Schoolmaster's copy is no longer visible. No wonder, then, that we shrink and hide, and play truant as long as we possibly can, before handling in to the Master our copy-books for examination. How soiled with the dust of men, and stained with the blood of the innocent, some of these books are! Surely, some will look fairer than others. Those of the lowly and despised of men; The wronged and the persecuted; The loving and the deserted; The suffering and the despairing; The weak and the struggling; The desolate and the oppressed; The authors of good books; The defenders of women; The mothers of new-born children; The loving wives of cruel husbands; The strong throats that are choked with their own blood, and cannot cry out the oppressor's wrong. On the souls of these of God's children of inspiration, His autograph will be handed up to the judgment-seat, on the Day of Examination, pure and unsoiled. The leaf may be torn, and traces of tears, that fell as prayers went up, may dim the holy copy, but its fair, sharp, and delicate outlines will only gleam the stronger, and prove the lesson of life, that poor, down-trodden humanity has been studying for ages and ages—the eternal triumph of mind over matter! What grand poems these starving souls will be, after they are signed and sealed by the Master-hand! But what of the oppressor? What of the betrayer? What of him that holds a deadly cup, that the pure of heart may drink? What of fallen women, who are covered with paint and sin, and flaunt in gaudy satins, never heeding the black stains within their own breasts?—lost to honor, lost to themselves; glittering in jewels and gold; mingling with sinful men, who, with sneering looks and scossing laughs, drink wine beneath the gas-light's glare. Wrecks of womanly honor! Wrecks of womanly souls! Wrecks of life and love! Blots that deface the fair earth with crime and sin! Fallen—fallen so low that the cries and groans of the damned must sometimes startle their death-signed hearts, as they flaunt through the world, with God's curse upon them! What of the money-makers, with their scorching days and icy nights? Their hollow words and ghastly smiles? Their trifling deceits? Their shameless lives? Their starving menials? Their iron hands, that grasp the throats of weary, white-haired men? Will their coffins be black? They should be red—stained with the blood of their victims! Their shrouds should be make with pockets; and all their gold should be placed therein, to drag them deeper down than the sexton dug the grave! How will it be with him who deceives and betrays women? Answer me this, ye men who have brought woe and desolation to the heart of woman; and, by your fond lips, breathing sighs, and vows of truth and constancy—your deceit and desertion, destroyed her, body and soul! There are more roads to the heart than by cold steel. You drew her life and soul after you by your pretended love. Perhaps she sacrificed her home, her father and her mother—her God and her religion for you! Perhaps for you she has endured pain and penury! Perhaps she is the mother of your child, living and praying for you! And how do you repay this devotion? By entering the Eden of her soul, and leaving the trail of the serpent, that can never be erased from its flowers; for the best you trample beneath your feet, while the fairnest you pluck as a toy to while away an idle hour, then dash aside for another of a fairer cast. Then, if she plead with her tears, and her pure hands, to Heaven, that you come back to your lost honor, and to her heart, you do not hesitate to tear that suffering heart with a shameless word, that cuts like a jagged knife, and add your curse to crush her light of life! Have ye seen the blood-stained steel, dimmed with the heart's warm blood of the suicide? Have ye seen the pallid lips, the staring eyes, the unclosed, red-roofed mouth—the bubbling gore, welling up from a woman's breast? Have ye seen her dying in shivering dread, with the blood dabbled o'er her bosom? Have ye heard her choked voice rise in prayer—her pale lips breathing his name—the name of him who deceived her? Yes! a prayer coming up with the bubbling blood—a blessing on him for whom she died! Why did she not pray for her despairing self? O God! have mercy on the souls of men who are false to their earthly love and trust! But the interest will come round—all will come round! Nothing will escape the Schoolmaster's sleepless eye! The indirect is always as great and real as the direct. Not one word or deed— Not one look or thought— Not a motive but will be stamped on the programme of our lives, and duly realized by us, and returned and held up to light heaven or flood hell with. All the best actions of war or peace— All the help given to strangers— Cheering words to the despairing— Open hands to the shunned— Lifting of lowly hearts— Teaching children of God— Helping the widow and the fatherless— Giving light to some desolate home— Reading the Bible to the blind— Protecting the defenceless— Praying with the dying. These are acts that need no Poet to make poems of them; for they will live through ages and ages, on to Eternity. And when God opens the sealed book on the Day of Judgment, these poems of the history of lives will be traced in letters of purple and gold, beneath the Master's Autograph.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:11:07 GMT -5
Another example of how powerful, original and modernistic a writer Adah Isaacs Menken was at her best.
