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Don Quixote
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Topic: A Poem a Day Posted: 16-Mar-2012 at 11:42 |
Khaled Abdallah Seeds in Flight An ancient woman, who has lived all seasons, wanders the earth gathering camomile.
Each flower in her apron is a star, her apron is the sky. When she reaches the house,
she strews them to dry like shells on a beach - to bring good luck, to whisper the future.
In the sun her tattoo glistens, a star glints in her golden earring, the camomile dries.
Her hand, hennaed with god's names, spun the wool of the flock, embroidered
the wedding clothes, gathers the dried flowers. But next season, when the future arrived,
it silenced the whispers. She was buried with her ancestors. And yet as if by chance, as if by magic, as if by a miracle
the camomile grows each season behind the house. Many seeds have flown. These seeds remain.
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Chookie
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Posted: 16-Mar-2012 at 16:56 |
Lament for the Makars William
Dunbar - circa 1500(ish)
I THAT in heill
was and gladnèss Am trublit now with great sickness And
feblit with infirmitie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is
but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does
change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now
dansand mirry, now like to die:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd
wavis the wicker So wannis this world's vanitie:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all
degree:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the
knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor
he is at all mellie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That
strong unmerciful tyrandTakis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in
the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:— Timor Mortis
conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na
clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man
flee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicianis and
astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them
helpis no conclusionis slee:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In
medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and
physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the
lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is
nocht their facultie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He
has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris
flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this
sweetierie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That
scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James
Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:— Timor Mortis
conturbat me.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas!
that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has
tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit
has he:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind
Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal
hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of
sentence hie:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has
tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two
better fallowis did no man see:— Timor Mortis conturbat
me.
In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister
Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of a, Good
gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Good Maister Walter
Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that
so suld be:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he
has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of
force I man his next prey be:— Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for
Death dispone, After our death that live may we:— Timor
Mortis conturbat me.
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For money you did what guns could not do.........
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 16-Mar-2012 at 17:43 |
This poem seriously challenged my Late Middle English reading abilities, but it was well worthed ; thank you, Chookie.
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 17-Mar-2012 at 23:06 |
Saddic al-Raddi Record King of the distant cries Companion of screaming and silence - Who saw you?
Who saw the blood on your roads? Who prepared the watch and the spectacle of fear? Who built the walls and threw a guard around them? Who made the world die in the space of a word?
Memories of cities - fall Expectations - fall Histories of forgery - fall
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 19-Mar-2012 at 19:52 |
Al Saddiq al-Raddi Some of Them Live With You Some of them meet you in the dark corners of the world Some remain hidden
Some harbor revenge or plot their escape as they gallop down the valley of the wind Some linger at the foot of a mountain exposed to the elements Some owned your heart Some slaughtered it Some stripped you naked
Some: me and you
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Chookie
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Posted: 20-Mar-2012 at 16:13 |
Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'
Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay But there's mair
nor a roch wind blawin' Through the great glen o' the warld the
day. It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans A' they rogues
that gang gallus fresh and gay Tak the road an' seek ither
loanins For their ill ploys tae sport an' play
Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw, Nor wee
weans frae pit-heid an' clachan Mourn the ships sailing doon the
Broomielaw. Broken families in lands we've herriet Will curse
Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair. Black and white, ane til
ither mairriet Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.
So come all ye at hame wi' freedom
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom In your hoose a'
the bairns o' Adam Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.
When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn A' the roses an'
geans will turn tae bloom And a black boy frae yont Nyanga Dings
the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.
Hamish Henderson
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For money you did what guns could not do.........
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 20-Mar-2012 at 18:48 |
Originally posted by Chookie
Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'
Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay But there's mair
nor a roch wind blawin' Through the great glen o' the warld the
day. It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans A' they rogues
that gang gallus fresh and gay Tak the road an' seek ither
loanins For their ill ploys tae sport an' play
Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw, Nor wee
weans frae pit-heid an' clachan Mourn the ships sailing doon the
Broomielaw. Broken families in lands we've herriet Will curse
Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair. Black and white, ane til
ither mairriet Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.
