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---but I had to post this anyway:
Every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad. -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
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wow, funny you should post that. i used to sing "Sea Fever" (to music by John Ireland) and everytime i got to the part about "and all i want is a tall ship..." my mum would call out "you don't want much, do you!" which was enough to break the spell. recently an uncle put together some family recordings on CD, and there it was, me at 18 or so whipping out "Sea Fever". couldn't vouch for the quality of the rendition, but what a poem and what a song for a young man to sing! (later renditions have been at the sea itself, and a little less steady in rhythm and pitch - see bio)  thanks for brining back the memories!
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jackie, that is beautiful!
who are these people who can see truth when all around is expedient?!
hate to wonder if "Longfellow" is also an aptronym...
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Rapunzel, thank you for that. Haven't heard it for years and it was a youthful favorite. So delighted to see it here.
I read it aloud while looking out the window and enjoying the swath of daffodils under the trees in my neighbor's yard. So I must add this poem which MaxQ found for me in March in "The Flowers of Spring" thread.
LOVELIEST OF TREES
BY A.E. Housman
Lovliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my threescore years and ten'
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Does anyone remember a poem about the sense of smell and what certain smells conjure in memory? I read it in high school. Long ago.
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Bobyoungbalt>>>
Being in my office with no poetry books handy, one of the few I know by heart:
The New Colossus
........
You must still be very young to remember/memorize a long poem like that. Do you have a special method of memorizing?
I know one way would be to tape it and listen to that over and over in a car, the only place I know where you are a captive and might as well spend your time there doing something useful like memorizing sublime poetry.
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There is a FABULOUS arrangement of that set to music, for a girls' choir. The choir at my highschool sang it. It was driving me wild about a month ago but I'd managed to exorcise it. Then my daffodils bloomed in my "rock garden", Rapunzel posted this poem, and it's back again!
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The New Collossus
Well, it's not that long. It's a sonnet, which is 14 lines of iambic pentameter; at 5 feet of about 2 syllables per line, that comes to only about 140 syllables. Of course, one of the reasons poems have scansion and/or rhyme is to help in memorization. In ancient times, poems, even epics like those of Homer, had to be memorized since few people could read and write, and the metric scheme was to provide a help. I was in high school when I learned that poem, and at that time I had a near-photographic memory. The fact that I love the poem, and the rhyme and scansion, is what keeps it in mind for another 40+ years.
There have been posted some poems very rich in descriptions of sounds, sights, etc. One of my favorites (which I also know by heart -- learned it in French class at University) is this one. Sorry I can't give an English version -- I believe it's impossible to give a good translation, so hope those who know French will enjoy it.
Harmonie du Soir
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige,
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir.
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir,
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir,
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui haït le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre qui haït le néant vaste et noir
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige ...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
--- Charles Baudelaire
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#5125
05/17/2001 12:31 PM
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Pooh-Bah
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What a wonderful thread this is - many thanks to Rod for disinterring it. And especial thanks to Bridget for her truly lovely poem, and to Jackie for reminding me of the "Little cat feet". I am impressed by the memories of those who have not had to refer to their books, and have loved most of the selections, whether memorised or not. My own memorisation only runs to parts of poems - like great chunks of "Horatio", by Macaulay, which is one of my all time favourites.
But the poetry that comes most easily to my mind is always Omar Kayyam (I think that Avy might agree with me on this!)
It contains a great deal of wisdom, of a rather fatalistic sort, for sure, but nevertheless he has always struck a chord in me.
Two quatrains, in particular, are never far from me, as they more or less sum up my own philosophy of life.
"Dreaming, as Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky,
Methought I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
'Awake, my little ones and Drink
Before Life's Liquor in the Cup runs dry' "
and:
"Come fill the Cup! And into the Fire of Spring,
Your winter Garment of Repentance fling.
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter. And the Bird is on the Wing!"
