I don't think there's a poetry thread (?) I was looking at some Emiliana Torrini songs and this popped up. She grabbed a random book from her bookshelf and opened to a random page (I do this from time to time too). It turned out to be 'The Seven Sorrows' by Ted Hughes. She made quite a beautiful song of it-
The Seven Sorrows
The first sorrow of autumn Is the slow goodbye Of the garden who stands so long in the evening- A brown poppy head, The stalk of a lily, And still cannot go.
The second sorrow Is the empty feet Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers. The woodland of gold Is folded in feathers With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow Is the slow goodbye Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers The minutes of evening, The golden and holy Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow Is the pond gone black Ruined and sunken the city of water- The beetle's palace, The catacombs Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow Is the slow goodbye Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp. One day it's gone. It has only left litter- Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow Is the fox's sorrow The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds, The hooves that pound Till earth closes her ear To the fox's prayer.
And the seventh sorrow Is the slow goodbye Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window As the year packs up Like a tatty fairground That came for the children.
U R I E L What is done in the dark will always come to light
In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody-- Then--ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight-- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define-- Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining-- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.
Many composers of lieder borrowed poetry. I once read that it wasn't a compliment because it meant that one's poetry needed a little something more. (Both of the following translations are fine tuned to the English language.)
Lerchengesang
Heavenly voices from afar: The angelic salutation of the Larks. How softly you nudge at my soul With your rousing exaltation! I close my eyes lightly; And there pass memories Of gentle Evenings Infused with the breath of Spring.
~ Karl August Candidus
The following is just as lovely as a piano solo.
Lilacs
Tomorrow morning, as day breaks over the dew-drenched lawn, I shall inhale the crisp, cool dawn; and in the sweet-scented shade of the burgeoning lilac, I shall find true joy.
Life has given me this one kindness; ` To find it is my prize. My future springs from the lilac; From the verdant boughs, from the fragrant whorls my humble happiness aspires.
Closed on Account of Rabies was an album devoted entirely to the poetry of Poe. Several of the poems were actually sung to music composed for the project. The following is too long to post here. A stanza shall suffice.
The City in the Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Tim-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie.
The only lengthy poem that I know by heart is E A Poe's "Dream Within a Dream", on account of it being the lyric to a Propaganda song.
Interesting how putting music to words makes it so much easier. live
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
I love that poem by Edgar Allan Poe, and the Raven. The metre in that is just wonderful although I did laugh when it was ripped by Bart in The Simpsons. Anyway, Propaganda were fun while they lasted and I had a favourite on Twitter from Claudia Brukén when I posted this view of our hall on Twitter. For some, the homage has been ongoing for a long time !
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"— Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
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!
—Edgar Allan Poe
Post edited by Urban_Tribesman at 2015-05-06 16:38:02
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit. Shall lure it back to cancal half a line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Southern trees bear strange fruit, (Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,) Black Body Swinging in the southern breeze; Strange fruit hanging from the polar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South (The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,) Scent of magnolia, sweet and fresh, (And the sudden smell of burning flesh.)
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck, For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop, Here is a strange and bitter crop.