Myself
"La patience est amère; mais le fruit en est doux!"
I
Away down into the shadowy depths of the Real I once lived. I thought that to seem was to be. But the waters of Marah were beautiful, yet they were bitter. I waited, and hoped, and prayed; Counting the heart-throbs and the tears that answered them. Through my earnest pleadings for the True, I learned that the mildest mercy of life was a smiling sneer; And that the business of the world was to lash with vengeance all who dared to be what their God had made them. Smother back tears to the red blood of the heart! Crush out things called souls! No room for them here!
II
Now I gloss my pale face with laughter, and sail my voice on with the tide. Decked in jewels and lace, I laugh beneath the gas-light's glare, and quaff the purple wine. But the minor-keyed soul is standing naked and hungry upon one of Heaven's high hills of light. Standing and waiting for the blood of the feast! Starving for one poor word! Waiting for God to launch out some beacon on the boundless shores of this Night. Shivering for the uprising of some soft wing under which it may creep, lizard-like, to warmth and rest. Waiting! Starving and shivering!
III
Still I trim my white bosom with crimson roses; for none shall see the thorns. I bind my aching brow with a jeweled crown, that none shall see the iron one beneath. My silver-sandaled feet keep impatient time to the music, because I cannot be calm. I laugh at earth's passion-fever of Love; yet I know that God is near to the soul on the hill, and hears the ceaseless ebb and flow of a hopeless love, through all my laughter. But if I can cheat my heart with the old comfort, that love can be forgotten, is it not better? After all, living is but to play a part! The poorest worm would be a jewel-headed snake if she could!
IV
All this grandeur of glare and glitter has its night-time. The pallid eyelids must shut out smiles and daylight. Then I fold my cold hands, and look down at the restless rivers of a love that rushes through my life. Unseen and unknown they tide on over black rocks and chasms of Death. Oh, for one sweet word to bridge their terrible depths! O jealous soul! why wilt thou crave and yearn for what thou canst not have? And life is so long—so long.
V
With the daylight comes the business of living. The prayers that I sent trembling up the golden thread of hope all come back to me. I lock them close in my bosom, far under the velvet and roses of the world. For I know that stronger than these torrents of passion is the soul that hath lifted itself up to the hill. What care I for his careless laugh? I do not sigh; but I know that God hears the life-blood dripping as I, too, laugh. I would not be thought a foolish rose, that flaunts her red heart out to the sun. Loving is not living!
VI
Yet through all this I know that night will roll back from the still, gray plain of heaven, and that my triumph shall rise sweet with the dawn! When these mortal mists shall unclothe the world, then shall I be known as I am! When I dare be dead and buried behind a wall of wings, then shall he know me! When this world shall fall, like some old ghost, wrapped in the black skirts of the wind, down into the fathomless eternity of fire, then shall souls uprise! When God shall lift the frozen seal from struggling voices, then shall we speak! When the purple-and-gold of our inner natures shall be lighted up in the Eternity of Truth, then will love be mine! I can wait.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:13:26 GMT -5
In this piece Adah Isaacs Menken almost anticipates surrealism.
Into the Depths
I
Lost—lost—lost! To me, for ever, the seat near the blood of the feast. To me, for ever, the station near the Throne of Love! To me, for ever, the Kingdom of Heaven—and I the least. Oh, the least in love— The least in joy— The least in life— The least in death— The least in beauty— The least in eternity. So much of rich, foaming, bubbling human blood drank down into the everlasting sea of Sin. The jasper gates are closed on the crimson highway of the clouds. The Seven Angels stand on guard. Seven thunders utter their voices. And the angels have not sealed up those things which the seven thunders have uttered. I have pleaded to the seventh angel for the little book. But he heedeth me not. All life is bitter, not one drop as sweet as honey. And yet I prophesy before many people, and nations, and tongues, and kings!
