Love poems
Well, why not?
In the best tradition, a few simple (and fairly loose) rules and suggestions to be forgotten before the second page, the cardinal rule being love poems only. This is the love poem thread. After that...
1) Poets only please - no lyrics, even if they're really sad.
2) Groverat this counts out 'Superho' by BDP. I'm sorry.
3) Sweet, sour, erotic Sanskrit, plain erotic, even divine praise poems please. Any language. Bring 'em on.
4) Nothing, but nothing, you've written yourself. Unless your work is for sale at Amazon.
5) Everybody is expected to contribute. Religious types, lurking geeks, politicos, trolls: air'body.
6) Absolutely no criticism of other people's selections please.
7) A few lines of explanation if the poet's really obscure please
8) Read the last poem through before you post your own.
I'm going to stop there because no-one's going to take any notice of these rules within ten posts and this thread might be a blue-folder type bomber anyway.
Be brave.
Here's mine to kick it off. It's by the art critic, novelist and poet John Berger (author of 'Ways of Seeing') and it's as good a place as any to start.
My heart born naked
was swaddled in lullabies.
Later alone it wore
poems for clothes.
Like a shirt
I carried on my back
the poetry I had read.
So I lived for half a century
until wordlessly we met.
From my shirt on the back of the chair
I learn tonight
how many years
of learning by heart
I waited for you.
[ 07-05-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>
In the best tradition, a few simple (and fairly loose) rules and suggestions to be forgotten before the second page, the cardinal rule being love poems only. This is the love poem thread. After that...
1) Poets only please - no lyrics, even if they're really sad.
2) Groverat this counts out 'Superho' by BDP. I'm sorry.
3) Sweet, sour, erotic Sanskrit, plain erotic, even divine praise poems please. Any language. Bring 'em on.
4) Nothing, but nothing, you've written yourself. Unless your work is for sale at Amazon.
5) Everybody is expected to contribute. Religious types, lurking geeks, politicos, trolls: air'body.
6) Absolutely no criticism of other people's selections please.
7) A few lines of explanation if the poet's really obscure please
8) Read the last poem through before you post your own.
I'm going to stop there because no-one's going to take any notice of these rules within ten posts and this thread might be a blue-folder type bomber anyway.
Be brave.
Here's mine to kick it off. It's by the art critic, novelist and poet John Berger (author of 'Ways of Seeing') and it's as good a place as any to start.
My heart born naked
was swaddled in lullabies.
Later alone it wore
poems for clothes.
Like a shirt
I carried on my back
the poetry I had read.
So I lived for half a century
until wordlessly we met.
From my shirt on the back of the chair
I learn tonight
how many years
of learning by heart
I waited for you.
[ 07-05-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>
Comments
the first is from an inscription on an Egyptian statue circa 1500bc:
O my beloved
how sweet it is
to go downn
and bathe in the pool
before your eyes
letting you see how
my drenched linen dress
marries
the beauty of my body.
Come, look at me
.
.
the other is by Anna Akhmatova:
I bear equally with you
the black permanent separation.
Why are you crying? Rather give me
your hand,
promise to come again in a dream.
You and I are a mountain of grief.
You and I will never meet on this earth.
If only you could send me at midnight
a greeting through the stars.
.
.
oh...that kills me...
I will post some more . . . upcoming one of my absolutely favorite by Yeats . . . a bittersweet love poem . . .yeay
[ 07-03-2002: Message edited by: pfflam ]</p>
Well, I'll oblige
Also, I'll say that I find the strictres a good idea.. as well as the whole post . ..
this poem meant alot to me at one time: it's William Butler Yeats
The Lover Pleads with his Friend for Old Friends
Though you are in your shining days,
Voices among teh crowd
And new friends busy with your praise,
Be not unkind or proud,
But think about old friends the most:
Time's bitter flood will rise,
Your beauty perish and be lost
For all eyes but these eyes.
.
<img src="graemlins/surprised.gif" border="0" alt="[Surprised]" />
Here's another decent poem I got from an anthology called: Postwar Poetry From Iceland its by Jon Oskar
MAN AND WOMAN
What can you give me,
you who don't want to die,
and what can I give
you who don't want to go
and I who don't want to go
and you who don't want to die
I hand you one winter
of life hand you timidly
one winter full of life.
even more to come...
you hand me one summer
of life hand me timidly
one summer full of life.
A short one (I've had too many Boddington's Pub Ales on the eve of the U.S. independence day)...
I feel horrible, she doesn't
Love me anymore and
I just wander around the house feeling
like a sewing machine
that's just sewed a turd to the inside
of a trash can lid.
oh, you want another eh? OK!
but later, I'm wiped out.
Song of Solomon 1:2-4
2 Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
3 Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.
4 Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.
A thousand wives? I wonder how Solomon kept his carbohydrates up.
<strong>Its funny but as soon as I saw the post title I thought of two poems that I found in an essay by John Berger:
the first is from an inscription on an Egyptian statue circa 1500bc:
O my beloved
how sweet it is
to go downn
and bathe in the pool
before your eyes
letting you see how
my drenched linen dress
marries
the beauty of my body.
