Blissful

Post Your Favourite Poems

182 posts in this topic

For the Sleepwalkers by Edward Hirsch

Tonight I want to say something wonderful

for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith

in their legs, so much faith in the invisible

arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path

that leads to the stairs instead of the window,

the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.

I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing

to step out of their bodies into the night,

to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,

palming the blank spaces, touching everything.

Always they return home safely, like blind men

who know it is morning by feeling shadows.

And always they wake up as themselves again.

That's why I want to say something astonishing

like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.

Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs

flying through the trees at night, soaking up

the darkest beams of moonlight, the music

of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.

And now our hearts are thick black fists

flying back to the glove of our chests.

We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.

We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-

walkers who rise out of their calm beds

and walk through the skin of another life.

We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness

and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.

Wizdom likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

(bismillah)

(salam)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

(wasalam)

Wizdom, Chaotic Muslem and Gotham like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

What a delightful thread!

 

"I sit before flowers
hoping they will train me in the art
of opening up.

I stand on mountain tops believing
that avalanches will teach me to let go.

I know
nothing

but I am here to learn."
 
Shane Koyczan

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

 

What a delightful thread!

 

"I sit before flowers

hoping they will train me in the art

of opening up.

I stand on mountain tops believing

that avalanches will teach me to let go.

I know

nothing

but I am here to learn."

 
Shane Koyczan

 

 

That's an awful poem.

Chaotic Muslem and Gotham like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Your English is atrocious, so I wouldn't expect you to appreciate it.

 

:)

Edited by Ali-F

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Don't know much about poetry, but I bet Khayyam wrote this thinking about math problems:

 

Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire 
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then 
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

John Brown (Bob Dylan)

 

John Brown went off to war to fight on a foreign shore
His mama sure was proud of him
He stood so straight and tall in his uniform and all
His mama's face broke out into a grin

"Oh, son, you look so fine, I'm glad you're a son of mine
Make me proud to know you own a gun
Do what the captain says, lot of medals you will get
We'll put them on the wall when you get home"

That old train pulled out, John's ma began to shout
Tellin' everyone in the neighborhood
"That's my son that's about to go, he's a soldier now, you know"
She made well sure her neighbors understood

She got a letter once in a while, her face broke into a smile
She showed them to the people from next door
They bragged about her son with his uniform and gun
And these things you called a good old fashioned war

Then the letters ceased to come, for a long time they did not come
Ceased to come for about ten months or more
Then when letter finally came saying, "Go down and meet the train
Your son is coming back from the war"

She smiled and she went right down, she looked up and all around
She did not see her soldier son in sight
When all the people passed, she saw her son at last
When she did she could not believe her eyes

Oh, his face was all shot up and his hand were blown away
And he wore a metal brace around his waist
He whispered kind of slow, in a voice she didn't know
And she couldn't even recognize his face

"Oh, tell me, my darling son, tell me what they've done
How is it that you come to be this way?"
He tried his best to talk but his mouth could hardly move
And his mother had to turn her face away

"Don't you remember, ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home, acting proud
You weren't there standing in my shoes

And I thought when I was there, Lord, what am I doing here?
Tryin' to kill somebody or die tryin'
But the thing that scared me most, when my enemy came close
I can see that his face looked just like mine"

And I couldn't help but think, through the thunder rolling and stink
I was just a puppet in a play
And through the roar and smoke, this string, it finally broke
And a cannon ball blew my eyes away"

As he turned away to go, his mother was acting slow
Seein' the metal brace that helped him stand
But as he turned to leave, he called his mother close
And he dropped his medals down into her hand

 

 

 

If anyone has seen Fahrenheit 9/11, it reminds me of the mother who was so proud that her son joined the army.

Brained and Abdul Zahra like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Through much toil do you gain high distinction.
So he who seeks learning keeps awake during the night.
You strive after glory, but then you sleep at night?
He who seeks pearls immerses himself in the sea.
The height of (the builder’s) blocks depends on the height
of his aspirations; a man’s dignity rests on his nightly vigils.
Whoever desires elevation without fatigue
wastes his life in the quest for the absurd.
I have forsaken sleep at night to win Your satisfaction, O Lord of lords.
So let me attain the acquisition of knowledge
and let me reach the utmost degree of accomplishment.

