Poetry

[Anonymous No.16635811]

Just ordered a collection of Wordsworth. To see if I like it. I have heard Coleridge is also similar to him, if I like it I'll order his next. Any poets/poems you guys like?
>inb4 Nael

[Anonymous No.16635815]

>>16635811
Keats, Pindar, Sophocles.

Who do you imagine?

[Anonymous No.16635846]

>>16635815
I see lots of different people mentioned here from time to time, but I am just now looking into poetry in a non academic way. Just for the enjoyment of it. I have been forced to read a lot of poetry in the past and that probably tainted my view of it as something to read and write on despite having no interest. But there were some good ones I remember for high school. I remember enjoying reading Neruda in Spanish classes because of how simple the poems were, I still remember Ode to a Tomato

[Anonymous No.16635856]

>>16635811
>Any poets you guys like?
John Donne is excellent.

[Anonymous No.16635861]

>>16635815
I've read a fair bit of Keats, and though I enjoy him I find so little personal interest in the particularities of what he talks about.

Is he for emotional people?

[Anonymous No.16635862]

>>16635861
Are implying you're not an emotional person?

[Anonymous No.16635871]

>>16635811
from more or less the same period as wordsworth and the others in your pic: goethe, novalis, holderlin, pushkin and leopardi (my favourite). sometimes ruckert, lamartine and chenier.
what im reading now: trakl, benn.

[Anonymous No.16635872]

>>16635856
I haven't heard of him, but I also feel reading poems in translation loses a lot of the poem's significance. When I read poems in Spanish, I felt the English translation lost a lot of the playfulness of the words.

[Anonymous No.16635883]

I am a pseud if I say my 3 favorite poets are Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Yeats?

[Anonymous No.16635884]

>>16635862
No, I'm very emotional as any moral human being. But I mean you know the poet stereotype, someone constantly springing back and forth between superficialities of emotion. I just didn't find his Ode to Psyche very interesting.

[Anonymous No.16635889]

I'm a total pleb and only got into poetry when I bought David Berman’s book. I have no idea where to go from here, is there anyone similar to him I could try?

[Anonymous No.16635894]

>>16635883
There's nothing pseud about liking poetry anon. Enjoy who you enjoy and as long as you can see the value of good poetry, there is no shame in liking the most popular ones. They're popular for a reason

[Anonymous No.16635961]

>>16635861
no you are right. keats is highly rhetorical poet.
both shelley and byron are superior.
byron > shelley > coleridge > keats > blake > wordsorth

[Anonymous No.16636019]

>>16635872
Then it's a good thing he was English.

[Anonymous No.16636350]

>>16635961
You put this very well anon, this was very useful for me. Thank you.

[Anonymous No.16636659]

William Blake had his own mythology - he might be the final boss of English poetry.

[Anonymous No.16636794]

>>16636659
ahem

[Anonymous No.16636800]

>>16636794
I meant English as in England but I'd agree

[Anonymous No.16636841]

>>16635811
for me, it's Andrew Marvell

[Anonymous No.16637143]

any good poetry anthologies ?

[Anonymous No.16637709]

>>16635872
He wrote poems in English and Latin. Penguin printed the English poems, hence the title.

[Anonymous No.16637725]

>>16635811
dislike his novels but he is one of my favorite poets.

[Anonymous No.16638129]

The Romantica are a fine introduction to poetry. One of the highest points of English literature. It's cross-class influence also speaks to its vitality.

[Anonymous No.16638613]

just wrote a short poem, rate based on how evocative it is
I need to wait
for a while
I don't know how long
yes
a while
until then
I wait
until then
I endure

[Anonymous No.16638634]

Whitman, Emerson, Shelley, Byron, and Rumi if I’m trying to get laid

[Anonymous No.16638647]

Tolkien’s poetry is underrated due to his being a fiction author, but it’s good stuff

[Anonymous No.16638675]

>>16635811
I really love longfellow. Especially the "voices of the night". I find unending enjoyment in the prelude. I also love "the ballad of reading geol" by oscar wilde, and "the ballad of the white horse" by g k chesterton.

[Anonymous No.16638857]

>>16635811
Just read Byron's "dedication" of Don Juan to get a basic idea of Wordsworth and Coleridge.

>And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
>But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
>Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
>I wish he would explain his explanation.

> So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
>Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

[Anonymous No.16639102]

>>16635871
hey anon, are there other German any poets worth reading besides Goethe, (Schiller), Novalis, Hölderlin, Rilke, Trakl and Benn (I don't like Heine). I know about Klopstock and Rückert from Mahler but I haven't looked into them yet. It feels like the English tradition has a lot more to choose from.

