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Sasha's poetry corner
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 11:25 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Reminded by Perilla's poem of another well-known 'popular' funereal poem... Works well in lessons too.


Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden


Even in the movies:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_a-eXIoyYA
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sun Oct 14, 2012 12:48 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

RUSSIA'S LAMENT

Dost thou know, my native country,
Any house or corner lone
Where thy Tiller and thy Sower,
Russia's peasant, does not moan?

In the fields, along the highways,
In the cells and dungeons black,
In the mines in iron fetters,
By the side of barn and stack;

'Neath the carts, his nightly shelter
On the steppes so wide and bare,
All the air is filled with groaning
Every hour and everywhere.

Groans in huts, in town and village —
E'en the sunlight's self he hates—
Groans before the halls of justice,
Buffetings at mansion-gates.

On the Volga, hark, what wailing
O'er the mighty river floats?
'Tis a song, they say—the chanting
Of the men who haul the boats.

Thou dost not in spring, vast Volga,
Flood the fields along thy strand
As our nation's flood of sorrow,
Swelling, overflows the land.

O my heart, what is the meaning
Of this endless anguish deep?
Wilt thou ever, O my country,
Waken, full of strength, from sleep?

Or, by heaven's mystic mandate,
Is thy fate fulfilled to-day,
Singing thus thy dirge, thy death-song,
Falling then asleep for aye?

N. A. Nekrasov
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sat Nov 03, 2012 4:05 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

I am weary and sad, and there is no one
To whom I can stretch out my hand
In the hour of my soul's distress...
Desires! What is the use of desiring vainly and forever?

And the years slip by - all the best years.
To love? But whom? For a time it's not worth the trouble,
And to love forever is impossible.
If you look within yourself, there is no trace of the past there;
The joys and the torments - everything there is worthless...
What of passions? Sooner or later their sweet sickness
Will vanish at the word of reason;
And life, if you look around with cold attention,
Is such a hollow and stupid farce...

Mikhail Lermontov
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Sun Nov 04, 2012 3:06 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья.
Милый мой, ты у меня в груди.
Предназначенное расставанье
Обещает встречу впереди.
До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова,
Не грусти и не печаль бровей,-
В этой жизни умирать не ново,
Но и жить, конечно, не новей.


Goodbye, my friend, goodbye
My love, you are in my heart.
It was preordained we should part
And be reunited by and by.
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let's have no sadness — furrowed brow.
There's nothing new in dying now
Though living is no newer.

S Esenin
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 9:11 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Unfinished Poem

Past one o’clock. You’re probably in bed.
The Milky Way is like Oka of silver
No need for me to rush. I have no reasons left
to stir you with the lightnings of my cable ferver.
And so they say, the incident dissolved.
The Love Boat smashed up on the dreary routine.
We’re even. There’s no use in keeping the score
of mutual hurts, affliction and spleen.
Look here, the world exudes an eerie calm.
The sky bequeathed to us its constellations.
In periods like this I’d like to be the one
with ages, history and the creation.

V Mayakovsky
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 7:24 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

A little revolutionary poem in honour of America re-electing its Marxist president today.


Our March

Beat the squares with the tramp of rebels!
Higher, rangers of haughty heads!
We'll wash the world with a second deluge,
Now’s the hour whose coming it dreads.
Too slow, the wagon of years,
The oxen of days — too glum.
Our god is the god of speed,
Our heart — our battle drum.
Is there a gold diviner than ours/
What wasp of a bullet us can sting?
Songs are our weapons, our power of powers,
Our gold — our voices — just hear us sing!
Meadow, lie green on the earth!
With silk our days for us line!
Rainbow, give color and girth
To the fleet-foot steeds of time.
The heavens grudge us their starry glamour.
Bah! Without it our songs can thrive.
Hey there, Ursus Major, clamour
For us to be taken to heaven alive!
Sing, of delight drink deep,
Drain spring by cups, not by thimbles.
Heart step up your beat!
Our *beep* be the brass of cymbals.

V Mayakovsky
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scot47



Joined: 10 Jan 2003
Posts: 12368
Location: Ultima Thule

PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 9:14 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Puddock

A Puddock sat by the lochan's brim,
An' he thocht there was never a puddock like him.
He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs,
An' cockit his heid as he glowered throu' the seggs
The bigsy wee cratur' was feelin' that prood,
He gapit his mou' an' he croakit oot lood
"Gin ye'd a' like tae see a richt puddock," quo' he,
" Ye'll never, I'll sweer, get a better nor me.
I've fem'lies an' wives an' a weel-plenished hame,
Wi' drink for my thrapple an' meat for my wame.
The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin' chiel,
An' I ken I'm a rale bonny singer as weel.
I'm nae gaun tae blaw, but the truth I maun tell-
I believe I'm the verra MacPuddock himsel'."
A heron was hungry an' needin' tae sup,
Sae he nabbit th' puddock and gollup't him up;
Syne 'runkled his feathers: "A peer thing," quo' he,
"But-puddocks is nae as fat as they eesed tae be."