II
Lost—lost—lost! The little golden key which the first angel entrusted to me. The gates are closed, and I may not enter. Yet arrayed in folds of white, these angels are more terrible to me than the fabled watcher of the Hesperides golden treasures. Because it is I alone of all God's creatures that am shut out. For others the bolts are withdrawn, and the little book unsealed. With wistful eyes, and longing heart, I wander in the distance, waiting for the angels to sleep. Tremblingly I peer through the gloaming of horrid shadows, and visions of wasted moments. But the white eyelids of the angels never droop. In vain I plead to them that it was I who built the throne. In vain do I tell them that it was I who gemmed it with Faith and Truth, and the dews of my life's morn. In vain do I tell them that they are my hopes which they stand in solemn guard to watch. In vain do I plead my right as queen of the starry highway. In vain do I bind my golden tresses with the pale lilies of the valley. In vain do I display to them my purple broidered robes, and the silver badge of God's eternal bards that I wear on my white bosom. In vain do I wind my soft arms around their silver-sandaled feet. They heed me not. But point to the whirlpool called the world. Must the warm, living, loving soul a wanderer be? Are all its yearnings vain? Are all its prayings vain? Will there be no light to guide me? Will there be strong arm at the helm? Must the full lamp of life wane so early? Ah, I see, all is lost—lost—lost!
III
Deep into the depths! Struggling all the day-time—weeping all the night-time! Writing away all vitality. Talking to people, nations, tongues, and kings that heed me not. Cast out of my own kingdom on to the barren battleplain of bloodless life. A thousand foes advancing? A thousand weapons glancing! And I in the sternest scene of strife. Panting wildly in the race. Malice and Envy on the track. Fleet of foot, they front me with their daggers at my breast. All heedless of my tears and prayers, they tear the white flowers from my brow, and the olive leaves from my breast, and soil with their blood-marked hands the broidered robes of purple beauty. Life's gems are torn from me, and in scattered fragments around me lie. All lost—lost—lost!
IV
Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord! Weeping all the night-time. Weeping sad and chill through the lone woods. Straying 'mong the ghostly trees. Wandering through the rustling leaves. Sobbing to the moon, whose icy light wraps me like a shroud. Leaning on a hoary rock, praying to the mocking stars. With Love's o'erwhelming power startling my soul like an earthquake shock. I lift my voice above the low howl of the winds to call my Eros to come and give me light and life once more. His broad arms can raise me up to the light, and his red lips can kiss me back to life. I heed not the storm of the world, nor the clashing of its steel. I wait—wait—wait!
V
How can I live so deep into the depths with all this wealth of love? Oh, unspeakable, passionate fire of love! Cold blood heedeth ye not. Cold eyes know ye not. But in this wild soul of seething passion we have warmed together. I feel thy lava tide dashing recklessly through every blue course! Grand, beauteous Love! Let us live alone, far from the world of battle and pain, where we can forget this grief that has plunged me into the depths. We will revel in ourselves. Come, Eros, thou creator of this divine passion, come and lay my weary head on your bosom. Draw me close up to your white breast and lull me to sleep. Smooth back the damp, tangled mass from my pale brow. I am so weary of battle— Take this heavy shield. I am so weary of toil— Loosen my garments. Now, wrap me close in your bosom to rest. Closer—closer still! Let your breath warm my cold face. This is life—this is love! Oh, kiss me till I sleep—till I sleep—I sleep.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:15:41 GMT -5
Another Menken masterpiece:
Battle of the Stars