— al-Mutanabbi

 

 

I really love this one.^

 

Can't wait till I can sink my teeth into some amazing Arabic and Persian poetry! 

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Through much toil do you gain high distinction.

So he who seeks learning keeps awake during the night.

You strive after glory, but then you sleep at night?

He who seeks pearls immerses himself in the sea.

The height of (the builder’s) blocks depends on the height

of his aspirations; a man’s dignity rests on his nightly vigils.

Whoever desires elevation without fatigue

wastes his life in the quest for the absurd.

I have forsaken sleep at night to win Your satisfaction, O Lord of lords.

So let me attain the acquisition of knowledge

and let me reach the utmost degree of accomplishment.

— al-Mutanabbi

 

 

I really love this one.^

 

Can't wait till I can sink my teeth into some amazing Arabic and Persian poetry! 

 

Al-Mutannabbi <3

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Lay Back the Darkness by Edward Hirsch

My father in the night shuffling from room to room
on an obscure mission through the hallway.

Help me, spirits, to penetrate his dream
and ease his restless passage.

Lay back the darkness for a salesman
who could charm everything but the shadows,

an immigrant who stands on the threshold
of a vast night

without his walker or his cane
and cannot remember what he meant to say,

though his right arm is raised, as if in prophecy,
while his left shakes uselessly in warning.

My father in the night shuffling from room to room
is no longer a father or a husband or a son,

but a boy standing on the edge of a forest
listening to the distant cry of wolves,

to wild dogs,
to primitive wingbeats shuddering in the treetops.

Wizdom and Marbles like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Don't know much about poetry, but I bet Khayyam wrote this thinking about math problems:

 

Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire 

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 

Would not we shatter it to bits--and then 

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! 

 

Math problems aside, this little quatrain is the ultimate echo of human dissatisfaction with nature, with life, with everything, the same what Allamah Iqbal calls 'a wanton joke'. Only Khayyam could put that in words and thaks to Edward FitzGerald for being there for us non-Farsi folks.

 

And Khayyam says about our lack of control on our own lives:

 

"Into this universe, and why not knowing,

Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing:

And out of it, as wind along the waste,

I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing."

Good to see this thread picking up again, thanks folks for posting. Keep it up.

yafatimaalzahra and Brained like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

My Spectre around me night and day 
Like a wild beast guards my way; 
My Emanation far within 
Weeps incessantly for my sin. 

‘A fathomless and boundless deep, 
There we wander, there we weep; 
On the hungry craving wind 
My Spectre follows thee behind. 

‘He scents thy footsteps in the snow 
Wheresoever thou dost go, 
Thro’ the wintry hail and rain. 
When wilt thou return again? 

’Dost thou not in pride and scorn 
Fill with tempests all my morn, 
And with jealousies and fears 
Fill my pleasant nights with tears? 

‘Seven of my sweet loves thy knife 
Has bereavèd of their life. 
Their marble tombs I built with tears, 
And with cold and shuddering fears. 

‘Seven more loves weep night and day 
Round the tombs where my loves lay, 
And seven more loves attend each night 
Around my couch with torches bright. 

‘And seven more loves in my bed 
Crown with wine my mournful head, 
Pitying and forgiving all 
Thy transgressions great and small. 

‘When wilt thou return and view 
My loves, and them to life renew? 
When wilt thou return and live? 
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?’ 

‘O’er my sins thou sit and moan: 
Hast thou no sins of thy own? 
O’er my sins thou sit and weep, 
And lull thy own sins fast asleep. 

‘What transgressions I commit 
Are for thy transgressions fit. 
They thy harlots, thou their slave; 
And my bed becomes their grave. 

‘Never, never, I return: 
Still for victory I burn. 
Living, thee alone I’ll have; 
And when dead I’ll be thy grave. 

‘Thro’ the Heaven and Earth and Hell 
Thou shalt never, quell: 
I will fly and thou pursue: 
Night and morn the flight renew.’ 

‘Poor, pale, pitiable form 
That I follow in a storm; 
Iron tears and groans of lead 
Bind around my aching head. 

‘Till I turn from Female love 
And root up the Infernal Grove, 
I shall never worthy be 
To step into Eternity. 

‘And, to end thy cruel mocks, 
Annihilate thee on the rocks, 
And another form create 
To be subservient to my fate. 