So come all ye at hame wi' freedom
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom In your hoose a'
the bairns o' Adam Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.
When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn A' the roses an'
geans will turn tae bloom And a black boy frae yont Nyanga Dings
the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.
Hamish Henderson
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Chookie, I think understood most of the poem, but what do those expressions mean: "It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans" " frae pit-heid an' clachan" "Dings
the fell gallows o' the burghers doon."
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 20-Mar-2012 at 18:52 |
Al Saddiq al-Raddi Site of longing and explosion bleeding from exhaustion and diligence, from all the circles and constraints all the markers and borders fixed in this bastard world
I wrench beauty from ugliness and fall prey to possibility In the knot of temptation the possible is jettisoned
I am nothing but a digger of graves The dead are abandoned beneath the roof of their loved ones They turn pale keeping watch over those not yet dead
A nightmare that would end is a nightmare that would begin
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 22-Mar-2012 at 02:40 |
Muhammad al-Fayturi The Sorrows of The Black City When night casts its net of shadows over the streets of the city shrouding it in grief, you can still see them — slumped in silence, staring at the cracks. And you think they are calm, but you're wrong — they're on fire!
When darkness raises its statues of marble on the streets of the city then smashes them in fury then the city will lead all the people down the spiral staircase of the night into the deep distant past. The past with its ambergris shores is dreaming of memories too deeply to be roused. And inside everyone something begins to stir — a fresh wall made of clay, stuck with diamonds and desires. When night sleeps and day wakes raising its candles in the dark peace ebbs back to its home in the grave. At that, the heart of the city turns futile and wretched — it is an oven at noon, a lamp for the blind. Like ancient Africa, the city is truly an old woman veiled in frankincense, a great pit of fire, the horn of a ram, an amulet of old prayers, a night full of mirrors, the dance of black women, naked, shouting their black joy. This coma of sins was kept alive by the master, ships filled with slave girls, with musk, ivory and saffron — gifts, all without joy, despatched by the winds of all ages to the white man of our time to the master of all time. A plantation stretches out in imagination to clothe the naked, to loosen their clothes, flowing like its ancestors through the veins of life, dyeing the water, and dyeing God's face, its sorrows on every mouth breeding tyrants and iron and slaves, breeding chains, every day breeding some new horror….
And yet, on the streets of the city, when night constructs its barriers of black stone — they stretch out their hands, in silence, to the balconies of the future. They are locked-up cries in a locked-up land. Their memories are stab-wounds. Their faces are sad, like the faces of the blind. Look, there they are, heads slumped in silence. And you think they are calm. But you're wrong. Truth is, they're on fire….
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 22-Mar-2012 at 17:12 |
Al Saddiq al Raddi Song Facing down wind in a dust-storm wrapped up in his cloak and wearing a hat that can’t make him vanish — this skinny man scans the horizon gathering — but not quite yet — flowers until the moment you meet (… but stuck in this narrow alleyway among mountains of rubbish he longs to lift up his beak unfurl his wings and take flight…)
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 24-Mar-2012 at 13:22 |
Adbullah al Ryami
Speed
I take things lightly that perhaps are heavy. For example, I know I'm the gap between two pavements, yet I cross it as fast as I can — why? And because I take risks with my voice, I trip on air. And the first bead of sweat that trickles down my forehead drowns me. I take things lightly that I know to be heavy. This is the truth. Yet I am nothing but an illusion — a lantern lost in a forest. And whoever comes across these words will find a large stone. You can easily throw it in my face.
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 25-Mar-2012 at 22:04 |
Al Saddiq al Raddi Sympathy I wince whenever your name comes up All ears, I seal my lips keeping your secret a secret
(... Your mouth is ripe with desire your eyes brim with tenderness your body trembles as it calls... )
Anyone who mentions you cuts me to the quick, and so I come to you in the heat of the noon to whisper the story of dawn
You... You... My only creed!