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Yes, Rhu-- I too know more chunks than whole poems-- the last 30 lines or so of Amy Lowell's Patterns and most but not all of Oh Captian, Oh captain, Or The Highwayman, or from early childhood-- RLS--Childrens garden of verse--My Shadow.
I think is sad that children are not required to memorize poetry anymore.. (many don't even get much exposure to poetry in primary school.) I found as child that poetry always had "interesing, odd words"-- From My Shadow I rememeber errant-- as well as wonderful ideas..
Christina Rosetti-- had such wonderful poems.. and Robert Frost.
age 13, I was rewarded for a very minor good deed-- (visiting the sick) by being taken to a book store and told "Select anything you'd like" , and that's how i got my first poetry book (it was a paperback, {a Louis Untermeyer Anthology} I expect i could have gotten a hard cover book-- but I didn't think i deserved more-- at the time even a paperback book was to big bucks for me- and the "sick" I visited was a friend hospitalized after a car accident!)
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>But the poetry that comes most easily to my mind is always Omar Kayyam (I think that Avy might agree with me on this!)
Yes Rhub. I love the Rubaiyat because it has all richness of the east which I miss so much in English poetry. And somehow the Rubaiyat translates well or maybe it is Fitzgerald's talent.
From amongst the huge emerald peacock feathers I have in my copy of the Rubaiyat from MANY favourites, I choose this one :
Ah love! could thou and I with fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits - and then
Re-mould it to our Heart's desire!
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Pellegrinaggio
In agguato
in queste budella
di macerie
ore e ore
ho strascicato
la mia carcassa
usata dal fango
come una suola
o come un seme
di spinalba
Ungaretti
uomo di pena
ti basta un'illusione
per farti coraggio
Un riflettore
di lE
mette un mare
nella nebbia
Ungaretti (thinking of emanuela)
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another from the Rubaiyat:
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
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Mist edged its way across the knoll,
Whilst sunlight rose below.
Atop horizon's velvet prop,
She cast her stifled glow.
The time is seven, clear and true,
Yet my temper is not so,
I tried the tonics, weak and strong,
That I might allay my woe.
Now I set myself down, slotting in,
Beside this fleeting morn,
Each time mixed up throughout my games,
No different now this dawn.
Impatient perhaps zealous,
For I wasn't sure which one,
I traced footsteps in sodden shoes
back from where I'd come
Amidst heavy heart and broadening sky,
Feet shuffled down lush lines,
Glancing up, I saw a second path,
Which intertwined with mine.
Veering right along the hillside's face,
the helix brought me back;
to where I'd stood just prior to
my solemn homeward track
Shimmering on that lone hill
in her true and rightful place,
Stood she in all her splendour true,
With a ruddy, beaming face
The sun akin, aptly lit the mount
Now ablaze with promise, ..fate
Falling to my knees in bliss,
I pledged to her my faith.
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I have heard, and I forget where, that Fitzgerald's translation of the Rubiyat is not very accurate and that several of the better known passages were ones he completely made up. Can anyone confirm/refute this?
Bingley
Bingley
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#5132
05/18/2001 10:20 AM
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> ...he completely made up
Is it not the case with many translations Bingley, particularly in poetry? The vast majority of the content often reflects the translators understanding of what he read, his spin on it, so to speak. It's like trying to look out onto a landscape through a stained-glass window: the general form can be discerned but nothing is as crisp and clear. Nevertheless my grandfather cherished the Fitzgerald Rubiyat regardless of whether the original text was just(!) a catalyst for his own creation.