‘Let us agree to give up love, 
And root up the Infernal Grove; 
Then shall we return and see 
The worlds of happy Eternity. 

‘And throughout all Eternity 
I forgive you, you forgive me. 
As our dear Redeemer said: 
“This the Wine, and this the Bread.”’ 

William Blake
Abdul Zahra likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

(bismillah)

(salam)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

(wasalam)

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The pen would smoothly write the things it knew

But when it came to love it split in two,
A donkey stuck in mud is logic’s fate -
Love’s nature only love can demonstrate.

 

- Jalāl al-Dīn Rumi (The Masnavi, Book One)

Edited by Ali Musaaa :)

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The Good Life

By Tracy K. Smith

When some people talk about money

They speak as if it were a mysterious lover

Who went out to buy milk and never

Came back, and it makes me nostalgic

For the years I lived on coffee and bread,

Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday

Like a woman journeying for water

From a village without a well, then living

One or two nights like everyone else

On roast chicken and red wine.

StarryNight and Marbles like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

This poem is a heart-wrenching beauty without equal, in memory of the poet's murdered mother.

 

Aspen Tree. . .by Paul Celan

 

Aspen tree, your leaves glance white into the dark.
My mother's hair was never white.

 

Dandelion, so green is the Ukraine.
My yellow-haired mother did not come home.

 

Rain cloud, above the well do you hover?
My quiet mother weeps for everyone.

 

Round star, you wind the golden loop.
My mother's heart was ripped by lead.

 

Oaken door, who lifted you off your hinges?
My gentle mother cannot return.

 

 

__translated from the German.

Gotham likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Almost Out of the Sky - Pablo Neruda

 

Almost out of the sky, half of the moon
anchors between two mountains.
Turning, wandering night, the digger of eyes.
Let's see how many stars are smashed in the pool.

 

It makes a cross of mourning between my eyes,
and runs away.
Forge of blue metals, nights of still combats,
my heart revolves like a crazy wheel.
Girl who have come from so far, been brought from so far,
sometimes your glance flashes out under the sky.
Rumbling, storm, cyclone of fury,
you cross above my heart without stopping.
Wind from the tombs carries off, wrecks, scatters your
sleepy root.

 

The big trees on the other side of her, uprooted.
But you, cloudless girl, question of smoke, corn tassel.
You were what the wind was making with illuminated leaves.
Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily of conflagration,
ah, I can say nothing! You were made of everything.

 

Longing that sliced my breast into pieces,
it is time to take another road, on which she does not smile.

 

Storm that buried the bells, muddy swirl of torments,
why touch her now, why make her sad.

 

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything,
without anguish, death, winter waiting along it
with their eyes open through the dew.

 

 

_translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin....oh the italics.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Beautiful poem, proper poetry. . .

 

Below - Paul Celan

 

Led home into oblivion
the sociable talk of
our slow eyes.

 

Led home, syllable after syllable, shared
out among the dayblind dice, for which
the playing hand reaches out, large,
awakening.

 

And the too much of my speaking:
heaped up round the little
crystal dressed in the style of your silence

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

From an old anthology of poems:

 

Men of England - Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

 

Wherefore feed and clothe and save
From the cradle to the grave
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
 
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

 

The seed ye sow, another reaps;

The wealth ye find, another keeps;

The robes ye weave, another wears;

The arms ye forge, another bears.

 

Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap:
Find wealth—let no imposter heap:
Weave robes—let not the idle wear:
Forge arms—in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells—
In hall ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom
Trace your grave and build your tomb
And weave your winding-sheet—till fair
England be your Sepulchre.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Tupac
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete? 
Proving nature's law is wrong it 
learned to walk with out having feet. 
Funny it seems, but by keeping it's dreams, 
it learned to breathe fresh air. 
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared. 

thuglife likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

 

From an old anthology of poems:

 

Men of England - Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

I like the last two paragraphs but the rest reads like sloganeering with little poetry in it.

 

Here's another of Paul Celan's best poems. A fantastic improvisation. It's called Fugue of Death. Before you read it, you must understand what fugue means.

