A Poetry Thread

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Here's another, only three translations of this one so I'll post them here:

The Fountain of Blood

It seems to me at times my blood flows out in waves
Like a fountain that gushes in rhythmical sobs.
I hear it clearly, escaping with long murmurs,
But I feel my body in vain to find the wound.

Across the city, as in a tournament field,
It courses, making islands of the paving stones,
Satisfying the thirst of every creature
And turning the color of all nature to red.

I have often asked insidious wines
To lull to sleep for a day my wasting terror;
Wine makes the eye sharper, the ear more sensitive!

I have sought in love a forgetful sleep;
But love is to me only a bed of needles
Made to slake the thirst of those cruel prostitutes!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


The Fountain of Blood

My blood in waves seems sometimes to be spouting
As though in rhythmic sobs a fountain swooned.
I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting,
I feel myself all over for the wound.

Across the town, as in the lists of battle,
It flows, transforming paving stones to isles,
Slaking the thirst of creatures, men, and cattle,
And colouring all nature red for miles.

Sometimes I've sought relief in precious wines
To lull in me the fear that undermines,
But found they sharpened every sense the more.

I've also sought forgetfulness in lust,
But love's a bed of needles, and they thrust
To give more drink to each rapacious whore.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)


The Fountain of Blood

It seems to me sometimes my blood is bubbling out
As fountains do, in rhythmic sobs; I feel it spout
And lapse; I hear it plainly; it makes a murmuring sound;
But from what wound it wells, so far I have not found.

As blood runs in the lists, round tumbled armored bones,
It soaks the city, islanding the paving-stones;
Everything thirsty leans to lap it, with stretched head;
Trees suck it up; it stains their trunks and branches red.

I turn to wine for respite, I drink, and I drink deep;
(Just for one day, one day, neither to see nor hear!)
Wine only renders sharper the frantic eye and ear.

In terror I cry to love, "Oh, put my mind to sleep!"
But love for me is only a mattress where I shrink
On needles, and my blood is given to whores to drink.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)
 
donbosco said:
I don't know if this clears things or further muddies them...but here goes:

Primo Levi answers in “After R.M. Rilke”

Lord, it’s time; the wine is already fermenting.
The time has come to have a home,
Or to remain for a long time without one.
The time has come not to be alone,
Or else we will stay alone for a long time.
We will consume the hours over books,
Or in writing letters to distant places,
Long letters from our solitude.
And we will go back and forth through the streets,
Restless, while the leaves fall.

And this poem by Levi is a HUGE favorite of mine and I read it first, then went in search of the Rilke one.
Click to expand...
Dude, thank you SO much for introducing me to Levi. I feel like I've heard his name or know who he was, or rather, should know who he was, but I really don't think I did. I'm kinda tripping now (but what better time to read poetry? (this goddamn keyboard, godbless it) , but Levi's rendering of Rilke's poem really hits home. You can tell by my previous posts that I'm interested in translation (as was and thanks to Nabokov, who had his own ideas on the subject), but this is a rerendering like I haven't seen (actually I did see it when you first posted it but for some reason (ha) it grabbed me now). I like it. It's like people say they like a cover song when the artist "makes it his own" but really the clay was already there, had already been made, and then it got reshapen. This Levi rendering of Rilke is really somehting. And now I've stumbled upon this, along the same lines (I think) "by" Baudelaire (<-"by" in parenthesis b/c like peepa talking on the other thread about reading Marquez and Borges, etc., in "the original"): (actually now that I've somewhat investigated, this might be a closely literal (ha!) translation, but of course I don't speak french (or spanish)..

Be Drunk​

Charles Baudelaire
1821 –1867
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking . . . ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

From Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, translated and edited by Louis Simpson, published by Story Line Press, Inc. Copyright © 1997 by Louis Simpson. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press, Inc. All rights reserved.
 
You are welcome on Levi. We read him in my classes but never enough.

Translation is fascinating...I try to do it from Spanish to English (the other way is not something I'll ever be able to tackle with any proficiency) with smallish things. I wrote this over on the "Latin American Politics" thread: "I regularly assign a book, a barely fictional account of the Mexican Revolution called The Underdogs or Los de Abajo. I’ve used two different translations over the years and the slang translations in them differs wildly. I appreciate it when the translator provides their own “Foreword” and does some explaining of their decision-making."
 
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
 
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

IMG_6412.jpeg
 
nycfan said:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

IMG_6412.jpeg
Click to expand...


is that old thing still up?
 

Tae a Fert​

(sometimes attrib. to Robert Burns, but likely doubtful)

Oh, whit a sleekit, horrible beastie,
Lurks in yer stomach efter a feastie.
As ye sit doon among yer kin,
There starts tae stir an’ enormous wind.
The neeps an’ tatties an’ mushy peas
Stert workin’ like a gentle breeze.
But soon the puddin’ wi’ the sonsie face
Will huv ye blawin’ a’ ower the place.
Naw matter whit the hell ye dae
A’body gonnae huv tae pay.
Even if ye try tae stifle
It’s like a bullet oot a rifle.
Haud yer erse tight tae the chair
Tae try an’ stop the leakin’ air.
Shift yersel’ fae cheek tae cheek
An’ pray tae god it disnae reek.
But a’ yer efforts go asunder,
Oot it comes like a clap o’ thunder.
It ricochets aroon’ the room
Michty me, a sonic boom.
Gidness me, it fairly reeks,
Ah hope ah hivnae keich ma breeks.
Straight tae the bog ah better scurry
Whit the hell, it’s nae ma worry.
A’body roon aboot me’s chokin’
One or two are nearly bokin’.
Ah’ll feel much better fur a while
Ah cannae help but raise a smile.
“wis him” ah shout, wi accusin’ glower
alas, too late. He’s just keeled ower.
“ya dirty bugger”, they shout and stare
Ah dinnae feel welcome ony mair.
Where e’re ye be, let yer wind gang free
Soond advice for thee and me.
Whit a fuss at rabbie’s perty
Ower the sake o’ one wee ferty
 
nycfan said:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Click to expand...
Yet another "great" who plagiarized Neil Peart. :mad:
 
Reading this thread reminded me of a scene from a movie. Admittedly my understanding and reading of poetry is limited, which may be obvious in this choice of poem.