Come, look at me
</strong><hr></blockquote>
Pfflam how curious. I came very close to kicking this thread off with that!
Spooky, hein?
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>
<strong>Well, why not.
In the best tradition, a few simple (and fairly loose) rules and suggestions to be forgotten before the second page:
The cardinal rule is love poems only. This is the love poem thread! After that...
1) Poets only please - no lyrics, even if they're really sad.
[ 07-03-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</strong><hr></blockquote>
well, the best poem/texts are set to songs, such as this one by Rükert set to song by Schuman (Myrthen, Op. 25 #6):
Du meine Seele, du mein Herz,
du meina Wonn', o du mein Schmerz,
Du meine Welt, in der ich liebe,
mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe,
o du mein Grab, in das hinab
ich eweig meinen Kummer grab!
Du bist die Ruh', du bist der Frieden
du bist von Himmel mir beschieden,
Dass du mich liebst, macht mich mir wert,
dein Blick hat mich vor mir verklärt,
du hebst mich liebend über mich,
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res Ich!
roughly translated in english:
you are my soul, you are my heart,
you are my joy, oh you are my sorrow,
you are my world, in which i live
you are my heaven, in which i soar
oh your are my grave, in which i have
For ever laid to rest my cares!
you are tranquility, you are piece
i have been blessed by heaven with thee
that you love me, raised my self-esteem,
your look has transfigured me before my own eyes,
lovingly, you raised me above myself,
my good spirit, my better self.
hehehe, as if you couldn't tell by the screen name that i'm a romantic
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: Wagnerite ]</p>
I love this piece too!!!!!
Which essay was this from btw (I collaborated with JB on a couple of works, one of which included that piece ...
(Sorry HiS, Pfflam's got his private message options off. I know this breaks your strict rules :-) )
[quote]Originally posted by pfflam:
<strong>Its funny but as soon as I saw the post title I thought of two poems that I found in an essay by John Berger:
the first is from an inscription on an Egyptian statue circa 1500bc:
O my beloved
how sweet it is
to go downn
and bathe in the pool
before your eyes
letting you see how
my drenched linen dress
marries
the beauty of my body.
Come, look at me
.
.
the other is by Anna Akhmatova:
I bear equally with you
the black permanent separation.
Why are you crying? Rather give me
your hand,
promise to come again in a dream.
You and I are a mountain of grief.
You and I will never meet on this earth.
If only you could send me at midnight
a greeting through the stars.
.
.
oh...that kills me...
I will post some more . . . upcoming one of my absolutely favorite by Yeats . . . a bittersweet love poem . . .yeay
[ 07-03-2002: Message edited by: pfflam ]</strong><hr></blockquote>
<strong>Pfflam,
I love this piece too!!!!!
Which essay was this from btw (I collaborated with JB on a couple of works, one of which included that piece ...
(Sorry HiS, Pfflam's got his private message options off. I know this breaks your strict rules :-) )
</strong><hr></blockquote>
That's OK.
Where's yuh raas claat love poem, lion?
Not strictly a love poem as such, it's more about the pain of love.
"Alone and palely loitering", says it all, and then the last line always gets me.
John KeatsÂ*(1795Â?1821)
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Â*
I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Â*Â*Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has witherÂ?d from the lake,
Â*Â*And no birds sing.
Â*
II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
Â*Â*So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrelÂ?s granary is full,
Â*Â*And the harvestÂ?s done.
Â*
III.
I see a lily on thy brow
Â*Â*With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Â*Â*Fast withereth too.
Â*
IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Â*Â*Full beautifulÂ?a faeryÂ?s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
Â*Â*And her eyes were wild.
Â*
V.
I made a garland for her head,
Â*Â*And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She lookÂ?d at me as she did love,
Â*Â*And made sweet moan.
Â*
VI.
I set her on my pacing steed,
Â*Â*And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
Â*Â*A faeryÂ?s song.
Â*
VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
Â*Â*And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she saidÂ?
Â*Â*Â?I love thee true.Â?
Â*
VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
Â*Â*And there she wept, and sighÂ?d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
Â*Â*With kisses four.
Â*
IX.
And there she lulled me asleep,
Â*Â*And there I dreamÂ?dÂ?Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamÂ?d
Â*Â*On the cold hillÂ?s side.
Â*
X.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Â*Â*Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They criedÂ?Â?La Belle Dame sans Merci
Â*Â*Hath thee in thrall!Â?\t
Â*
XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
Â*Â*With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
Â*Â*On the cold hillÂ?s side.
Â*
XII.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Â*Â*Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is witherÂ?d from the lake,
Â*Â*And no birds sing.
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: The Installer ]</p>
When in dispair with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate.
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed.
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope
With what I enjoy most contented least.
And in these thoughts myself almost despising
Haply, I think on thee, and then my state.
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heavens gate.
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
that then I scorn to change my state with kings.
-- Bill (the Bard.)
