I have been reading some Alfred, Lord Tennyson and thought that I would share some of my favourite lines so far. Some make more sense in context, but the full poems are far too long to post here.

My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure. ~ Sir Galahad

Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. ~ Merlin and Vivien (Idylls of the King)

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. ~ The Grandmother

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? ~ The Higher Pantheism

Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour;
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother’s shame;
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
~ I think this is from 'Maud', but I'm not 100% sure.

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! ~ Ulysses

Charles Baudelaire - Spleen : Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux

Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux,
Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,
Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,
S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes.
Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon,
Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon.
Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade
Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade ;
Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau,
Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau,
Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette
Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette.
Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu
De son être extirper l'élément corrompu,
Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,
Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,
Il n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété
Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé.

Baudelaire is one of my favorites, in fact a couple of months ago I dug out my copy of Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen, translated into English.

Here is the translated poem:


Spleen: I'm like the king of a rainy country

I'm like the king of a rainy country,
Rich but helpless, young, yet very old,
Which in his tutors contemptuous bowing,
Bored with his dogs as with other animals.
Nothing can brighten or game, or hawk,
Neither her dying in front of balcony people.
Favorite ballad grotesque clown
Do more distracted the front of the patient cruel;
Fleurdelisé bed turns into a tomb,
And ladies-in-waiting, for whom everything is beautiful prince,
No longer know find shameless toilet
To get a smile from this young skeleton.
The scientist who made him gold has never been
Of his being eradicate corrupt element,
And the bloodshed that the Romans come to us,
Which in their old age remember the powerful,
He has been able to warm this dazed cadaver
Where instead of blood flowing green water of Lethe.





And now for something completely different. I really enjoy Anglo-Saxon epic poetry. What follows is the first part of the translation of The Battle of Maldon, based upon the historical battle that took place in 991 CE between Anglo-Saxon and viking forces. The AS lost but the poem is told from the perspective of the English. What follows is a translation of the first part:

The Battle of Maldon
Translated from the Anglo-Saxon
by Wilfrid Berridge
Part I


BRITHNOTH DECIDES TO FIGHT

Then he ordered each of his warriors his horse to loose
Far off to send it and forth to go,
To be mindful of his hands and of his high heart.
Then did Offa's Kinsman first know
That the earl would not brook cowardice,
Loosed he from his hands his darling to fly,
His Hawk to the wood, and to the battle strode.
From that one could tell that the chieftain would never
Weaken in the warfare - when he his weapons seized.
And after him Edric chose his chief to follow,
His friend in the fight - then 'gan he forth to bear
The spear to the strife - high spirit had he,
So long as he with his hands to hold was able
His buckler and broadsword; his boast he fulfilled
That he by his friend's side should fight.



BRITHNOTH PREPARES HIS ARRAY

Then did Brithnoth begin his men to bestow -
He rode up and counselled them - his soldiers he taught
How they should stand, and their standing to keep,
And bade them their round shields rightly to hold
Fast to their forearms, that they flinch not at all.
And when he had his folk fairly bestowed
He lighted there with his people, where he would liefest be
Where he knew his own troops were most to be trusted.



THE VIKINGS PARLEY

Then stood forth on the strand and sternly spake
The messenger of the Vikings, delivered his tidings;
He boastfully spoke, for the seafarers
Their sentence to the earl, where he stood on the shore.
"They sent me to thee, those bold seamen,
And bade me to say that thou must send swiftly
Ring-money for pledges. For you were it better
That you buy off this spear-rush with your tax,
Than that we should have so hard a battle.
What need we to vex us, if you will agree?
We will for this gold a sure compact make
If thou wilt agree to it - thou that art strongest.
If that thou be willing thy people to redeem,
To yield to the seamen at their own choice
Tribute for a truce, and so take peace of us,
Then will we with the tax to ship betake us
To sail on the sea - and hold truce with you.
Brithnoth made answer - his buckler he grasped,
Brandished his slender spear - and spoke.
"Hearest thou, sea-robber, what this people say?
For tribute they're ready to give you their spears,
The edge poison-bitter, and the ancient sword.
War-gear that will bring you no profit in the fight.
Thou messenger of the seamen, back with thy message.
Tell to thy people, these far more hateful tidings,
There stands here a good earl in the midst of his men,
Who will this country ever defend,
The kingdom of Aethelred, mine overlord,
The folk and the ground - but they shall fall,
The foemen in the fight; too shameful methinks
That ye with our tribute, to ship should be gone
Without a blow struck - now that ye have thus far
Made your incoming into our land.
Nor shall ye so softly carry off our riches.
Sooner shall point and edge reconcile us,
Grim warplay indeed - before we give tribute."
Bade he then to bear the shields, the warriors to go,
So that they on the river's bank all stood.



THE TIDE DELAYS THE FIGHTING

Nor could for the water, the army come at the other,
For there came flowing, flood after ebb;
Locked were the ocean-streams, and too long it seemed
Until they together might carry their spears.
There by Panta's stream in array they bestood,
Essex men's rank, and the men from the ships,
Nor might any one of them injure the other
Except where from arrow's flight one had his death.
The flood went out - the pirates stood ready.
Full many of the Vikings, eager for battle.



BRITHNOTH SETS A GUARD OVER THE FORD

Then bade the men's saviour, one to hold the bridge,
A warrior war-hardened, that was Wulfstan hight1,
Courageous mid his kin - he was Ceola's son,
Who the first foeman with his spear did fell
That bravest stepped forth upon the bridge.
There stood with Wulfstan warriors goodly
Aelfere and Maccus, high hearted both,
That never at the ford would turn them to flight,
But they steadfastly 'gainst their foes made defence,
While their weapons to wield they were able.



