Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! Thread poster: Paul Dixon
| Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 15:25 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ... Marin Sorescu | May 4, 2011 |
It's been silence around here for a while, so I'm posting a poem by another favourite Romanian poet. First, the English version, then the Romanian original. Enjoy! Asking Too Much? BY MARIN SORESCU Translated by MICHAEL HAMBURGER ‘Suppose that, to give a few lectures, daily you had to commute between Heaven and Hell: what would you take with you?’ ... See more It's been silence around here for a while, so I'm posting a poem by another favourite Romanian poet. First, the English version, then the Romanian original. Enjoy! Asking Too Much? BY MARIN SORESCU Translated by MICHAEL HAMBURGER ‘Suppose that, to give a few lectures, daily you had to commute between Heaven and Hell: what would you take with you?’ ‘A book, a bottle of wine and a woman, Lord. Is that asking too much?’ ‘Too much. We’ll cross out the woman, she would involve you in conversations, put ideas into your head, and your preparation would suffer.’ ‘I beseech you, cross out the book, I’ll write it myself, Lord, if only I have the bottle of wine and the woman. That’s my wish and my need. Is it too much?’ ‘You’re asking too much. What, supposing that daily, to give a few lectures, you had to commute between Heaven and Hell, would you take with you?’ ‘A bottle of wine and a woman, if I may make so free.’ ‘That’s what you wanted before, don’t be obstinate, it’s too much, as you know. We’ll cross out the woman.’ ‘What do you have against her, why do you persecute her? Cross out the bottle rather, wine weakens me, almost leaves me unable to draw from my loved one’s eyes inspiration for those lectures.’ Silence, for minutes or an eternity. Respite. In which to forget. ‘Well, suppose that to give a few lectures you had to commute daily between Heaven and Hell: what would you take with you?’ ‘A woman, Lord, if I may make so free.’ ‘You’re asking too much, we’ll cross out the woman.’ ‘In that case cross out the lectures rather, cross out Hell and Heaven for me, it’s either all or nothing. Useless and vain my commuting would be between Heaven and Hell. How could I even begin to frighten and awe those poor creatures in Hell - without teaching aid, the woman? How strengthen the faith of the righteous in Heaven - without the book’s exegesis? How endure all the differences in temperature, light and pressure between Heaven and Hell if I have no wine on the way to give me a bit of courage?’ Dacă nu cer prea mult de Marin Sorescu - Ce-ai lua cu tine, Daca s-ar pune problema Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad, Ca să ţii nişte cursuri? - O carte, o sticlă cu vin şi-o femeie, Doamne, Dacă nu-ţi cer prea mult. - Ceri prea mult, îţi tăiem femeia, Te-ar ţine de vorbă, Ţi-ar împuia capul cu fleacuri Şi n-ai avea timp să-ţi pregăteşti cursul. - Te implor, taie-mi cartea, O scriu eu, Doamne, dacă am lângă mine O sticlă de vin şi-o femeie. Asta aş dori, dacă nu cer prea mult. - Ceri prea mult. Ce-ai dori să iei cu tine, Dacă s-ar pune problema Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad, Ca să ţii nişte cursuri? - O sticlă de vin şi-o femeie, Dacă nu cer prea mult. - Ai mai cerut asta o dată, de ce te încăpăţânezi, E prea mult, ti-am spus, îţi tăiem femeia. - Ce tot ai cu ea, ce atâta prigoană? Mai bine tăiaţi-mi vinul, Mă moleşeşte şi n-aş mai putea să-mi pregătesc cursul, Inspirându-mă din ochii iubitei. Tăcere, minute lungi, Poate chiar veşnicii, Lăsându-mi-se timp pentru uitare. - Ce-ai dori să iei cu tine, Dacă s-ar pune problema Să faci zilnic naveta între rai şi iad, Ca să ţii nişte cursuri? - O femeie, Doamne, dacă nu cer prea mult. - Ceri prea mult, îţi tăiem femeia. - Atunci taie-mi mai bine cursurile, Taie-mi iadul şi raiul, Ori totul, ori nimic. Aş face drumul dintre rai şi iad degeaba. Cum să-i sperii şi să-i înfricoşez pe păcătoşii din iad, Dacă n-am femeia, material didactic, să le-o arat? Cum să-i înalţ pe drepţii din rai, Dacă n-am cartea să le-o tălmăcesc? Cum să suport eu drumul şi diferenţele De temperatură, luminozitate şi presiune Dintre rai şi iad, Dacă n-am vinul să-mi dea curaj? ▲ Collapse | | | Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 15:25 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ... Not So Friendly | Aug 19, 2011 |
