I think I've heard or seen this one before, or another poem he wrote, but didn't know it was *him.* At any rate, I really love the way this poem works. The meter and rhyme scheme, yes, but really just the way it's written flows so beautifully and though it's brief, it really drew me in. Thank you!
Erthe toc of erthe, erthe wyth woh. Erthe other erthe to the erthe droh. Erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh. Tho heuede erthe of erthe erthe ynoh.
Notes
1] This is the oldest version, according to The Middle English Poem, Earth upon Earth, Printed from Twenty-four Manuscripts, ed. Hilda M. R. Murray, EETS OS 141 (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1911): xxxii, 1 (facsimile of MS page in frontispiece). The first three lines appear to describe making a living as a farmer, carrying a body in a funeral procession, and burying a body. woh: woe.
Tú sabes cómo es esto: si miro la luna de cristal, la rama roja del lento otoño en mi ventana, si toco junto al fuego la impalpable ceniza o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña, todo me lleva a ti, como si todo lo que existe: aromas, luz, metales, fueran pequeños barcos que navegan hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien, si poco a poco dejas de quererme dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto me olvidas no me busques, que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco el viento de banderas que pasa por mi vida y te decides a dejarme a la orilla del corazón en que tengo raíces, piensa que en esa día, a esa hora levantaré los brazos y saldrán mis raíces a buscar otra tierra.
Pero si cada día, cada hora, sientes que a mí estás destinada con dulzura implacable, si cada día sube una flor a tus labios a buscarme, ay amor mío, ay mía, en mí todo ese fuego se repite, en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida, mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada, y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos sin salir de los míos.
Re: Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
Wow, thanks for posting. It looks like that's one that I don't have. I'll have to track it down somewhere (unless you have a translation handy?) Do you know what collection I could find it in?
Re: Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
Oh! I love that one! My spanish is horrendous. I can read beer ads and subway instructions, basically. Sometimes. But I love Neruda's poetry. I got really into it my sophomore year of high school and read it *constantly.* Thanks again for posting it!
can we go drinking in your gayass neigborhood, hit on hell of girls, be rediculous, and then you let me crash on your soontobe floor? if so, that is my christmas, ahem, wish from you. and i'll make you a sweet sweet mix in any case.
you're not safe. nothing stands between you and victim status but whatever has kept you whole thus far. your father can't save you. your lover, the police, the government, suburbia, fear – and your god's in his heaven meditating on free will. at age seven I learned about nuclear war. that night, I sat my five-year-old sister down to share facts with her that had been so long withheld. I'm telling you this now. there will always be men unafraid to die and take you with them. men play football with pneumonia, broken ribs, hairline fractures to the spine that threaten to leave them paralyzed. they volunteer for wars over oil and pride, take up guns against enemies and innocents alike for a government that ignores their votes at will. women have sacrificed their bodies for uncounted centuries. in childbirth, for love, for country, for god, dressed as men to fight those same tainted wars, dressed as whores to survive – she too will make you a martyr to her end. Question: if a man can disable a flight staff with a pair of blunt tweezers, does he need the tweezers? yet scissors are confiscated, nail clippers pitched, laptops rattled and opened while tubes of hair gel filled with enough liquid C-4 to take down a fleet of DC-9s pass unexamined. cops study the driver's licenses of pedestrians while warplanes drop foodboxes onto ground littered with landmines this is not a new world. when have you been entirely safe? when have you -- woman, person of color, queer, small man, rich man -- walked the streets entirely untouchable? a man tracked my movements from 1990 until he was jailed in 1995. I lived in Des Plaines Illinois, where so much nothing ever happens the teenagers go to Park Ridge for kicks. yet it bred John Wayne Gacey, who ate boys' corpses for breakfast. yet it spawned Steven Josefow, who when finally arrested possessed hand-drawn blueprints of the houses of thirty-seven girls in the four surrounding suburbs and had only recently been fired from his job as a substitute teacher. there are children in Afghanistan, in Bosnia, in Cabrini Green Chicago who've known less than three nights in their lives without gunfire or bombs dropping without real and imminent threat to their lives. this is not a new world. look at your hands. are they red like mine?
also, i post poems i love a lot, and keep a record so i can find them again, check them out if you like: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=hope_persists&keyword=poetry&filter=all
Hey thanks for the poem, and for reminding me of the creepiness in Des Plaines. One of the things I think of when people (family) wonder how I could want to live in the big scary city!