 

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall

we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night

drink it and drink it

we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there

A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes

he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden

hair Margarete

he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter

he whistles his dogs up

he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in

the earth

he commands us strike up for the dance

 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink in the mornings at noon we drink you at

nightfall

drink you and drink you

A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes

he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden

hair Margarete

Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the

sky it is ample to lie there

 

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others

you sing and you play

he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue

are his eyes

stab deeper your spades you there and you others play

on for the dancing

 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall

we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at

nightfall

drink you and drink you

a man in the house your golden hair Margarete

your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

 

He shouts play sweeter death’s music death comes as a

master from Germany

he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you

shall climb to the sky

then you’ll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie

there

 

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night

we drink you at noon death comes as a master from

Germany

we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you

and drink you

a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are

blue

with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit

you

a man in the house your golden hair Margarete

he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a

grave

he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a

master from Germany

 

your golden hair Margarete

your ashen hair Shulamith.

Brained likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Ah! cruel maid, how hast thou changed 

The temper of my mind! 

My heart, by thee from all estranged, 

Becomes like thee unkind.

 

By Fortune favoured, clear in fame, 

I once ambitious was; 

And friends I had that fanned the flame, 

And gave my youth applause.

But now my weakness all abuse, 

Yet vain their taunts on me; 

Friends, fortune, fame itself I'd lose, 

To gain one smile from thee! 

 

Yet only thou shoud'st not despise 

My folly or my woe; 

If I am mad in others' eyes, 

'Tis thou hast made me so! 

 

But days like these, with doubting cursed, 

I will not long endure; 

Am I despised?I know the worst, 

And also know my cure. 

 

If false her vows, she dare renounce 

She instant ends my pain: 

For, oh! that heart must break at once 

Which cannot hate again!

 

— R.B. Sheridan

Marbles likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I like the last two paragraphs but the rest reads like sloganeering with little poetry in it.

 

Here's another of Paul Celan's best poems. A fantastic improvisation. It's called Fugue of Death. Before you read it, you must understand what fugue means.

 

This is quite different. It appears to be about WW2 and Germany's role in it, as a "master", so I'm guessing it's about inevitable death for those in occupied territories (France?).

 

I'm just beginning to dig into poetry, and only four-lined stanzas make sense to me right now :squeez:.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

This is quite different. It appears to be about WW2 and Germany's role in it, as a "master", so I'm guessing it's about inevitable death for those in occupied territories (France?).

 

I'm just beginning to dig into poetry, and only four-lined stanzas make sense to me right now :squeez:.

 

Yep, the content of this poem deals with the death and destruction wrought by the war of the 'Master from Germany' - Hitler.

 

Traditional metered and rhymed poetry is a good place to start. Actually I can't stress the important of canonical poetry before a reader delves deeper into its modern manifestation like free verse and other unrhymed forms. P. B. Shelly isn't my cup of tea but I like T. S. Eliot, W. B. Yeats, John Keats, Ezra Pound, Walt Whitman etc.

 

As a rule of thumb, to judge the quality of a poem look at its imagistic content and its metaphor. A poem which is poor in its imagery but has cool rhymes is a bad poem. Moreover, language and the placement of words which, besides creating internal rhythm, release ideas into our consciousness without the poet having to deliberately spell them out, is much more important than the content of the poem: A well-written poem about nothing is much better than a badly written poem about the greatest problems of our times and of times gone by.

Gotham and Brained like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

As a rule of thumb, to judge the quality of a poem look at its imagistic content and its metaphor. A poem which is poor in its imagery but has cool rhymes is a bad poem. Moreover, language and the placement of words which, besides creating internal rhythm, release ideas into our consciousness without the poet having to deliberately spell them out, is much more important than the content of the poem: A well-written poem about nothing is much better than a badly written poem about the greatest problems of our times and of times gone by.

 

:dry:

 

It feels like that was aimed at my Sheridan poem. Which I notice you didn't like either  the evidence mounts!

 

You know the best rule and most certain to judge a poem by? Whether or not it matches up with and says how or what you yourself feel at the time in your life you're reading it. Then — and only then  is a poem more than words. And judging on that basis, Sheridan's poem is a masterpiece to me.

Marbles and Gotham like this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

:dry:

 

It feels like that was aimed at my Sheridan poem. Which I notice you didn't like either  the evidence mounts!