[Anonymous No.16639142]

Business idea: Dryden's translations of Latin poets are the best poems in English

[Anonymous No.16640106]

>>16635811
William Blake, Keats, Emily Dickinson

[Anonymous No.16640113]

>>16636659
Yeah that’s pretty fckin cool

[Anonymous No.16640118]

>>16636794
This guy was based

[Anonymous No.16640142]

>>16635811
get online and read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge, and enjoy WW
I love his work

[Anonymous No.16640187]

>>16638634
>Shelley
>Byron

What are you, a satanist?

[Anonymous No.16640205]

I love Tennyson. He gets very little love here.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640217]

I’ll post some of my favorite poems.


“ The sickness of desire, that in dark days
Looks on the imagination of despair,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.
Incertainty that once gave scope to dream
Of laughing enterprise and glory untold,
Is now a blackness that no stars redeem,
A wall of terror in a night of cold.

Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired
And now impatiently despairest, see
How nought is changed: Joy's wisdom is attired
Splended for others' eyes if not for thee:
Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled:
If they delite thee not, 'tis thou art dead.” - Robert Bridges

“ The idle life I lead
Is like a pleasant sleep,
Wherein I rest and heed
The dreams that by me sweep.

And still of all my dreams
In turn so swiftly past,
Each in its fancy seems
A nobler than the last.

And every eve I say,
Noting my step in bliss,
That I have known no day
In all my life like this.”

“ All my hope on God is founded:
He doth still my trust renew.
Me thro’ change and chance He guideth,
Only good and only true.
God unknown, He alone
Calls my heart to be His own.

Pride of man and earthly glory,
Sword and crown betray his trust:
What with care and toil he buildeth,
Tower and temple fall to dust.
But God’s power, hour by hour,
Is my temple and my tower.

God’s great goodness aye endureth,
Deep His wisdom, passing thought:
Splendor, light and life attend Him,
Beauty springeth out of naught.
Evermore from His store
Newborn worlds rise and adore.

Daily doth th’almighty Giver
Bounteous gifts on us bestow.
His desire our soul delighteth,
Pleasure leads us where we go.
Love doth stand at His hand;
Joy doth wait on His command.

Still from man to God eternal
Sacrifice of praise be done,
High above all praises praising
For the gift of Christ His Son.
Christ doth call one and all:
Ye who follow shall not fall.” - Robert Bridges

[Anonymous No.16640218]

>>16635811
Kipling's poetry is simple but brilliant

[Anonymous No.16640221]

I was reading through an old Weird Tales mag from 1934 today and stumbled upon a poem that resonated with me.

Too Late.

What ghosts are these that haunt me? Not the shades
Of those who long have passed beyond the veil,
And finding in eternity a gap,
Slipped back again to Time’s elusive trail.

They are my own ghosts, ever-present shades
Of what I might have been. They lie in wait,
To point, in sorrow, at the bygone years,
And haunt me with their cry: “Too late! Too late!”

It's credited to someone named Alfred I. Tooke, but when I googled the name I found nothing about him. If anyone is familiar with him then tell me, otherwise I just wanted to post this poem somewhere to make it known.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640225]

>>16640217

“I DREAMED one night I came Somehow to Heaven, and there Transfigured shapes like flame Moved effortless in air.
All silent were the Blest,
Calmly their haloes shone,
When through them all there pressed One spirit whirling on.
He like a comet seemed,
But wild and glad and free,
And all through Heaven, I dreamed, Rushed madly up to me.
Back from his haloed head A flaming tail streamed far, This way and that it sped And waved from star to star,
And, as I saw it shot
Like searchlights through the sky, I knew my dog had got
To Heaven as well as I.” - Dunsany

Genesis

For the great labour of growth, being many, is one; One thing the white death and the ruddy birth;
The invisible air and the all-beholden sun, And barren water and many-childed earth.
And these things are made manifest in men From the beginning forth unto this day:
Time writes and life records them, and again Death seals them lest the record pass away.
For if death were not, then should growth not be, Change, nor the life of good nor evil things;
Nor were there night at all nor light to see, Nor water of sweet nor water of bitter springs.
For in each man and each year that is born
Are sown the twin seeds of the strong twin powers;
The white seed of the fruitful helpful morn, The black seed of the barren hurtful hours.
And he that of the black seed eateth fruit, To him the savour as honey shall be sweet;
And he in whom the white seed hath struck root,
He shall have sorrow and trouble and tears for meat.
And him whose lips the sweet fruit hath made red In the end men loathe and make his name a rod;
And him whose mouth on the unsweet fruit hath fed In the end men follow and know for very God.
And of these twain, the black seed and the white, All things come forth, endured of men and done;
And still the day is great with child of night, And still the black night labours with the sun.
And each man and each year that lives on earth Turns hither or thither, and hence or thence is fed;
And as a man before was from his birth, So shall a man be after among the dead.“ - Swinburne

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640228]

>>16640225


“SKY DREAM

A moon’s old rabbit and cold toad weeping colors of sky,
lucent walls slant across through half-open cloud towers.