That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees --Those dying generations--at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
then then methinks how sweetly flows
the liquefaction of her clothes
next when i cast mine eye and see
that brave reflection each way free
oh how that glittering taketh me.
about this poem
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/herrick/
Re: about this poem
Also, points for near-immediate response.
no subject
Fu-Chung Wong
When it was over,
we dressed,
and we both knew—
we knew the way
a child knows
when it’s the end
of summer.
no subject
no subject
Erthe Toc of Erthe, Erthe wyth Woh
Erthe toc of erthe, erthe wyth woh.
Erthe other erthe to the erthe droh.
Erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh.
Tho heuede erthe of erthe erthe ynoh.
Notes
1] This is the oldest version, according to The Middle English Poem, Earth upon Earth, Printed from Twenty-four Manuscripts, ed. Hilda M. R. Murray, EETS OS 141 (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1911): xxxii, 1 (facsimile of MS page in frontispiece). The first three lines appear to describe making a living as a farmer, carrying a body in a funeral procession, and burying a body. woh: woe.
no subject
John Donne -- A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
...........................................
In eleventh grade when I went to Russia for 3 weeks, Amy gave me this poem right before I left. It means a lot to me.
Re: John Donne -- A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
I'm such a femmey femme femme.
Re: John Donne -- A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
Re: John Donne -- A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
una cosa.
Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe:
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en esa día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.
Pero
si cada día,
cada hora,
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable,
si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.
Re: Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
Re: Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poet=6638&poem=29281
:)
Re: Neruda at my grandfather's funeral when I was 13
no subject
Channukah miracle!
I'll get you an eight-track, one track per night.
no subject
no subject
i don't know you, but here is a poem i love
Marty McConnell
you're not safe. nothing stands between you
and victim status but whatever
has kept you whole thus far. your father can't save you.
your lover, the police, the government, suburbia, fear –
and your god's in his heaven meditating on free will.
at age seven I learned about nuclear war. that night,
I sat my five-year-old sister down
to share facts with her that had been so long
withheld. I'm telling you this now.
there will always be men unafraid to die
and take you with them. men play football
with pneumonia, broken ribs, hairline fractures
to the spine that threaten to leave them paralyzed.
they volunteer for wars over oil and pride, take up guns
against enemies and innocents alike for a government
that ignores their votes at will.
women have sacrificed their bodies
for uncounted centuries. in childbirth, for love,
for country, for god, dressed as men to fight those same
tainted wars, dressed as whores to survive – she too
will make you a martyr to her end. Question:
if a man can disable a flight staff with a pair
of blunt tweezers, does he need the tweezers?
yet scissors are confiscated, nail clippers pitched,
laptops rattled and opened while tubes of hair gel
filled with enough liquid C-4 to take down a fleet
of DC-9s pass unexamined. cops study the driver's licenses
of pedestrians while warplanes drop foodboxes
onto ground littered with landmines this is not
a new world. when have you been entirely safe?
when have you -- woman, person of color, queer,
small man, rich man -- walked the streets entirely
untouchable? a man tracked my movements from 1990
until he was jailed in 1995. I lived in Des Plaines Illinois,
where so much nothing ever happens
the teenagers go to Park Ridge for kicks.
yet it bred John Wayne Gacey, who ate boys' corpses
for breakfast. yet it spawned Steven Josefow,
who when finally arrested possessed hand-drawn blueprints
of the houses of thirty-seven girls in the four
surrounding suburbs and had only recently been fired
from his job as a substitute teacher. there are children
in Afghanistan, in Bosnia, in Cabrini Green Chicago
who've known less than three nights in their lives
without gunfire or bombs dropping without real
and imminent threat to their lives. this is not
a new world. look at your hands.
are they red like mine?
also, i post poems i love a lot, and keep a record so i can find them again, check them out if you like: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=hope_persists&keyword=poetry&filter=all
Re: i don't know you, but here is a poem i love
"sailing to byzantium", gerard manley hopkins
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--Those dying generations--at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.