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Pooh-Bah
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Yes, Bingley, there is a lot of truth in what you have asked. The first quatrain, in particualr, ("Awake, for Morning into the bowl of night / Has cast the Stone that puts the stars to flight / and Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught / The Sultan's turret in a Noose of Light." {5th edn} {{EDIT: what AM I thinking about!! that is the 1st edition!}}) bears but a passing echo of some of the sentiments expressed by the Tentmaker. There is a vast difference in the words used to express the Dawning of the Day between the one I've quoted, which is his 1st edition, to the version he uses in the 5th edition, itself not at all the same as the 2nd edition!! Every quatrain is Fitzgerald's interpretation rather than his translation, of the original. This is shown, to some extent by the changes he makes to some of the quatrains from one edition to the next. (The absolutely top-famous quatrain about the book of verse, the loaf of bread, the flask of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, is a classic example of this - LIU!) But I think - as BY has already suggested, that the strength of Fitzgeralds work lies in his capture of the spirit of Khayyam (Khayyam himself would, doubtless, have said it was the wine, not the spirit ) And to Avy, I will heartily agree that his chosen quatrain is also a firm favourite of mine - it was just, I think, that the previous postings had suggested the other two more strongly in my mind. And "The moving Finger writes ... " has been so overused - - -. (But is still a powerful piece of imagery, hey?)
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#5134
05/18/2001 11:10 PM
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Of the whole variety of poetry I love, the ones I can return to most naturally again and again (apart from Shakespeare) are the Romantics, tho’ not particularly Wordsworse. Keats’ To Autumn sticks in my mind: Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells…. And bel, specially for you I could recite La Belle Dame sans Merci I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful, a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song… Rime of the Ancient Mariner has certain stanzas that stick but I stumble over most of it however many times I go back: With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, Then southward aye we fled… Also a vivid favourite is Sam T’s Frost at MidnightThe Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings, save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed, so calm! - that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! The thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not… Of all those I mumble to myself (and others, if they are too slow to join the other wedding guests!) the absolute old favourite is the strange and evocative magic of Kubla KhanIn Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery….. Perhaps this has something of the spirit you and Rhu were talking about, Avy?
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Oh, maverick! Kubla Kahn is nearly my favorite! William Blake's intro. to Songs of Innocence is first, though: it just rings with joy! Introduction Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: ``Pipe a song about a Lamb!'' So I piped with merry chear. ``Piper, pipe that song again;'' So I piped: he wept to hear. ``Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy chear:'' So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. ``Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.'' So he vanish'd from my sight, And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs, Every child may joy to hear.
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Oh, maverick! Kubla Kahn is nearly my favorite!
Ditto, though for me, first place would be almost anything by Emily Dickinson
MUCH madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
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While hunting for another of my all-time favourites, Shelley's Ozymandias,
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.I stumbled across this, http://www.wmich.edu/english/tchg/lit/pms/ozymand-rival.htmlMethinks that even I could do a better job of naming a sonnet! 
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It appears that Horace Smith was wordy rather than witty. Max, you're right. A better title may have been "A futile attempt at writing a poem which will make others think that I am on the same intellectual plane as P.B Shelley any day of the week."I think that mine is much pithier and to the point than his.  We could have a competition coming up with better titles to Smith's poem than Smith managed!
The idiot also known as Capfka ...
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#5139
05/19/2001 10:21 AM
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>Perhaps this has something of the spirit you and Rhu were talking about, Avy?
Actually Mav "Old Khayyam's" spirit (correct me if I am wrong, Rhub) is the serious other-worldly question of death and life and the contrasting quirky solution he has to it. "There is no lasting meaning to death and life anyway so just enjoy yourself with wine, woman(man), and song"
But regarding "the strange and evocative magic of Kubla Khan" Yes you are right! I won't say that there is no 'richness of the east' in English poetry. There is Kubla Khan and there is also Abhou Ben Adhem and others.
These are a few from a collection of his verses that describe Khayyam in a potter's shop, when the pots start speaking to him:
And strange to tell, among the Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
A suddenly one more impatient cried -
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
Then said another - 'Surely not in vain
My substance from common Earth was Ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again.'
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A vessel of a more ungainly Make:
'They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?'
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
'My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-bye!'
Cheers!
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fill me with the old familiar juice...
Thanks, Avy, that made me both chuckle and ponder on reflection. I guess that's what you mean.
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I hope this will not put a damper to the this bright and sunny thread...