THE VIKINGS ARE BAULKED

When they saw that, and keenly espied
That bitter bridge-guardians there they met
Then began they to feign - those loathed guests -
And begged that they might some foothold get,
To fare over the ford - the foemen to lead.



BRITHNOTH ALLOWS THE VIKINGS TO CROSS

Then did the earl, in his overweening heart
Lend land too much to that loathed people.
Then 'gan he call out - across the cold water
Brighthelm's son, and all the band listened.
"Now room is meted you, come swiftly to us,
Warriors to war. Only God knows
Who at the end shall possess this fight's field".
Then went the war wolves - for water they recked not.
The troop of the pirates, west over Panta.
Over the shining water they carried their shields
Seamen to the shore, their bucklers they shouldered.
There against the raiders ready stood
Brithnoth with his band, and with the bucklers bade
Form the shield wall, and make firm the ranks
Fast against the foes. Then was fighting nigh,
Fame in the fight - now was the hour come
When that the feymen2 must fall.

1 ‘hight’ = archaic, literary word meaning ‘named’ or ‘called’

2 ‘feymen’ = ‘doomed men’ destined to die in the battle

The rest is here.

My favourite verse from Pippa Passes, a verse drama by Robert Browning. Although it sounds like a charming and innocent verse, it is actually quite an ironic passage in regard to the poem as a whole, with the last lines representing the alienation and abandonment felt towards god.

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!

I have always enjoyed the Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, my favourite part being the last stanza of the poem. The dark realisation for the narrator that his lost love, Lenore, is forever beyond his reach and that his soul is eternally trapped beneath the shadow of the Raven, to be lifted - nevermore :).

The stanza:
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

The full poem can be found here.

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

-Christina Rosetti

This sounds so familiar to me for some reason. Perhaps I have read it before or have read something similar, but there is something about the last few lines that stirs something in the back of my mind. Thanks for another wonderful piece of poetry.

Probably my favorite American poet of all time is Charles Bukowski (1920-94). These are just a few of his, quite literally, hundreds of thousands of lines of poetry:





"there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant."



"there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?"


"I sit here
drunk now.
I am
a series of
small victories
and large defeats
and I am as
amazed
as any other
that
I have gotten
from there to
here
without committing murder
or being
murdered;
without
having ended up in the
madhouse.

as I drink alone
again tonight
my soul despite all the past
agony
thanks all the gods
who were not
there
for me
then."

With it being the centenary of the First World War, when, exactly 100 years ago, brave men of the British Empire, along with her allies in Europe, fought against the invading countries of the Central Powers (Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire and others). I thought I would share three poems from the Canadian physician John McCrae, the wonderful English writer, poet, and novelist Joseph Rudyard Kipling and the poet Rupert Brook.

John McCrae's poem was written on 3rd May, 1915, after presiding over the funeral of friend and fellow soldier Alexis Helmer, who died in the Second Battle of Ypres.

In Flanders Fields by John McCrae.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Although written about the late-Victorian British Army and mostly written in a vernacular dialect (which can be a little difficult to understand), Rudyard Kipling's poem fits very well with the First World War.

Tommy Atkins by Rudyard Kiplin.
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

The last piece is by Rupert Brooke, who actually died during the Great War, on 23rd April 1915.

The Soldier by Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Inspired by another thread...

Ode on a Grecian Urn
By John Keats. 1795–1821


THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' 50

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della Terra
Trafitto da un raggio di sole
Ed è subito sera.

I have not read that one before, thank you for posting it :) Great thread and nice to see some very familiar names here, both GOG members and poets. I have yet to read the entire thread yet, so my apologies if either of these have been posted already.

Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas

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.

Futility
by Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds--
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
--O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

And here is one I wrote to another member of a Facebook group called Undead Poet's Society, back when I used to use Facebook. The context: these were the first words I wrote to another member when I misread her writing the word organisms as orgasms. She liked it and we ended up meeting and having a brief but good time together :)

Erotic Beans and Orga(ni)sms

'What is thought?' read I,
whilst meandering
asleep, with one half-opened eye.

'With our thoughts we make the world!' boomed an ancient reply,
old as creation,
fertilising beans as she swept me by.

If thought is musical in nature; the plucking of strings, the pounding of drums, the tooting of one's horn 'till an angel sings.

If thought is artistic by trade; the painter's palette, the writer's pen, the orator's rhyme hammering the sculptor's mallet.

Then why have the Knights of Ni stolen their famous syllable, and left me with thoughts consisting of little more than the pounding of erotic beans and orgasms?

Roses are grey,
Violets are grey,
Everything's grey,
I'm a dog.

by Rumi (Persian, 13th century)


Shadow and Light Source Both

How does a part of the world leave the world?
How does wetness leave water?

Dont' try to put out fire by throwing on
more fire! Don't wash a wound with blood.

No matter how fast you run, your shadow
keeps up. Sometimes it's in front!

Only full overhead sun diminishes your shadow.
But that shadow has been serving you.

What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is
your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.


I could explain this, but it will break the
glass cover on your heart, and there's no
fixing that.

You must have shadow and light source both.
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.

When from that tree feathers and wings sprout on you,
be quieter than a dove. Don't even open your mouth for
even a coo.

Thanks for sharing that :) I have a friend who named their son Rumi, and have never gotten around to reading his works. Nice synchronicity with my own personal journey too :)