A jade-pure wheel squeezes dew into bulbs of wet light.
Phoenix waist jewels meet on cinnamon-scented paths.

Transformations of a thousand years gallop by like horses,
yellow dust soon seawater below changeless island peaks,

and all China seen so far off: it’s just nine wisps of mist,
and the ocean’s vast clarity a mere cup of spilled water.” - Li He

“ “A pellucid fox facing the moon howls mountain wind:
autumn cold sweeps clouds away, empties emerald sky.

Jade mist trails white pennants into wet azure-greens.
At dawn, Star River’s curling, flowing east of the sky,

a brook-egret asleep, dreaming swans into long flight,
the current swelling delicate and full, saying nothing.

Peak above snaking ridgeline peak—tangled dragons,
and for a traveler, bitter bamboo cries singing flutes.” - li He

“ El Desdichado

Je suis le ténébreux, – le veuf, – l’inconsolé,
Le prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie:
Ma seule étoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du tombeau, toi qui m’as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d’Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le pampre à la rose s’allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus? … Lusignan ou Biron?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la reine;
J’ai rêvé dans la grotte où nage la syrène …
Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron:
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d’Orphée
Les soupirs de la sainte et les cris de la fée”


El Desdichado

“ “I am the man of gloom – the widower – the unconsoled, the prince of Aquitaine, his tower in ruins: My sole star is dead – and my constellated lute bears the Black Sun of Melancholia.
In the night of the tomb, you who consoled me, give me back Posilipo and the Italian sea, the flower that so pleased my desolate heart, and the arbour where the vine and the rose are entwined. “Am I Amor or Phoebus? … Lusignan or Biron? My brow still burns from the kiss of the queen; I have dreamed in the grotto where the siren swims …
And I have twice victorious crossed the Acheron: Modulating on Orpheus’ lyre now the sighs of the saint, now the fairy’s cry” - Gerard de nerval

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640235]

>>16640228

A Conjuration: To Electra
By those soft tods of wool, With which the air is full; By all those tinctures there That paint the hemisphere; By dews and drizzling rain, That swell the golden grain; By all those sweets that be I'th' flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith To make her philtres with;
By Time, that hastens on Things to perfection;
And by your self, the best Conjurement of the rest; --O, my Electra! be
In love with none but me.“ Robert herrick.

The Funeral Rites Of The Rose

“The Rose was sick, and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed, there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring;
Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept.
The holy sisters some among,
The sacred dirge and trental sung;
But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, As heaven had spent all perfumes there! At last, when prayers for the dead,
And rites, were all accomplished,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb.
“ - Robert Herrick

“Ode on Melancholy
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. “Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty–Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.” - John Keats

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640241]

>>16640235

“Hymn to Apollo
GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer
Of the patient year,
Where–where slept thine ire,
When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,
The light of thy story,
Or was I a worm–too low crawling for death?
O Delphic Apollo!
The Thunderer grasp’d and grasp’d,
The Thunderer frown’d and frown’d;
The eagle’s feathery mane
For wrath became stiffen’d–the sound
Of breeding thunder
Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.
O why didst thou pity, and for a worm
Why touch thy soft lute
Till the thunder was mute?”

“Why was I not crush’d–such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo!
The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in the Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,
Was at his old labour,
When, who–who did dare
To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow,
And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo!” - John keats

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress:
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is God, our father dear:
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is Man, his child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity, a human face:
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, & Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too. - William Blake

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640244]

