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[FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT] -
A few choice Anglo-Saxon words for National Poetry Day:
Primo cantauit Cædmon istud carmen.
Nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard
metudæs maecti end his modgidanc
uerc uuldurfadur sue he uundra gihuaes
eci dryctin or astelidæ
he aerist scop aelda barnum
heben til hrofe haleg scepen.
tha middungeard moncynnæs uard
eci dryctin æfter tiadæ
firum foldu frea allmectig
[FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT]Comment
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Thank you very much.Originally posted by ferneyhoughgeliebte View Post
An interesting read.
National Poetry Day
Andrew Motion - Better Life -
ee cummings - Somewhere I Have Never Travelled -
Dylan Thomas - Fern Hill -
W B Yeats - When You Are Old -
Katrina Porteous - If My Train Will Come -
John Donne - Go and Catch a Falling Star -
Stevie Smith - Not Waving (But Drowning) -
Claude McKay - If We Must Die -
Last edited by Lat-Literal; 08-10-15, 11:16.Comment
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I spilled my tea
My knees are scalding
'Cos Poetry Day's
Recruited CLARE BALDING
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The Day After National Poetry Day
Alfred Tennyson - The Lotos Eaters
Luvverly.
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§ I. Seven miles to the north of Venice, the banks of sand, which near the city rise little above low-water mark, attain by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea. One of the feeblest of these inlets, after winding for some time among buried fragments of masonry, and knots of sunburnt weeds whitened with webs of fucus, stays itself in an utterly stagnant pool beside a plot of greener grass covered with ground ivy and violets. On this mound is built a rude brick campanile, of the commonest Lombardic type, which if we ascend towards evening (and there are none to hinder us, the door of its ruinous staircase swinging idly on its hinges), we may command from it one of the most notable scenes in this wide world of ours. Far as the eye can reach, a waste of wild sea moor, of a lurid ashen grey; not like our northern moors with their jet-black pools and purple heath, but lifeless, the color of sackcloth, with the corrupted sea-water soaking through the roots of its acrid weeds, and gleaming hither and thither through its snaky channels. No gathering of fantastic mists, nor coursing of clouds across it; but melancholy clearness of space in the warm sunset, oppressive, reaching to the horizon of its level gloom. To the very horizon, on the north-east; but, to the north and west, there is a blue line of higher land along the border of it, and above this, but farther back, a misty band of mountains, touched with snow. To the east, the paleness and roar of the Adriatic, louder at momentary intervals as the surf breaks on the bars of sand; to the south, the widening branches of the calm lagoon, 12 alternately purple and pale green, as they reflect the evening clouds or twilight sky; and almost beneath our feet, on the same field which sustains the tower we gaze from, a group of four buildings, two of them little larger than cottages (though built of stone, and one adorned by a quaint belfry), the third an octagonal chapel, of which we can see but little more than the flat red roof with its rayed tiling, the fourth, a considerable church with nave and aisles, but of which, in like manner, we can see little but the long central ridge and lateral slopes of roof, which the sunlight separates in one glowing mass from the green field beneath and grey moor beyond. There are no living creatures near the buildings, nor any vestige of village or city round about them. They lie like a little company of ships becalmed on a far-away sea.
§ II. Then look farther to the south. Beyond the widening branches of the lagoon, and rising out of the bright lake into which they gather, there are a multitude of towers, dark, and scattered among square-set shapes of clustered palaces, a long and irregular line fretting the southern sky.
Mother and daughter, you behold them both in their widowhood,—Torcello and Venice.
Thirteen hundred years ago, the grey moorland looked as it does this day, and the purple mountains stood as radiantly in the deep distances of evening; but on the line of the horizon, there were strange fires mixed with the light of sunset, and the lament of many human voices mixed with the fretting of the waves on their ridges of sand. The flames rose from the ruins of Altinum; the lament from the multitude of its people, seeking, like Israel of old, a refuge from the sword in the paths of the sea.
The cattle are feeding and resting upon the site of the city that they left; the mower’s scythe swept this day at dawn over the chief street of the city that they built, and the swathes of soft grass are now sending up their scent into the night air, the only incense that fills the temple of their ancient worship. Let us go down into that little space of meadow land.Comment
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This came over the airwaves at one point. Did Housman have Oscar Wilde in mind?
Oh Who Is That Young Sinner
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.
'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.
Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.
Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.
A.E. HousmanComment
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I'm sure he did. The dates are right, as far as I remember. Brilliant, tragic, angry poem.Originally posted by ardcarp View PostComment
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Any space for mash-ups in this thread?
Here's my T.S. Eliot - Dave Chappelle collision:
"Home is where one starts from. There, I've said it!"Comment
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Too smart for me.Originally posted by arthroceph View Post
Slightly spooky for All Souls -
Frost
I found a hankie on the whitethorn
outside in the freezing cold this morning.
When I reached up to get it, it slipped -
or skipped? Anyhow it missed my grip.
Not just a sprightly rag, I thought,
more like 'something' died out here last night...
As I sought the right analogy
this surfaced in my memory:
The kiss I gave my cousin
before they covered her coffin.
Seán Ó Ríordáin
translated by Maurice RiordanComment
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An affecting poem, and when you look back at it, marvellous for a translation in the way it uses the sounds of the words, not just in the rhymes or half-rhymes.Originally posted by Padraig View Post
'Sprightly rag'! Great.Comment
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I'm delighted you enjoyed Frost, silvestrione. I know what you mean by the half-rhymes etc. I'm hoping to learn to appreciate the original Irish, but that is quite a way off. Do you know something - there seems to be a reluctance to introduce Irish poetry to language learners like myself; it's too hard; it's too different; words are used differently, etc. Seems to me to be good reasons to start early, but what do I know?Originally posted by silvestrione View Post
Here is a poetry and art related local item. A bit touristy folksy, or just an interesting little piece of local history? I enjoyed it.
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Definitely a celebration of local history and culture Padraig, beautifully made - will weather well too. Thanks for posting.Originally posted by Padraig View PostComment
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Do you mean you're trying to learn Irish, but the tutors and tutorial materials don't use the poetry, for the reasons you give? That seems short-sighted to me, and a great shame. Thanks for the link to the 'bridge with poem'.Originally posted by Padraig View PostComment
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