The voice of the wind shrieks through the mountain. The torrent rushes down the rocks. Red are hundred streams of the light-covered paths of the dead. Shield me in from the storm, I that am a daughter of the stars, and wear the purple and gold of bards, with the badges of Love on my white bosom. I heed not the battle-cry of souls! I that am chained on this Ossa of existence. Sorrow hath bound her frozen chain about the wheels of my chariot of fire wherein my soul was wont to ride. Stars, throw off your dark robes, and lead me to the palace where my Eros rests on his iron shield of war, his gleaming sword in the scabbard, his hounds haunting around him. The water and the storm cry aloud. I hear not the voice of my Love. Why delays the chief of the stars his promise? Here is the terrible cloud, and here the cloud of life with its many-colored sides. Thou didst promise to be with me when night should trail her dusky skirts along the borders of my soul. O wind! O thought! Stream and torrent, be ye silent! Let the wanderer hear my voice. Eros, I am waiting. Why delay thy coming? It is Atha calls thee. See the calm moon comes forth. The flood is silver in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the mountain brow; The hounds come not with the glad tidings of his approach. I wait for morning in my tears. Rear the tomb, but close it not till Eros comes: Not unharmed will return the eagle from the field of foes. But Atha will not mark thy wounds, she will be silent in her blood. Love, the great Dreamer, will listen to her voice, and she will sleep on the soft bosom of the hills. O Love! thou Mighty Leveler, Thou alone canst lay the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre, Thou art the King of the Stars. Music floats up to thee, receives thy breath, thy burning kisses, and comes back with messages to children of earth. Thou art pitiful and bountiful. Although housed with the golden-haired Son of the Sky, with stars for thy children, dwelling in the warm clouds, and sleeping on the silver shields of War, yet ye do not disdain the lonely Atha that hovers round the horizon of your Grand Home. You awake and come forth arrayed in trailing robes of glory, with blessing and with song to greet her that seeketh thy mighty presence. Thy hand giveth Morn her power; Thy hand lifteth the mist from the hills; Thy hand createth all of Beauty; Thy hand giveth Morn her rosy robes; Thy hands bound up the wounds of Eros after the battle: Thy hands lifted him to the skirts of the wind, like the eagle of the forest. Thy hands have bound his brow with the spoils of the foe. Thy hands have given to me the glittering spear, and helmet of power and might; Nor settles the darkness on me. The fields of Heaven are mine. I will hush the sullen roar of the enemy. Warriors shall lift their shields to me. My arm is strong, my sword defends the weak. I will loose the thong of the Oppressed, and dash to hell the Oppressor. A thousand warriors stretch their spears around me. I battle for the stars. It was thy hands, O Love, that loosed my golden tresses, and girded my white limbs in armor, and made me leader of the armies of Heaven. Thy voice aroused the sluggard soul. Thy voice calleth back the sleeping dead. Thou alone, O Mighty Ruler, canst annihilate space, hush the shrieking wind, hide the white-haired waves, and bear me to the arms and burning kisses of my Eros. And it is thou who makest beautiful the prison-houses of earth. I once was chained to their darkness, but thou, O Love, brought crimson roses to lay on my pale bosom, and covered the cold damp walls with the golden shields of the sun, and left thy purple garments whereon my weary bleeding feet might rest. And when black-winged night rolled along the sky, thy shield covered the moon, and thy hands threw back the prison-roof, and unfolded the gates of the clouds, and I slept in the white arms of the stars. And thou, O Beam of Life! didst thou not forget the lonely prisoner of Chillon in his gloomy vault? thy blessed ray of Heaven-light stole in and made glad his dreams. Thou hast lifted the deep-gathered mist from the dungeons of Spielberg; Ugolino heard thy voice in his hopeless cell: Thy blessed hand soothed Damiens on his bed of steel; It is thy powerful hand that lights up to Heaven the inspired life of Garabaldi. And it is thy undying power that will clothe Italy in the folds of thy wings, and rend the helmet from the dark brow of old Austria, and bury her in the eternal tomb of darkness. Thou didst not forget children of earth, who roll the waves of their souls to our ship of the sky. But men are leagued against us—strong mailed men of earth, Around the dwellers in the clouds they rise in wrath. No words come forth, they seize their blood-stained daggers. Each takes his hill by night, at intervals they darkly stand counting the power and host of Heaven. Their black unmuzzled hounds howl their impatience as we come on watch in our glittering armor. The hills no longer smile up to greet us, they are covered with these tribes of earth leading their war-dogs, and leaving their footprints of blood. Unequal bursts the hum of voices, and the clang of arms between the roaring wind. And they dare to blaspheme the very stars, and even God on His high throne in the Heaven of Heavens, by pleading for Love. Love sacrifices all things to bless the thing it loves, not