*sits at a dusty table in the far end of the tavern*
As I seem of lately to be the only survivor of the Apocalipse or whatever it is that removed all life from the tavern I have decided to have a sort of poetry club.
This is a place to post your favourite poems, especially those written in your language(translation may be required), or the ones you composed yourself.
Later we can start a rhiming riddle competition, or if you would like we can start right away.

Here are two of my favorites, both by Gelett Burgess...

The Purple Cow: Reflections on a Mythic Beast Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one!

Confession: and a Portrait Too, Upon a Background that I Rue:

Ah yes, I wrote The Purple Cow,
I'm sorry now I wrote it;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it!

I've got a few ones I really like
They are all in Faorese though, so they'll wait for tomorrow since it is to late to translate

I wrote one as a school assignment. Maybe I'll share it tomorrow

Tummas Napoleon Djurhuus:

Aftaná 14. septembur 1946

Tunga lagnustund
tá Føroyaland varÃ˚ svikiÃ˚
- váta nátt á heysti -
og sekt av sínum.

Tí høvur drýp
í tøgn á tíni ferÃ˚
tú unglingur:

Nú eingin nevna kann
ta sættu tjóÃ˚ í NorÃ˚urheimi.

Bert spoyskligt smíl um varrar fer,
um tú sigur: "Mítt land taÃ˚ er,
mítt føÃ˚iland."

Syrg! særda føÃ˚iland
longu heystarnætur.
skola, alda, uppá sand.
Flúgv, mási, kring tær ,jørkatungu oyggjar

Vónsvikna føÃ˚iland.



Translation:

After 14. september 1946

heavy hour of doom,
when the Faroe islands (country) was betrayed
- wet night in the autumn -
and sold by it's own.

So lower your head
in silence on your way
you young man:

Now no one mention can
the sixth nation in the northern world.

Only a sarcastic smile touches the lips,
if you say: "My country it is,
my birthcountry."

Be sad! Hurt birthcountry
long autumn nights.
wash, wave, up on beach.
fly, seagul, around the fogh heavy islands.

Disapointed birthcountry.


It was made after the voting that was held 14. september 1946 when we voted that we should leave Denmark, and two political parties asked the Danes to dismantle the parliament and say the voting was without any effect. The pariament was dismantled and we are still a part of Denmark. No one really tried to fight back...

Hevur tú hómaÃ˚-

Hevur tú hóma heimin tann
- tú sum spelknast í heimligum túni -
har atomspreingiknøttarnir opna
sína veldigu eiturkrúnu.

Hevur tú hóma taÃ˚ vísdómstræ
hvørs greinar brenna og brima,
sum reis í lýggjum passatvindi
upp frá heiminum í Hiroshima.

Hevur tú hóma heimin, sum
skapast av heilans gráu óndum?
Heimin, iÃ˚ ger atomir úr
skýlandi móÃ˚urhondum.

Hevur tú hâ´kmaÃ˚ taÃ˚ vísdómstræ
viÃ˚ krúnu av eitrandi eimi,
sum breiÃ˚ir seg út yvir londini,
so biÃ˚! biÃ˚ fyri hesum heimi.



Have you discerned

Have you discerned the world
- You who are triving in a known garden -
where nuclear warheads open
their giant poison crown.

Have you seen the wisdomtree
whos branches burn and surf*
that traveled in warm passatwinds
up from the world in Hiroshima.

Have you discerned the world, that
is creted by the brains grey evil?
The world, that create atoms from
sheltering motherhands.

HAve you seen the wisdomtree
with a crown of poisoning smell,
that spreads over the countries,
so pray! Pray for this world.


sound way better in Faroese



*a more like in this pic than surfers

quote:

Originally posted by Justice:

It was made after the voting that was held 14. september 1946 when we voted that we should leave Denmark, and two political parties asked the Danes to dismantle the parliament and say the voting was without any effect. The pariament was dismantled and we are still a part of Denmark. No one really tried to fight back...

This is a good reason for shoot on sight laws regarding pollititions.

What do you mean that isn't alowed

*hides his smoking rifle*

Oh.. oops.. that's right..

*quietly covers smoking minigun*

George Bacovia is a sort of E. A. Poe, and is obsesed with lead. This is my fav poem of his. It sounds good even in english.

Plumb
by George Bacovia

Dormeau adânc sicriele de plumb,
?i flori de plumb ?i funerar vestmânt -
Stam singur în cavou... ?i era vânt...
?i scâr?âiau coroanele de plumb.

Dormea întors amorul meu de plumb
Pe flori de plumb, ?i-am început s?-l strig -
Stam singur lâng? mort... ?i era frig...
?i-i atârnau aripele de plumb.

Translation:

Lead
The coffins of lead were lying sound asleep,
And the lead flowers and the funeral clothes -
I stood alone in the vault ... and there was wind ...
And the wreaths of lead creaked.

Upturned my lead beloved lay asleep
On flowers of lead... and I began to call -
I stood alone by the corpse ... and it was cold ...
And his wings of lead drooped.