>>16640241

Once when I was shedding bitter tears, when, dissolved in pain, my hope was melting away, and I stood alone by the barren mound which in its narrow dark bosom hid the vanished form of my life -- lonely as never yet was lonely man, driven by anxiety unspeakable -- powerless, and no longer anything but a conscious misery. -- As there I looked about me for help, unable to go on or to turn back, and clung to the fleeting, extinguished life with an endless longing: -- then, out of the blue distances -- from the hills of my ancient bliss, came a shiver of twilight -- and at once snapt the bond of birth -- the chains of the Light. Away fled the glory of the world, and with it my mourning -- the sadness flowed together into a new, unfathomable world -- Thou, Night-inspiration, heavenly Slumber, didst come upon me -- the region gently upheaved itself; over it hovered my unbound, newborn spirit. The mound became a cloud of dust -- and through the cloud I saw the glorified face of my beloved. In her eyes eternity reposed -- I laid hold of her hands, and the tears became a sparkling bond that could not be broken. Into the distance swept by, like a tempest, thousands of years. On her neck I welcomed the new life with ecstatic tears. It was the first, the only dream -- and just since then I have held fast an eternal, unchangeable faith in the heaven of the Night, and its Light, the Beloved. - novalis

Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes and dance and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.

The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain,—
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,

The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy. - Verlaine

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640248]

>>16640244

Hertha by Swinburne

I am that which began;
Out of me the years roll;
Out of me God and man;
I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

Before ever land was,
Before ever the sea,
Or soft hair of the grass,
Or fair limbs of the tree,
Or the fresh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources
First drifted and swam;
Out of me are the forces
That save it or damn;
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before God was, I am.

Beside or above me
Nought is there to go;
Love or unlove me,
Unknow me or know,
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

I the mark that is missed
And the arrows that miss,
I the mouth that is kissed
And the breath in the kiss,
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is.

I am that thing which blesses
My spirit elate;
That which caresses
With hands uncreate
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

But what thing dost thou now,
Looking Godward, to cry
"I am I, thou art thou,
I am low, thou art high"?
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

I the grain and the furrow,
The plough-cloven clod
And the ploughshare drawn thorough,
The germ and the sod,
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God.

Hast thou known how I fashioned thee,
Child, underground?
Fire that impassioned thee,
Iron that bound,
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

Canst thou say in thine heart
Thou hast seen with thine eyes
With what cunning of art
Thou wast wrought in what wise,
By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies?

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee,
Knowledge of me?
Hath the wilderness told it thee?
Hast thou learnt of the sea?
Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

Have I set such a star
To show light on thy brow
That thou sawest from afar
What I show to thee now?
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

What is here, dost thou know it?
What was, hast thou known?
Prophet nor poet
Nor tripod nor throne
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640253]

>>16640248

Mother, not maker,
Born, and not made;
Though her children forsake her,
Allured or afraid,
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed.

A creed is a rod,
And a crown is of night;
But this thing is God,
To be man with thy might,
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.

I am in thee to save thee,
As my soul in thee saith;
Give thou as I gave thee,
Thy life-blood and breath,
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death.

Be the ways of thy giving
As mine were to thee;
The free life of thy living,
Be the gift of it free;
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

O children of banishment,
Souls overcast,
Were the lights ye see vanish meant
Alway to last,
Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

I that saw where ye trod
The dim paths of the night
Set the shadow called God
In your skies to give light;
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted
That swells to the sky
With frondage red-fruited,
The life-tree am I;
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die.

But the Gods of your fashion
That take and that give,
In their pity and passion
That scourge and forgive,
They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches
The wounds in my bark;
Stars caught in my branches
Make day of the dark,
And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under
The live roots of the tree,
In my darkness the thunder
Makes utterance of me;
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time,
As his feathers are spread
And his feet set to climb
Through the boughs overhead,
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

The storm-winds of ages
Blow through me and cease,
The war-wind that rages,
The spring-wind of peace,
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase.

All sounds of all changes,
All shadows and lights
On the world's mountain-ranges
And stream-riven heights,
Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

All forms of all faces,
All works of all hands
In unsearchable places
Of time-stricken lands,
All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

Though sore be my burden
And more than ye know,
And my growth have no guerdon
But only to grow,
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below.

These too have their part in me,
As I too in these;
Such fire is at heart in me,
Such sap is this tree's,
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640258]

>>16640253

In the spring-coloured hours
When my mind was as May's,
There brake forth of me flowers
By centuries of days,
Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays.

And the sound of them springing
And smell of their shoots
Were as warmth and sweet singing
And strength to my roots;
And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

I bid you but be;
I have need not of prayer;
I have need of you free
As your mouths of mine air;
That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

More fair than strange fruit is
Of faiths ye espouse;
In me only the root is
That blooms in your boughs;
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening
Abysses adored,
With dayspring and lightning
For lamp and for sword,
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

O my sons, O too dutiful
Toward Gods not of me,
Was not I enough beautiful?
Was it hard to be free?
For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see.