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 27-Mar-2012 at 01:20 |
Fatena al-Garra
The Lost Button
This morning, the shop windows look drab. People hurry straight past the gaudy dresses. Mirrors lined-up on the pavement wait for reflections. The streets still deserted, the sticky palms of passers-by are lined with sleep. Then a solitary shirt gapes wide open on the path - what cast you in front of these mirrors? Morning lifts from the heavy eyes of those wandering aimlessly. Only the shirt knows their face. Only the shirt - yet their only pleasure is bargaining. The shirt shivers in anticipation, longing for someone who cares nothing for prices, who knows nothing of sucking the desire from a button, a button half-hidden, stitched to a label, lost in the folds of cloth: the button touches itself and lets out a sigh of relief. It was when her hand moved across the window that she found this lost button. Alert, lost in thought, she forgets the strangers passing her by. She flushes with tenderness, with the secret aftermath of desire, dazzling the window.
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 28-Mar-2012 at 00:29 |
Abdullah al Ryami The Speaking Hour Your image Here Fluttering like a stolen shirt And I am in your hands A painting not yet completed The artist died on his way to me
After all these years I grow like grass following a storm
I am the grapes of fault And you the vine We haven't pressed enough to last the night The night that forgot to close its eyes The hanging lamps swing against the dark And the knot that binds us is an ancient tree We warm ourselves with its wood I see the scars of my voice on your back And darkness surrounds us like a white eagle who left an egg on my windowsill
Like a clock hung on the horizon When I looked at you I understood how late it was And when I wet my finger the first time In your navel My head turned a full circle You were my neck
My fingers made kites I blew on my hands And the wind was blown I hunt the Cork Oak Through the sea of nights I have been drinking a long time No one came after me Except afloat
Choose winter And the rain is on me Pour me a glass And purse your lips We almost got drunk The night is before us Many paint the morning On our backs Too meagre for two bodies
I am the grapes of fault And you fill me as blood fills A fresh wound The mirror is behind you As you comb your hair In the white of my eyes
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 30-Mar-2012 at 00:11 |
Al Saddic al Raddi - this is a poem made out of several parts, I'll put 1-2 parts a day
TheatreAll these wars make the world unhomely make homes rust apart make you fall asleep, riddled with calamities
All this love yet loneliness still cuts you to the bone
All this death just so we can meet - nothing more?
2 Write to set the world ablaze so poetry quickens in your hands and inflames you with desire
Write, and wipe the slate Infected by writing you sweat in agony from a bedsit to the street and out into the wild
Write in full knowledge of everything that's in your hands both quill and string at your disposal Write certain of what electrifies the body sure of how to rig the scene
Edited by Don Quixote - 30-Mar-2012 at 00:24
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Leroy
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Posted: 31-Mar-2012 at 19:02 |
A Ballade of Suicide
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours–on the wall–
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay–
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall–
I see a little cloud all pink and grey–
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call– I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way–
I never read the works of Juvenal–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational–
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 01-Apr-2012 at 00:06 |
Nice to see you on this thread, Leroy:). Who is the author of this well-put and amusing poem?
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 01-Apr-2012 at 00:15 |
Al Saddiq al Raddi Theater Aloft as though lifted on fingertips - and yet waves have no fingers Her desire structures the water - and yet waves have no structure
In the split second between crest and collapse the world is created and the world is annulled without end
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Leroy
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Posted: 01-Apr-2012 at 08:16 |
G. K. Chesterton. I don't know anything about poetry though. Unless it rhymes I don't even recognize it. Were your Arabic poems were originally written in rhyme? I sometimes listen to a guy called Tom O'Bedlam on YouTube. He reads a pretty varied selection of (Western) poetry.
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Don Quixote
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Posted: 02-Apr-2012 at 03:10 |
I have no idea how the Arabic ones were written, most lamentably I don't use Arabic... and I have to admit that I had never read Chesterton - I should. There is no need to know anything about poetry - just post random stuff you like - poetry is ocean, one cannot really know it all. Al Saddiq al Raddi Totality Time engulfs you: the past piles up on a cart or in the street It winds you Your glass becomes a weapon
Enduring your dream you hesitate between a horse and desire Plunged into lethargy you wager fire in the streets
Absolute time: your past - from the square to the prison salted with bitterness and doubt
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