Og hvør ið enn klettum ræður ei á vindi vá
Teir hildu um stýrisvøl tá ódnin legði á
"Legg upp í lotið," rópti ein og samdir teir
hála á stýrisvøl, men alt til fánýtis

Leiðin er løgd, í gróti er høgd,
og eru vit nøgd tá søgnin er søgd

Og skriður tín knørrur fram tað sama hvat tú vil
Teir bardust um stýrisvøl men einki róður til
Og enn vit halda stýrisvøl eins og vit
halda vit eru fræls, trælborin óspurd so

Fjakka vit øll um kirkjugarðsvøll
í oyðini høll, um fjarbláu fjøll

Tiltuskað av landnyrðings ódn, og vindurin
leikar í Miðgarði mól
Til Ásgarðs har Askurin stóð, sum træðrirnir
lívsins í lotinum har blaktraðu tá

Fjakka vit øll um kirkjugarðsvøll
í oyðini høll, um fjarbláu fjøll

og fløtur, vitandi hvat mál vit megna livandi
Og feigdin dregur liðandi, vit vála henni
Tigandi á ting

Fjakka vit øll um kirkjugarðsvøll
í oyðini høll, um fjarbláu fjøll

Væl vitandi langnunnar leið, men gott er
tað treystið at val er í vón
Óteljandi leiðirnar tær, men ilt er tað
treystið at valið er gjørt, leiðin bert ein

Leiðin er løgd, í gróti er høgd
og eru vit nøgd tá søgnin er søgd



And whoever reigns these cliffs, did not defeat the wind
They held the tiller when the storm broke loose
?Steer into the wind,? shouted one and united they
pulled the tiller, but all in vain

The course has been set, carved in stone
And are we satisfied when the tale is told

And does your ship advance regardless of what you want
They fought over the rudderless tiller
And still we hold the tiller as we
Think we are free, thrallborn unconsulted so

We all drift on the graveyard field
In desolate halls, about distant mountains

Drenched and weary by the northwestern
storm, and the winds rages in Midgard
To Asgard where the Ash stood, like the
threads of life then flapped in the breeze

We all drift on the graveyard field
In desolate halls, about distant mountains

And plains, knowing what goal we are capable of living
And destiny draws slowly, we drift to meet it

We all drift on the graveyard field
In desolate halls, about distant mountains

Well aware of the course of destiny but it is
comforting that choice is before us
Countless your possible courses, but
discomforting that the choice has been made,
only one course

The course has been set, carved in stone
And are we satisfied when the tale is told

Edgar Allan Poe - The Raven

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 visitor,' 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 named 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor 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 darkness 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 above 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 further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he 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 all my sad soul 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, 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 has 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

I love the raven! NEVERMORE

Dråpen
Henger der
Ikke

lol good one

And A good one from FCY too

Meet the Master :

"Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
Nescio. Sed fieri sentio et excrucior."

(Gaius Valerius Catullus, carmen 85)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus

"I hate and love. Perhaps you're asking why I do this.
I don't know. But I feel it happening and torture myself." (My translation)

This message has been edited. Last edited by: joergino,

Nice one FCY.

i'll put some sooner or later

these were all goods

O, rãmîi
"O, rãmîi, rãmîi la mine,
Te iubesc atît de mult !
Ale tale doruri toate
Numai eu stiu sã le-ascult;

în al umbrei întuneric
Te asamãn unui print,
Ce se uit adînc în ape
Cu ochi negri si cuminti;

Si prin vuietul de valuri,
Prin miscarea naltei ierbi,
Eu te fac s-auzi în taina
Mersul cîrdului de cerbi;

Eu te vãd rãpit de farmec
Cum îngîni cu glas domol,
în a apei strãlucire
întinzînd piciorul gol

Si privind în luna plinã
La vapaie de pe lacuri,
Anii tãi se par ca clipe,
Clipe dulci se par ca veacuri."

Astfel zise lin pãdurea,
Bolti asupra-mi clãtinînd;
Suieram l-a ei chemare
S-am iesit în cîmp rîzînd.

Astãzi chiar de m-as întoarce
A-ntelege n-o mai pot ...
Unde esti, copilãrie,
Cu pãdurea ta cu tot ?

("Convorbiri literare", XII, 1879, 1 februarie, nr. 11.)



O remain
"O remain, dear one, I love you,
Stay with me in my fair land,
For your dreamings and your longings
Only I can understand.

You, who like a prince reclining
Over the pool with heaven starred;
You who gaze up from the water
With such earnest deep regard.

Stay, for where the lapping wavelets
Shake the tall and tasseled grass,
I will make you hear in secret
How the furtive chamois pass.

Oh, I see you wrapped in magic,
Hear your murmur low and sweet,
As you break the shallow water
With your slender naked feet;

See you thus amidst the ripples
Which the moon´s pale beams engage,
And your years seem but an instant,
And each instant seems an age."

Thus spoke the woods in soft entreaty;
Arching boughs above me bent,
But I whistled high, and laughing
Out into the open went.

Now though even I roamed that country
How could I its charm recall ...
Where has boyhood gone, I wonder,
With its pool and woods and all ?

(Translated from Romanian by Angela Clark, London, UK.)

This is a poem by the gratest poet ever! And yes he was Romanian, with the most briliant of minds, most beautyfull of works and most tragic of ends. I wish I could tell you of him, but allas I have not words in a milion forums to describe him. If anyone was to ever have a reason to learn Romanian it is to read his works. I wish I could shou you "Lucifer", his greatest poem, but it is nearly untranslateable, but I urge you to read any translation you can find, for it's genious cannot be completely extinguished by a mere translation. You can read all you want of him <A HREF="http://here" TARGET=_blank>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eminescu</A>. He makes me prowd to speak his language.

I have found a fairly good translation, IMO Romeo and Juliet pales in comparison to Lucifer - Evening Star http://www.fa-kuan.muc.de/LUCEAFA.HTML#eng by Eminescu