 

You know the best rule and most certain to judge a poem by? Whether or not it matches up with and says how or what you yourself feel at the time in your life you're reading it. Then — and only then  is a poem more than words. And judging on that basis, Sheridan's poem is a masterpiece to me.

Hmm, I disagree. Rhyming poetry is so difficult because you as the poet have two things to do: write lines that rhyme and have proper meter, and write lines that have depth, meaning. That's why many of today's young poets have such terribly written rhyming poems. They have either no substance, or no structure. It seems as though everyone is under the assumption that poetry can be written however they please, but that is definitely not the case. There is a method to it, and very few can master it.

Marbles likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

:dry:

 

It feels like that was aimed at my Sheridan poem. Which I notice you didn't like either  the evidence mounts!

 

You know the best rule and most certain to judge a poem by? Whether or not it matches up with and says how or what you yourself feel at the time in your life you're reading it. Then — and only then  is a poem more than words. And judging on that basis, Sheridan's poem is a masterpiece to me.

 

This is a very famous theme in poetry, loads have been written about it and I'm sure countless of us can relate to the cruelty of the beloved for making a joke of our love.

 

I liked the poem; I just didn't 'like' it, an oversight! But it's a finely crafted piece and, for the one in the fangs of unrequited love, a masterpiece :D

 

Hmm, I disagree. Rhyming poetry is so difficult because you as the poet have two things to do: write lines that rhyme and have proper meter, and write lines that have depth, meaning. That's why many of today's young poets have such terribly written rhyming poems. They have either no substance, or no structure. It seems as though everyone is under the assumption that poetry can be written however they please, but that is definitely not the case. There is a method to it, and very few can master it.

 

True. It's essential for a young poet to know about rhyme and meter even if s/he doesn't write their poems in the old fashion. The problem is, some people think they can write good poetry without needing to learn the art of poetry and so the lacunae in their knowledge show in what they write; they have stilted expression and no flow. What they don't realise is that the poets who created modern unrhymed forms were grounded in the tradition and knew their art well. And for this reason even their free verse poems have internal rhythm and a flow which a poet who is not trained in meter cannot accomplish. Young poets today may not want to rhyme the lines and create stanzas in the old fashion but how can they avoid basic rules about metrical feet, stressed and unstressed syllables, the breaking of lines at proper intervals? A poet who doesn't even know these things, and whose poems look like a jumble of arbitrary words with lines broken at random is not a poet but a..a..a....[you fill in the blank] lol

 

On the other side of the argument, I don't agree with those staunch traditionalists who dismiss unrhymed verse as a caricature of poetry. There are excellent free verse poets who have contributed to poetry no less immensely than those old masters I mentioned above. Free verse is so well established universally that even making this argument has become out-of-date. So those who only focus on rhyme and meter but fail at imagination and imagery, we have a word for them: Rhymesters.

 

Truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle.

Servidor likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

This is a very famous theme in poetry, loads have been written about it and I'm sure countless of us can relate to the cruelty of the beloved for making a joke of our love.

 

See, it is not so simple here. That is why the poem struck me so strongly. Listen to him:

 

If I am mad in others' eyes,

'Tis thou hast made me so!

 

Surely not by existing? Or even by not showing any interest in him. That sends no one mad. Anyone can take not having a chance.

 

But days like these, with doubting cursed,

I will not long endure;

Am I despised?—I know the worst,

And also know my cure.

 

Why doubting? Doubting what? He had a chance. A chance and more.

 

If false her vows, she dare renounce—

She instant ends my pain:

For, oh! that heart must break at once

Which cannot hate again!

 

False vows. You see! She reciprocated, she felt something for him too. But now she has pushed him away. And he doesn't know what to do.

 

Что делать. Что делать...

Marbles likes this

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

See, it is not so simple here. That is why the poem struck me so strongly. Listen to him:

 

If I am mad in others' eyes,

'Tis thou hast made me so!

 

 

Oh yes, perennial complaint. Take a look at this couplet, from Urdu, which I have tried to translate.

 

The day you maddened me in your love, dame

Every hand has since stones at my head aimed

 

[Don't miss the play on 'madness', between maddening the poet and peoples' eagerness to mete out the punishment reserved for dangerous madness in Eastern poetical tropes]

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!


Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.


Sign In Now

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.