J. M. Caie
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Tue Nov 20, 2012 6:26 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

How about other posters (not Scottish ones though!) try to provide a rough translation into English of the above poem?
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Tue Nov 20, 2012 6:27 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Exercise for ourselves all those reading skills we try to impress on our learners, hee hee, hic!
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johnslat



Joined: 21 Jan 2003
Posts: 12853
Location: Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA

PostPosted: Tue Nov 20, 2012 7:35 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Dear Sasha,

A frog sat by the little pond’s rim
And he thought there‘d ne'er been such a great frog as him.
He sat on his haunches and waggled his legs
And he cocked up his head as he stared through the sedges.
The conceited little creature was feeling so proud
That he opened his mouth and croaked out loud.
“If you want to see a real frog,” said he,
You will, never, I swear, find a better than me.
I’ve families and wives and a well furnished home,
With drink for my throat and food for my stomach.
The girls always thought me a fine strapping chap,
And I know I’m a really good singer as well.
I’m not going to boast, but the truth I must tell
I believe that the frog of all frogs is myself!”

A heron was hungry and needed to sup,
So he caught the frog and gobbled him up,
Then he ruffled his feathers:
“A *beep* thing,” said he,
But frogs’ aren’t as fat as they used to be!”

I cheated, of course:

http://www.angelfire.com/sk2/scotland/PmPuddock.html

Regards,
John
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scot47



Joined: 10 Jan 2003
Posts: 12368
Location: Ultima Thule

PostPosted: Tue Nov 20, 2012 10:56 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Good
BUT

"a peer thing"

should be construed as

"a poor thing"

Next time Slattery Minor, do not use a crib !
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Wed Nov 21, 2012 4:11 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Dear Johnslat

That rather defeats the whole purpose of the exercise - which was to illustrate what learners have to do when they read an English text, i.e deduce lexis from context, make lexical connections to other words they may know. Especially useful for our transatlantic cousins who don't exactly shine at this sort of thing, grr hiss boo!

Now all utterly wasted, of course.

Your vodka ration has to be reduced!!!!!!!


Regards

Sasha
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Wed Nov 21, 2012 4:18 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Try this one on for size!

Messe [ocus] Pangur bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindán;
bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im saincheirdd
Caraim-se fós, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;
ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,
caraid cesin a maccdán.
Ó ru-biam ­ scél cén scis ­
innar tegdias ar n-oéndis,
táithiunn ­ dichríchide clius ­
ní fris 'tarddam ar n-áthius.
Gnáth-huaraib ar greassaib gal
glenaid luch ina lín-sam;
os me, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu n-dronchéill.
Fúachaid-sem fri freaga fál
a rosc a nglése comlán;
fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis
mu rosc réil, cesu imdis.
Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul,
hi nglen luch ina gérchrub;
hi-tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,
os mé chene am fáelid.
Cia beimini amin nach ré
ní derban cách a chéle;
mait le cechtar nár a dán
subaigthiud a óenurán.
Hé fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du-n-gní cach óenláu;
do thabairt doraid du glé
for mumud céin am messe.
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johnslat



Joined: 21 Jan 2003
Posts: 12853
Location: Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA

PostPosted: Wed Nov 21, 2012 1:39 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Dear Sasha,

Too easy:

I and white Pangur
practise each of us his special art:
his mind is set on hunting,
my mind on my special craft.

I love (it is better than all fame) to be quiet
beside my book, diligently pursuing knowledge.
White Pangur does not envy me:
he loves his childish craft.

When the two of us (this tale never wearies us) are
alone together in our house,
we have something to which we may apply our skill,
an endless sport.

It is usual, at times, as a result of warlike battlings,
for a mouse to stick in his net.
For my part, into my net
falls some difficult rule of hard meaning.

He directs his bright eye
against an enclosing wall.
Though my clear eye is very weak
I direct it against keenness of knowledge.

He is joyful with swift movement
when a mouse sticks in his sharp paw.
I too am joyful
when I understand a dearly loved difficult problem.

Thought we be thus at any time,
neither of us hinders the other:
each of us likes his craft,
severally rejoicing in them.

He it is who is master for himself
of the work which he does every day.
I can perform my own work
directed at understanding clearly what is difficult.

Very Happy Very Happy Very Happy

Regards,
John
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Sashadroogie



Joined: 17 Apr 2007
Posts: 9690
Location: Moskva, The Workers' Paradise

PostPosted: Thu Nov 22, 2012 4:04 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Dear Johnslat

I fear you are not seeing the point of this exercise at all. It is not about your levels of Google-fu. Tsk tsk. I shall have to dream up a suitable punishment or your continued infractions. Possibly the dreaded TOEFL sonic torture...

Sasha
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