destroy. Go back to your scorching homes; Go back to your frozen souls; Go back to your seas of blood; Go back to your chains, your loathsome charnel houses; Give us the green bosom of the hills to rest upon; Broad over them rose the moon. O Love, Great Ruler, call upon thy children to buckle on the armor of war, for behold the enemy blackens all earth in waiting for us. See the glittering of their unsheathed swords. They bear blood-stained banners of death and destruction. And, lo, their Leader comes forth on the Pale Horse. His sword is a green meteor half-extinguished. His face is without form, and dark withal, dark as the tales of other times, before the light of song arose. Mothers, clasp your new-born children close to your white bosoms! Daughters of the stars, sleep no more, the enemy approacheth! Look to your white shields! Bind up your golden tresses! See the blood upon the pale breasts of your sisters. Where are your banners? O sluggards, awake to the call of the Mighty Ruler! Hear ye not the clash of arms? Arise around me, children of the Land Unknown. Up, up, grasp your helmet and your spear! Let each one look upon her shields as the ruler of War. Come forth in your purple robes, sound your silver-tongue trumpets; Rush upon the enemy with your thousand and thousands of burnished spears! Let your voices ring through the Universe, "Liberty, liberty for the stars." Thunder it on the ears of the guilty and the doomed! Sound it with the crash of Heaven's wrath to the hearts of branded—God-cursed things who have stood up and scorned their Maker with laughing curses, as they dashed the crown from her brow, and hurled her into Hell. Pray ye not for them, hills! Heed ye not, O winds, their penitence is feigned! Let your voices, O floods, be hushed! stars, close your mighty flanks, and battle on them! Chain them down close to the fire! They were merciless, bind their blood-stained hands. They are fiends, and if ye loose them they will tear children from their mothers, wives from their husbands, sisters from their brothers, daughters from their fathers. And these fiends, these children of eternal damnation, these men will tear souls from bodies, and then smear their hands with blood, and laugh as they sprinkle it in the dead up-turned faces of their victims. It is Atha thy leader that calls to you. Beat them down, beat them down. I know these war-dogs. They strangled my warrior, Eros! Warrior of my soul; Warrior of the strong race of Eagles! His crimson life crushed out on the white sails of a ship. Battle them down to dust. Battle them back into their own slimy souls; Battle them, ye starry armies of Heaven, down into the silent sea of their own blood; Battle on, the wind is with ye; Battle on, the sun is with ye; Battle on, the waves are with ye; The Angels are with ye; God is with us!
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:37:12 GMT -5
[This is written by a Polish Roma known to the non-Roma world as Bronislawa Wajs but among her own people by her Romani name of Papusza which means 'doll' in Romanes. Because I don't know Polish I'm posting the translation of this fine poem by her which was done by the Polish poet Yala Korwin]
Tears of Blood
(How we suffered under the German soldiers in Volyň from 1943 to 1944)
In the woods. No water, no fire — great hunger. Where could the children sleep? No tent. We could not light the fire at night. By day, the smoke would alert the Germans. How to live with children in the cold of winter? All are barefoot… When they wanted to murder us, first they forced us to hard labor. A German came to see us. — I have bad news for you. They want to kill you tonight. Don’t tell anybody. I too am a dark Gypsy, of your blood — a true one. God help you in the black forest… Having said these words, he embraced us all…
For two three days no food. All go to sleep hungry. Unable to sleep, they stare at the stars… God, how beautiful it is to live! The Germans will not let us…
Ah, you, my little star! At dawn you are large! Blind the Germans! Confuse them, lead them astray, so the Jewish and Gypsy child can live!
When big winter comes, what will the Gypsy woman with a small child do? Where will she find clothing? Everything is turning to rags. One wants to die. No one knows, only the sky, only the river hears our lament. Whose eyes saw us as enemies? Whose mouth cursed us? Do not hear them, God. Hear us! A cold night came, The old Gypsy women sang A Gypsy fairy tale: Golden winter will come, snow, like little stars, will cover the earth, the hands. The black eyes will freeze, the hearts will die.
So much snow fell, it covered the road. One could only see the Milky Way in the sky.