When You Are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep:
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountain overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
A free adaptation by William Butler Yeats of a Pierre Ronsard poem.
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#5142
05/19/2001 10:15 PM
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I had thoughts of showing all six here, but together is not how she wrote them only how I set them to music, so you'll have to wait 'til I get recordings made for Max's site...
Message For Me
The sound
of the sad soughing
of pines and birches,
as the wild winds
of winter
flail the high branches,
has a message for me:
Man is not alone
to suffer
the fate of age;
all nature, in due season,
reaches the wintertime of life,
in the same
relentless way.
Marie Engebretson-Jackson
(sorry, no rhyming)
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fill me with the old familiar juice...
Thanks, Avy, that made me both chuckle and ponder on reflection.
Oh, mav--does that mean what I think it does? In water?
(pond water?) Which is the true, and which the (slightly) altered one? Or is neither neither, but each a separate entity, the truth according to itself?
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This is a wonderful thread and thank you whoever resurrected it. (And a special congrats to William for daring to post. Beautiful!)
I'd forgotten just how much I liked Baudelaire - only glad to get back to him when I have learned a little more about poetry and can appreciate the cleverness of some of the stuff he does. Look at the form and the way the lines repeat! As for the rest of it - wow!
Not strictly relevant, but one of my most treasured possessions is a book my grandmother gave me. It's a simple black-bound book, but through her life she used to write in it poems and extracts from books that particularly struck her. A very personal anthology. She gave it to me when I was at university, with blank pages still in the back, and since then I've carried on, writing in poems and passages that strike me. I hope that one day I too will have someone to pass the book on to. And I recommend that anyone who loves words considers keeping a book like this. It's the nearest I think she could have got to letting me into her soul. I get all soggy thinking about it even now, years later.
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Bridget>>>>
Not strictly relevant, but one of my most treasured possessions is a book my grandmother gave me. It's a simple black-bound book, but through her life she used to write in it poems and extracts from books that particularly struck her. A very personal anthology. She gave it to me when I was at university, with blank pages still in the back, and since then I've carried on, writing in poems and passages that strike me. I hope that one day I too will have someone to pass the book on to. And I recommend that anyone who loves words considers keeping a book like this.
I wish that children in school, the minute they learn how to write, should be encouraged to keep a journal or a notebook, every year that they are in school. They should be allowed ample time to write in this journal everyday. observations, snippets of poetry, descriptions, etc. I know that some dedicated English or writing teachers do this, but not every one.
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As my contribution to this delightfully meandering thread, here is a cri-de-coeur on behalf of our inarticulate arboreal friends against the insensitivity of poets, or at least those (unlike myself) who publish in traditional media.
Notably, this little sonnet is a double acrostic, with the first and last letters of each line spelling out the first, while preserving rhyme and metre. If you think such a contrivance is easy to assemble, I invite you to try one yourself.
Acrostics on paper
A cross sticks on paper; trees weep
Convinced that no man heeds their plea
Red cedars, bereaved, cannot sleep
Ovid gulps down his minestrone
Sequoias, sequestered, afar
Shed tears from their loftiest height
Stenographers swill at the bar
Trees moan to the moon, bark stark white
Ionesco, egged on by their roe,
Chews sturgeons entire, and whole cows!
Keening cries of the weeping willow
Stab silence and dead souls arouse
Our poets enjoy jours de soupe –
Night’s falling, limbs tremble, leaves droop.
Rusty
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#5147
05/21/2001 12:56 PM
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Pooh-Bah
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"Old Khayyam's" spirit (correct me if I am wrong, Rhub) is the serious other-worldly question of death and life and the contrasting quirky solution he has to it. "There is no lasting meaning to death and life anyway so just enjoy yourself with wine, woman(man), and song"
I wouldn't dream of correcting you, Avy. not when you have captured the essence of Kayyam's philosphy of life (and death.)in far better words than I could manage. He shows himself as essentially a fatalist, especaially in those quatrains - of which there are many - concerning the Potter and the Pots.