.. by Rükert set to song by Schuman (Myrthen, Op. 25 #6):
Du meine Seele, du mein Herz,
du meina Wonn', o du mein Schmerz,
Du meine Welt, in der ich liebe,
mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe,
o du mein Grab, in das hinab
ich eweig meinen Kummer grab!
Du bist die Ruh', du bist der Frieden
du bist von Himmel mir beschieden,
Dass du mich liebst, macht mich mir wert,
dein Blick hat mich vor mir verklärt,
du hebst mich liebend über mich,
Mein guter Geist, mein bess'res Ich!
<hr></blockquote>
Ooh. This rocks. I'll have to steal this one for my fiancée. Hey Bayreuth-mann, can you hum a few bars of this for me? Nevermind.. I can't sing anyway. I'm sure I can download it from Gnutella instead.
And so Hassan doesn't yell at me:
Roses are red,
iMacs are Blueberry
If your mouse's pad's dirty,
it's balls get scary.
I think that's from Keats, too. Yeah, that's the ticket.
<strong>And so Hassan doesn't yell at me:
Roses are red,
iMacs are Blueberry
If your mouse's pad's dirty,
it's balls get scary.
I think that's from Keats, too. Yeah, that's the ticket.</strong><hr></blockquote>
Is your work for sale at Amazon? Is it? You know the rules, Garden. It's not a love poem, and it's nothing like Keats. (Actually, it reminds one of Pound.)
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>
You got to work with John Berger .. .I'm jeoulous . . .what do you do?
ok here's another great poem, This one is long but if it is READ OUT LOUD it flows quickly and youcan eally follow it . . . its pretty randy....
To His Mistress Going to Bed
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though they never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you, that now 'tis your bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Received by men; thou angel bring'st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,
That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
Whom their imputed grace will dignify
Must see revealed. Then since I may know,
As liberally, as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
Here is no penance, much less innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first, why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
...a was going to type it but last minute thought of looking for it online...phwew
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: pfflam ]</p>
<strong>Hassan, the Akmatova poem and teh other one are from the John Berger article called, The Hour of Poetry originally published in the book The Sense of Sight But I got it from Selected Essays put out by Pantheon press.
You got to work with John Berger .. .I'm jeoulous . . .what do you do?y: pfflam ]</strong><hr></blockquote>
It wasn't me, it was Harald. But I did almost kick the thread off with that exact same poem: I found it in a book of collected essays, probably the same one. It's on my desktop right now.
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>
In the woodland I was roaming
When I first descried her;
She was saunt?ring ?mid the lotus,
And I shyly eyed her.
Ling?ring sunrays slowly dying
?Mong the leaves were beaming;
Discs of light like golden dinars
Through the shades were gleaming.
Lone she walked, her arms lay folded
On her bosom swaying;
Up and down the reddish light-discs
On her face were playing.
From her count?annce fell the light-discs
To the ground and stayed there;
Two resplendent rays fell also
On her eyes and played there.
Fell and played there-starightway stopped she,
Stood, nor word nor motion;
Glowed her eyes like two coals burning
In a flaming ocean.
Stared the maid, her eyes were burning-
God in heaven, savior!
Tell me what these eyes demanded..
Strange was their behavior.
Serpants two, oh, two black vipers
Forward saw I drawing;
From her eyes my heart they entered,
Hissing, bitting, gnawing;
Biting, burning, venom pouring,
Nigh their flames consumed me.
God, my God, destry this demon!
Lilith snared and doomed me.
On she went, her footsteps vanished,
Woodland to me leaving;
But her eyes for aye pursue me,
Aye, without retrieving!
CHAIM NACHMAN BIALIK
Trans. Harry H. Fein
---
mika.
Is your work for sale at Amazon? Is it? You know the rules, Garden. It's not a love poem, and it's nothing like Keats. (Actually, it reminds one of Pound.)
<hr></blockquote>
I'm in a contract dispute with Amazon right now. They refusing my unicorn clause. Bastards.
You didn't like my Song of Solomon? How 'bout Oscar the Wild Man:
[quote]
To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age's gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom, - I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistledown of summer air
Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
<hr></blockquote>
He used the words "soul" and "kiss" and stuff, so it must be a love poem.
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife <hr></blockquote>
I could think of a few hinds he'd like to sojourn in . . . you know that cave of strife . . .
its interesting how he equates woman with " Fortune's lackeyed groom," meaning that he doesn't like women, but also possibly because they represent a kind of species determinism that he wants to rise above . . . he doesn't want to be a mere animal.
I say, I prefer Whitman's attitude towards that . . . he doesn't denounce the animal in us but embraces even that.
to justify this post:
from Rumi
No better love that love with no object,
no more satisfying work than work with no purpose.
If you could give up tricks and cleverness,
that would be the cleverest trick!
Coleman Barks is really popularizing Rumi with his translations... they're so readable . . . and still Rumi is great even when made really palatable.
.
.
.
.
.
.
From her hand, gold with henna
A cup of wine, gold water
And I said
The moon rise, the sun rise
Hefny Bey Nasif (Iran)
.
.
.
[ 07-04-2002: Message edited by: Hassan i-Sabbah ]</p>