On such night of frost a little daughter dies, and in four days mothers bury in the snow four little sons. Sun, without you, see how a little Gypsy is dying from cold in the big forest.
Once, at home, the moon stood in the window, didn’t let me sleep. Someone looked inside. I asked — who is there? — Open the door, my dark Gypsy. I saw a beautiful young Jewish girl, shivering from cold, asking for food. You poor thing, my little one. I gave her bread, whatever I had, a shirt. We both forgot that not far away were the police. But they didn’t come that night.
All the birds are praying for our children, so the evil people, vipers, will not kill them. Ah, fate! My unlucky luck!
Snow fell as thick as leaves, barred our way, such heavy snow, it buried the cartwheels. One had to trample a track, push the carts behind the horses.
How many miseries and hungers! How many sorrows and roads! How many sharp stones pierced our feet! How many bullets flew by our ears!
Translated from the Polish by Yala Korwin.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 25, 2014 19:53:24 GMT -5
Here's a poem by a Serbian Roma poet called Rajko Djuric
(I've put the English translation first)
BEFORE US
Before us water was inexhaustible the fire was not extinguished wind cherished foliage
Before us land was pregnant nobody dared touch her womb or dew or ant
Before us wild beasts were at peace and impassive trees rejoiced at the arrival of the birds flowering branches welcomed nests fish living in harmony
Before us the wind laughed from the heights whispered in the depths of the water the fire crackled in dreams
Before us or
Before us no footfalls no houses
MAJANGLAL AMENDAR
Majanglal amendar O paj or xasavola E jag or koravola E Balval e patrinen čumidela
Majanglal amendar E phuv sasa khamni Neither tromala khonik you lako dji azbal Or e Drosin Neither Cir
Majanglal amendar E Ruva sesa paćamne Thaj poloće E Kasten baxt lela kana e čiriklja Resena E luludja sesa kujbo čirikljengo Phralikano sasa o Trajo e mačhengo
Majanglal amendar E Balval andar o učhipe muj beyond O paj o andar haripe vakarela E jag andar e sune Svato Kerela
Majanglal amendar Or
Majanglal amendar Neither limori Neither kher
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Feb 26, 2014 19:44:35 GMT -5
Here's one of Lucy Larcom's best poems:
The Rose Enthroned:
It melts and seethes, the chaos that shall grow to adamant beneath the house of life; in hissing hatred atoms clash, and go to meet intenser strife
and, ere that fever leaves the granite veins, down thunders over them a torrid sea: now flood, now fire, alternate despot reighs, immortal foes to be
built by the warring elements, they rise, the massive earth foundations, tier on tier, where slimy monsters with unhuman eyes their hideous heads uprear
the building of the world is not for you, that glare upon each other, and devour: race floating after race fades out of view, till beauty springs from power
meanwhile from crumbling rocks and shoals of death shoots up rank verdure to the hidden sun; the gulfs are eddying to the vague, sweet breath of richer life begun;
richer and sweeter far than aught before though rooted in the grave of what has been Unnumbered burials yet must heap Earth's floor ere she her heir shall win; and ever nobler lives and deaths more grand, for nourishment of that which is to come; while mid the ruins of the wreck she planned sits Nature, blind and dumb
for whom or what she plans she knows no more than any mother of her unborn child; yet beautiful forewarnigns murmur oe'r her desolations wild
slowly the clamour and the clash subside; earth#'s restlessness her patient hopes subdue;; mild oceans shoreward heave a pulse-like tide; the skies are veined with blue and life works through the growing quietness, to bring some darling mystery into form' beauty her fairest possible would dress in colours pure and warm
within the depths of palpitating seas a tender tint - anon a line of grace some lovely thought from its dull atom frees, the coming joy to trace:-
a pencilled moss on tablets of the sand, such as shall veil the unbudded maiden-blush of beauty yet to gladden the green land;- a breathing, through the hush,
of some sealed perfume longing to burst out, and give its prisoned rapture to the air:- a brooding hope, a promise through a doubt, is whispered everywhere
and, every dawn a shade more clear, the skies a flush as from the heart of heaven disclose; through earth and sea and air a message flies prophetic of the rose
at last a morning comes, of sunshine still, when not a dewdrop trembles on the grass, when all winds sleep, and every pool and rill is like a burnished glass
where a long looked-for guest might lean to gazel when day on earth rests royally, - a crown of molten glory, flashing diamond rays, from heaven let lightly down
in golden silence, breathless, all things stand; what answer waits this questioning repose? A sudden gush of light and odours bland, and lo - the Rose! the Rose!