BTW, Kayyam's continual references to wine are, from my point of view as a social historian, very interesting as a documentary indication that Islam did not start off with a total ban on alcohol. It is analagous with the Methodists, over here, who did not really adopt temperance until the 1830s, well after the death of Wesley, their founder. Does anyone know when and why Islam adopted their opposition to "the grape?"
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Nov 2000
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 1,289
veteran
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veteran
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 1,289 |
Yeats on RonsardPierre de Ronsard is one of my favorites. To see where Yeats was coming from, the following from the Sonnets pour Hélène:
Quand vous serez bien vielle, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant:
«Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.»
Lors vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de Ronsard ne s'aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.
Je serai sous le terre, et fantôme sans os,
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos;
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain;
Cueillez dès aujourd'hui les roses de la vie.When you are very old, by candle glow, Beside the fire where you spin and skein, You'll sing my songs, and murmur once again, "I was admired by Ronsard long ago." And then your servant, sleepy now and slow With labour, when she hears that soft refrain, Will wake to recognise my deathless strain On praise of beauty that I used to know. My body will be underground, and I A boneless wraith; and this will be your fate, A bent old crone, remembering with a sigh My love and your contempt for it -- too late! Then live, believe me, live without delay; Gather the roses of your life today. translation by Reine ErringtonThis was a common theme with poets of the time. Compare with Marvell's advice to the virgins, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may". Someone wanted more poems. One of my favorites, which includes two expressions which nearly everyone will recognise, is Thomas Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard which is too long to quote here, but you can see it at http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/gray4.html
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439 |
Can anyone call from memory the poem from which came the lines :
"From dust thou art, to dust returneth was not written of the soul." ?
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Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 10,542
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 10,542 |
Life is real! life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
A Psalm of Life -- Longfellow
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439 |
Thank you Tsuwm! I'd corrupted it over time ... happy to have it, and have it right.
You're a gem.
wow
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Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Nov 2000
Posts: 3,439 |
High Flight
John Gillespie Magee Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings,
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For a bio of the author, just 19 when he died in WWII. Google --High Flight"+poem ---for several interesting sites some with photos.
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#5154
05/22/2001 12:51 AM
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Joined: Jun 2000
Posts: 724
old hand
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old hand
Joined: Jun 2000
Posts: 724 |
Bobyoungbalt: What do you think about this: http://www.geocities.com/Vienna/Strasse/9282/sonnet.htm Do you think it works? I have been brought up as a child listening to the poetic form of a Ghazal and the way this person has used it is not very effective at all (read "Murder!"). Also which in your opinion is the best form of the sonnet?
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Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 275
enthusiast
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enthusiast
Joined: Jan 2001
Posts: 275 |
Bobyoungbalt....
Yeats on Ronsard
Pierre de Ronsard is one of my favorites. To see where Yeats was coming from, the following from the Sonnets pour Hélène
You are so considerate to provide the translation.
There is a dash of playfulness in the Ronsard that somehow tempers the aching regret.
chronist
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Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 3,065
Carpal Tunnel
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Carpal Tunnel
Joined: Apr 2000
Posts: 3,065 |
In reply to:
Does anyone know when and why Islam adopted their opposition to "the grape?"
Some Muslims here in Indonesia interpret the prohibition as being against getting drunk rather than alcohol per se. Perhaps they're right and that was the original intent, and then just to make sure people didn't get drunk others tightened the prohibition up a bit.
Bingley
Bingley
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old hand
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old hand
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>Pierre de Ronsard is one of my favorites. To see where Yeats was coming from, the following from the
> Sonnets pour Hélène
>You are so considerate to provide the translation.
>There is a dash of playfulness in the Ronsard that somehow tempers the aching regret.
I have never known Ronsard. Okay .. off on the search to know another poet.
>"I was admired by Ronsard long ago."
He uses his signature - known as "Maqta" and very common in Arabic and Urdu poetry
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