Lo, winged with world's wonders,
With miracles shod,
With the fires of his thunders
For raiment and rod,
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

For his twilight is come on him,
His anguish is here;
And his spirits gaze dumb on him,
Grown grey from his fear;
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

Thought made him and breaks him,
Truth slays and forgives;
But to you, as time takes him,
This new thing it gives,
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives.

For truth only is living,
Truth only is whole,
And the love of his giving,
Man's polestar and pole;
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul.

One birth of my bosom;
One beam of mine eye;
One topmost blossom
That scales the sky;
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I

[Anonymous No.16640259]

>>16640241
r graves wrote a lovely poem to the mother of gods, rhea.

On her shut lids the lightning flickers,
Thunder explodes above her bed,
An inch from her lax arm the rain hisses;
Discrete she lies,

Not dead but entranced, dreamlessly
With slow breathing, her lips curved
In a half-smile archaic, her breast bare,
Hair astream.

The house rocks, a flood suddenly rising
Bears away bridges: oak and ash
Are shivered to the roots —royal green timber.
She nothing cares.

(Divine Augustus, trembling at the storm,
Wrapped sealskin on his thumb; divine Gaius
Made haste to hide himself in a deep cellar,
Distraught by fear.)

Rain, thunder, lightning: pretty children.
“Let them play,” her mother-mind repeats;
“They do no harm, unless from high spirits
Or by mishap.”

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640262]

>>16640258

Pic related is a Horace translation by Dunsany.

Here’s a translation of the Baudelaire poem “the clock”

The clock, evil, terrifying, inscrutable god
Whose menacing finger warns us, crying "Remember!”
Throbbing pains will soon stab your quivering heart
As into a target

Pleasure will vanish like a cloud over the horizon,
Like a sylph vanishing into the wings of a stage
Each moment is devouring some portion of that delight
Which is granted to every man for his season of existence

Three thousand and six hundred times an hour,
The Second whispers: 'Remember!'
Swiftly, with the voice of an insect, the Present says:
'I'm already your past,
And I have drained your life with my loathsome suckers!'

"Remember! Souviens-toi, O prodigal! Esto memor!
My metal throat can speak all languages
The minutes, O foolish mortal,
Are like ore from which the precious metal must be wrung

Do not forget
Time is a greedy gambler who wins at every turn of the wheel
Without cheating
Such is the law
The day declines, the night deepens
The thirst of the abyss knows no end;
The hourglass drains

The hour will soon strike when divine Chance
Or austere Virtue your still virgin spouse
Or even Repentance your last refuge In fact all three will tell you
'Die, old coward, it's too late”


Ok I’ll stop spamming my favorites.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16640278]

>>16640259

I like it, I feel like there’s too much focus now on gritty and basically mundane scenes and people don’t care to try for truly strong and fantastical/ethereal/mystical imagery, or at least a lot of the popular people writing now that I’ve seen often don’t go for it.

Then again I don’t know much about people writing right now, do you know any poets similar to the taste of the stuff I’ve posted and you posted?

[Anonymous No.16640311]

>>16635846
You should try the Greek tragedies, they're quite easy(especially Sophocles) and fantastic to read.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.16642161]

Bump with my own poem.

The Willows


1. Surrounded by willows, spirits hiding with blades
2. Myriads of twigs twisting, contorting malefic braids
3. the Ancient moon and roaring river, million hands and golden forms
4. formless shapes surround me, Hamartic willow Shades

[Anonymous No.16642190]

>>16638613
10/you got me to read it a couple times and I grew to like it

>>16639142
I always feel bad reading poem translations. This post has made me reconsider

>>16640311
The Oedipus stuff sounds most interesting

>>16642161
Didn't stick it for me

[Anonymous No.16642198]

>>16642161
Nvm this one is kino

[Anonymous No.16642204]

>>16635811
Keats

[Anonymous No.16642335]

>>16640218
Gunga Din is the only piece of literature that has ever made me shed a tear.

[Anonymous No.16642360]

>>16639142
We should move past the post-Romantic 'muh heroic artist' meme.
Is a perfect forgery of Rembrandt a bad painting? Taken purely as a painting, rather than judging the merits of the forger vs Rembrandt, why is the forged painting inferior to an original from which it is indistinguishable? Often seems like a question begging 'it's good because it's painted by Rembrandt'
Similarly with translations, there is no reason why they are inherently inferior to the original. If you didn't know it was a translation would its inferiority be apparent?
I don't see why a text written collaboratively should be considered as lesser than one written by a sole author

[Anonymous No.16642377]

https://discord.gg/mt8JfB