the birds break into canticles around; the winds lift Jubilate to the skies; for, twin-born with the rose on Eden-ground, love blooms in human eyes
life's marvellous queen-flower blossoms only so, in dust of low ideal rooted fast. Ever the beautiful is moulded slow from truth in errors past
what fiery fields of chaos must be won, what battling Titans rear themselves a tomb, what births and resurrections greet the subn, before the rose can bloom!
and of some wonder blossom yet we dream whereof the time that is infolds the seed; some flower of light to which the rose shall seem a fair and fragile weed
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feetlebaum
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Post by feetlebaum on Mar 2, 2014 6:50:06 GMT -5
Haiku Wendy Cope
A perfect white wine is sharp, sweet and cold as this: birdsong in winter.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 2, 2014 18:15:07 GMT -5
Thanks, Feetlebaum. I'm not much of a Wendy Cope fan but this is quite good!
And thanks for contributing to this thread - I don't want to feel lonely!
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Post by beth on Mar 3, 2014 9:41:09 GMT -5
HaikuWendy CopeA perfect white wine is sharp, sweet and cold as this: birdsong in winter. This is lovely, Fee. A keeper. Thank you.
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Jessiealan
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Post by Jessiealan on Mar 4, 2014 11:29:48 GMT -5
Very nice poems, Lin.
Haiku is a pure, clean drop of perfection, feetle.
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feetlebaum
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November 2013 Member of the Month
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Post by feetlebaum on Mar 4, 2014 15:43:14 GMT -5
There's another Wendy Cope Haiku...
Haiku: Looking Out of the Back Bedroom Window Without My Glasses
What's that amazing new lemon-yellow flower? Oh yes, a football.
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 5, 2014 16:58:14 GMT -5
Here is a fine poem (as far as I can judge in translation) by the Pakistani poet Faiz.
A Prison Evening
Each star a rung, night comes down the spiral staircase of the evening. The breeze passes by so very close as if someone just happened to speak of love. In the courtyard, the trees are absorbed refugees embroidering maps of return on the sky. On the roof, the moon - lovingly, generously - is turning the stars into a dust of sheen. From every corner, dark-green shadows, in ripples, come towards me. At any moment they may break over me, like the waves of pain each time I remember this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me: though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed in rooms where lovers are destined to meet, they cannot snuff out the moon, so today, nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed, no poison of torture make me bitter, if just one evening in prison can be so strangely sweet, if just one moment anywhere on this earth.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
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feetlebaum
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Post by feetlebaum on Mar 6, 2014 9:11:19 GMT -5
Midwinter Waking
Paws there. Snout there as well. Mustiness. Mould. Darkness; a desire to stretch, to scratch. Then has the -- ? Then is it -- ? Nudge the thatch, Displace the stiffened leaves. Like a blade on stone, A wind is scraping, first this way, then that Morning, perhaps, but not a proper one. Turn. Sleep will unshell us, but not yet.
Philip Larkin, 1954
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ladylinda
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Post by ladylinda on Mar 6, 2014 14:04:36 GMT -5
Not as well known perhaps as some of his limericks but a beautiful example of surrealist humour before the movement had even been invented!
The Jumblies
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, `You'll all be drowned!' They called aloud, `Our Sieve ain't big, But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig! In a Sieve we'll go to sea!' Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a riband by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast; And every one said, who saw them go, `O won't they be soon upset, you know! For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long, And happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a Sieve to sail so fast!' Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
The water it soon came in, it did, The water it soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar, And each of them said, `How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our Sieve we spin!' Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. `O Timballo! How happy we are, When we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar, And all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail, In the shade of the mountains brown!' Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart, And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws, And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree, And no end of Stilton Cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more, And every one said, `How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore!' And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, `If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,--- To the hills of the Chankly Bore!' Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
Edward Lear
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