Not so friendly today, are you, darling? I, too, find myself in a distant mood. Maybe it's time to take the long way home, the back streets where we will be assaulted by thugs because we are rich, and spit on by old women who don't like your bare arms. Then how about caramel custard In that place they know us? Yes, I'm feeling better about you, already. I'm looking forward to our whi... See more Not so friendly today, are you, darling? I, too, find myself in a distant mood. Maybe it's time to take the long way home, the back streets where we will be assaulted by thugs because we are rich, and spit on by old women who don't like your bare arms. Then how about caramel custard In that place they know us? Yes, I'm feeling better about you, already. I'm looking forward to our white hotel room where the two puppets can be naked at last, and in each other's arms, surrender to the strings. Leonard Cohen ▲ Collapse | | | Little Creature (Bubica) by Dobrisa Cesaric | Sep 14, 2011 |
Little Creature (Bubica) Late at night, when I was reading Homer, A little creature visited my book. And so, Harmless and small, She suddenly appeared - among the gods. My little creature, what you're doing here (That was my thought) - while she was strolling between Hexameters - You're no god, nor a titan, nor a hero - You're just a gentle smile of Mother Nature Which ceases even before it appears. ... See more Little Creature (Bubica) Late at night, when I was reading Homer, A little creature visited my book. And so, Harmless and small, She suddenly appeared - among the gods. My little creature, what you're doing here (That was my thought) - while she was strolling between Hexameters - You're no god, nor a titan, nor a hero - You're just a gentle smile of Mother Nature Which ceases even before it appears. But it came to my mind: she's a piece Of a life that is real - And she's more lively Than the whole Olympus! And all of the sudden, little creature becomes significant And gods - unimportant. And strolling along with gods She slowly entered into my poem. My little creature, these verses will keep you Like amber saves all other creatures Which are found in it by chance While it still was resin... Dobriša Cesarić (translated by feet01) Explanation of the last stanza (insects trapped/saved in amber): http://hr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datoteka:Insects_in_baltic_amber.jpg Original lyrics in Croatian http://www.pticica.com/slike/bubica/301385 (Note. The poem is written without rhymes and translated without rhymes.)
[Edited at 2011-09-14 13:33 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 14:25 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... Czesław Miłosz - Veni Creator | Feb 7, 2012 |
Przyjdź, Duchu Święty, zginając (albo nie zginając) trawy, ukazując się (albo nie) nad głową językiem płomienia, kiedy sianokosy albo kiedy na podorywkę wychodzi traktor w dolinie orzechowych gajów, albo kiedy śniegi przywalą jodły kalekie w Sierra Nevada. Jestem człowiek tylko, więc potrzebuję widzialnych znaków, nużę się prędko budowaniem schodów abstrakcji. Prosiłem nieraz, wiesz sam, żeby figura w kościele podn... See more Przyjdź, Duchu Święty, zginając (albo nie zginając) trawy, ukazując się (albo nie) nad głową językiem płomienia, kiedy sianokosy albo kiedy na podorywkę wychodzi traktor w dolinie orzechowych gajów, albo kiedy śniegi przywalą jodły kalekie w Sierra Nevada. Jestem człowiek tylko, więc potrzebuję widzialnych znaków, nużę się prędko budowaniem schodów abstrakcji. Prosiłem nieraz, wiesz sam, żeby figura w kościele podniosła dla mnie rękę, raz jeden, jedyny. Ale rozumiem że znaki mogą być tylko ludzkie. Zbudź więc jednego człowieka, gdziekolwiek na ziemi (nie mnie, bo jednak znam co przyzwoitość) i pozwól, abym patrząc na niego podziwiać mogł Ciebie. TRANSLATED BY CZESŁAW MIŁOSZ AND ROBERT PINSKY Come, Holy Spirit, bending or not bending the grasses, appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame, at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada. I am only a man: I need visible signs. I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction. Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me. But I understand that signs must be human, therefore call one man, anywhere on earth, not me—after all I have some decency— and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you. ▲ Collapse | |