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a dead.

stand-
;Still)
 
This thread allows me to mention a couple of really good poets I actually know.

Tyree Daye is a wonderful poet. He teaches at UNC. He is also such a nice person.

Meg Day teaches at NC State. Again, a talented poet and nice person.
 
Kids Who Die

This is for the kids who die,
Black and white,
For kids will die certainly.
The old and rich will live on awhile,
As always,
Eating blood and gold,
Letting kids die.

Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi
Organizing sharecroppers
Kids will die in the streets of Chicago
Organizing workers
Kids will die in the orange groves of California
Telling others to get together
Whites and Filipinos,
Negroes and Mexicans,
All kinds of kids will die
Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment
And a lousy peace.

Of course, the wise and the learned
Who pen editorials in the papers,
And the gentlemen with Dr. in front of their names
White and black,
Who make surveys and write books
Will live on weaving words to smother the kids who die,
And the sleazy courts,
And the bribe-reaching police,
And the blood-loving generals,
And the money-loving preachers
Will all raise their hands against the kids who die,
Beating them with laws and clubs and bayonets and bullets
To frighten the people—
For the kids who die are like iron in the blood of the people—
And the old and rich don’t want the people
To taste the iron of the kids who die,
Don’t want the people to get wise to their own power,
To believe an Angelo Herndon, or even get together

Listen, kids who die—
Maybe, now, there will be no monument for you
Except in our hearts
Maybe your bodies’ll be lost in a swamp
Or a prison grave, or the potter’s field,
Or the rivers where you’re drowned like Leibknecht
But the day will come—
You are sure yourselves that it is coming—
When the marching feet of the masses
Will raise for you a living monument of love,
And joy, and laughter,
And black hands and white hands clasped as one,
And a song that reaches the sky—
The song of the life triumphant
Through the kids who die.


—Langston Hughes, 1938
 
hedge said:
Dude, thank you SO much for introducing me to Levi. I feel like I've heard his name or know who he was, or rather, should know who he was, but I really don't think I did. I'm kinda tripping now (but what better time to read poetry? (this goddamn keyboard, godbless it) , but Levi's rendering of Rilke's poem really hits home. You can tell by my previous posts that I'm interested in translation (as was and thanks to Nabokov, who had his own ideas on the subject), but this is a rerendering like I haven't seen (actually I did see it when you first posted it but for some reason (ha) it grabbed me now). I like it. It's like people say they like a cover song when the artist "makes it his own" but really the clay was already there, had already been made, and then it got reshapen. This Levi rendering of Rilke is really somehting. And now I've stumbled upon this, along the same lines (I think) "by" Baudelaire (<-"by" in parenthesis b/c like peepa talking on the other thread about reading Marquez and Borges, etc., in "the original"): (actually now that I've somewhat investigated, this might be a closely literal (ha!) translation, but of course I don't speak french (or spanish)..

Be Drunk​

Charles Baudelaire
1821 –1867
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking . . . ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

From Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, translated and edited by Louis Simpson, published by Story Line Press, Inc. Copyright © 1997 by Louis Simpson. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press, Inc. All rights reserved.
Click to expand...
There's a movie starring John Turturro about Primo Levi. As Turturro has long been a favorite actor of mine, I watched it. Turturro is fine, but I found the movie boring. Really boring and I remember little about it. But that was a long time ago, and I had no particular interest in Primo Levi.

So if you want to give that film a chance, now you know about it (if you hadn't before). It obviously doesn't come with a recommendation from me, but some critics liked it back in the day.
 
Barbecue Service

After the brother who drank has been buried,
The gravepot stunned by sun
In the woods,
We men still living pass the bottle.
We barbecue pigs.
The tin-roofed sheds with embers
Are smoking their blue sacrifice
Across Carolina.

~James Applewhite
 
donbosco said:
Barbecue Service

After the brother who drank has been buried,
The gravepot stunned by sun
In the woods,
We men still living pass the bottle.
We barbecue pigs.
The tin-roofed sheds with embers
Are smoking their blue sacrifice
Across Carolina.

~James Applewhite
Click to expand...


Here is the whole poem...

I have sought the elusive aroma
Around outlying cornfields, turned corners
Near the site of a Civil War surrender.
The transformation may take place
At a pit no wider than a grave,
Behind a single family’s barn.
These weathered ministers
Preside with the simplest of elements:
Vinegar and pepper, split pig and fire.
Underneath a glistening mountain in air,
Something is converted to a savor: the pig.
Flesh purified by far atmosphere.
Like the slick-sided sensation from last summer,
A fish pulled quick from a creek
By a boy. Like breasts in a motel
With whiskey and twilight
Become a blue smoke in memory.
This smolder draws the soul of our longing.

I want to see all the old home folks,
Ones who may not last another year.
We will rock on porches like chapels
And not say anything, their faces
Impenetrable as different barks of trees.
After the brother who drank has been buried,
The graveplot stunned by sun
In the woods,
We men still living pass the bottle.
We barbecue pigs.
The tin-roofed sheds with embers
Are smoking their blue sacrifice
Across Carolina.


-James Applewhite
 
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