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#29962 05/22/01 05:43 PM
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Since our other poetry thread has become so successful that it's getting overlong, herewith a new collection. Let's begin with a work by Francesco Petrarca, the original sonnetteer.

Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core;
Rompete il ghiaccio che pietà contende,
E se prego mortale al ciel s'intende,
Morte, o merce sia fine al mio dolore.
Ite, dolci penser, parlando fòre
Di quello ove 'l bel guardo non se stende:
Se pur sua asprezza, o mia stella n'offende,
Sarem fuor di speranza, e fuor d'errore.
Dir se pò ben per voi, non forse a pieno,
Che 'l nostro stato è inquieto e fosco,
Si come 'l suo pacifíco e sereno.
Gite securi omai, ch'Amor vèn vosco;
E ria fortuna pò ben venir meno
S'a i segni del mio sol l'aere conosco.


Go, burning sighs, into that frozen heart;
Shatter the ice that now with pity vies,
And if a mortal prayer can reach the skies,
Let death or mercy end at last this smart.
Go, loving thoughts, and speak aloud and show
What hides where her fair glance is not extended:
If her contempt or my star is offended
We shall be out of hope and out of woe.
You certainly can say, though not quite well,
That our condition is as dark as hell,
While her own is serene, peaceful and fair.
Go, you are safe, because Love comes with us;
And wicked fortune may decline and pass,
If the signs of my sun predict the air.

=========================================================

And one of my favorites, from the Holy Sonnets of John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swellst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.


That 8th line is one of the most beautiful lines of poetry I know of.

Let's have some more, poetry lovers!


#29963 05/22/01 05:57 PM
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SPRING DANCE

Musicians play sweet violins
And softly strum their mandolins
Guitars increase the haunting sound
That captivates and holds spellbound.
While mothers dream of lost romance,
Their daughters whirl and glide and dance.
Fond lovers sing a sad refrain,
But pop the corks on pink champagne!
Let no one notice--somehow, miss
That magic moment when they kiss,
The hours go quickly; with dismay,
They watch as nighttime turns to day.
Soon hungry birds wake up and sing;
Melodic church bells ring--and ring.
The aged learn the bitter truth
That Spring was truly meant for Youth!

Marie Engebretson
North Country Cadence
(Spring 1978, Vol 3.)


#29964 05/22/01 08:13 PM
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On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdom seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold,
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his desmesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then I felt like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats
(1795-1821)

chronist

#29965 05/23/01 02:43 AM
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Okay I am going to try and do a very difficult thing and explain a Ghazal - difficult because I am no expert. I am learning myself.

On the history of the Ghazal (pronounced Ghuzzle):
http://mushaira.org/history.shtml

I am going explain the structure so as to get it clear in my own head. But I need a poem to do that. So this is poor translation of a very popular Ghazal by the poet Ghalib.

Even a speck of hope comes not to me
Even a glimpse of her robe comes not to me

Earlier I could laugh at my situation
Now of laughter even a scope comes not to me

I find myself in such a realm where
Any news of how I cope comes not to me.



This is the structure:
The poem is made up of couplets (called Sher).
The rhyming scheme is AA BA CA where A is the repetition of the same phrase (called Radif). Here Radif is "comes not to me".
In lines 1,2,4,6 there is in-rhyming with the words "hope" "robe" "scope" and "cope". This is called Kaafiyaa. (Okay robe does not rhyme, but as I said this is a poor translation)
Matla is the first couplet which must have the Radif (repetitive phrase) in both lines.
The poem follows a meter called Beher which (as of now) is Greek and Latin to me even though it is Urdu.



#29966 05/23/01 03:58 PM
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Am I correct in the assumption that a ghazal is intended to be sung, perhaps to the accompaniment of sitar and drum?


#29967 05/23/01 06:54 PM
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Ooooh, Avy, I like that! Give us another. Please.


#29968 05/24/01 04:33 AM
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The language of Petrarca is so far from today - the constructions, not the words - that it was more easy for me to read that sonetto in English rather than in Italian!


#29969 05/24/01 09:17 AM
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>Am I correct in the assumption that a ghazal is intended to be sung, perhaps to the accompaniment of
sitar and drum?
Yes that is correct! But it is both poetry to be written and read and also sung.

>The language of Petrarca is so far from today - the constructions, not the words - that it was more easy for me to read that sonetto in English rather than in Italian!
Emanuela, that is very interesting! The translation was so good, selfishly I am a glad that the translation is better - so I enjoyed what was good.




#29970 05/24/01 09:22 AM
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>Ooooh, Avy, I like that! Give us another. Please.

This is another poor translation of a Ghalib Ghazal:

Stupid heart what's happened to you I do not know!
To ease this pain what salve will do I do not know!

Here I am so eager and there she is so displeased
Oh lord! What is going between us two I do not know!

I too keep a tongue within the confines of my mouth
Why can't I ask "What's up with you?" I do not know.

Why did I have to pin all my hopes of love on one
Who has not of the meaning of love a clue, I do not know.


----------------
P.S At night in my dream Mirza Ghalib has begun to appear to me long beard bristling and finger wagging in admonition - so I think I will stop messing around with his poetry.



#29971 05/24/01 03:02 PM
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Attualmente® cara Emanuela, I didn't think that was a particularly great translation; but it's in iambic pentameter and follows the construction and rhyme scheme of the original, so it's probably the best that can be done given the requirements. I appreciate that it's generally impossible to translate anything, particularly poetry, literally and have it come out in the same form as the original.


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