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P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 14:25 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... Boris Pasternak - ЗИМНЯЯ НОЧЬ (Winter Night) | Feb 8, 2012 |
Мело, мело по всей земле Во все пределы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Как летом роем мошкара Летит на пламя, Слетались хлопья со двора К оконной раме. Метель лепила на стекле Кружки и стрелы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горел... See more Мело, мело по всей земле Во все пределы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Как летом роем мошкара Летит на пламя, Слетались хлопья со двора К оконной раме. Метель лепила на стекле Кружки и стрелы. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На озаренный потолок Ложились тени, Скрещенья рук, скрещенья ног, Судьбы скрещенья. И падали два башмачка Со стуком на пол. И воск слезами с ночника На платье капал. И все терялось в снежной мгле Седой и белой. Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. На свечку дуло из угла, И жар соблазна Вздымал, как ангел, два крыла Крестообразно. Мело весь месяц в феврале, И то и дело Свеча горела на столе, Свеча горела. Winter Night And far and near blizzards raced, To every endland. A burning candle lit the place, A burning candle. As to a swarm of summer moth Are flame and glow, The window attractive was To flakes of snow. Grew on the pane frost-molded quilt Of arcs and angles. A candle lit the desk and quill, A burning candle. On the enlightened ceiling easel Fell shapes retracing Entangled arms, entangled knees, Fates interlacing. And thuddingly two little shoes Were dropping down, And wax in tears, heat-melted lose, Dripped on the gown. And melted all in silver gloom, Obscure and swirling. A burning candle lit the room, A candle burning. The light would swing in draft, and change, And passions stormy Spread their wings, like an archangel, Cruciformly. That winter, blizzards held the pace, And calls returning, A burning candle lit the place, A candle burning. Translation by Alexander Givental ▲ Collapse | | | P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 14:25 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... Guillaume Colletet - Contre la traduction | Feb 8, 2012 |
Unfortunately, I couldn't find an English version of this "invective" against translation. C'est trop m'assujettir, je suis las d'imiter, La version déplaît à qui peut inventer, Je suis plus amoureux d'un Vers que je compose, Que des Livres entiers que j'ay traduites en Prose. Suivre comme un esclave un Autheur pas à pas, Chercher de la raison où l'on n'en trouve pas, Distiller son Esprit sur chaque période, Faire d'un vieux Latin du F... See more Unfortunately, I couldn't find an English version of this "invective" against translation. C'est trop m'assujettir, je suis las d'imiter, La version déplaît à qui peut inventer, Je suis plus amoureux d'un Vers que je compose, Que des Livres entiers que j'ay traduites en Prose. Suivre comme un esclave un Autheur pas à pas, Chercher de la raison où l'on n'en trouve pas, Distiller son Esprit sur chaque période, Faire d'un vieux Latin du François à la mode, Eplucher chaque mot comme un Grammairien, Voir ce qui le rend mal, ou ce qui le rend bien; Faire d'un sens confus une raison subtile, Joindre au discours qui sert un langage inutile, Parler asseurement de ce qu'on sait le moins, Rendre de ses erreurs tous les Doctes témoins, Et vouloir bien souvent par un caprice extrême Entendre qui jamais ne s'entendit soi-même; Certes, c'est un travail dont je suis si lassé, Que j'en ay le corps foible, & l'esprit émoussé. ▲ Collapse | | | Two poems from Rumi (my great grandfather) | Feb 9, 2012 |
Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times, Come, yet again, come, come. Come, come again, whoever you are, come! Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come! Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times, Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are. ----------------------------------------... See more Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshipper, lover of living, it doesn't matter Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come even if you have broken your vow a thousand times, Come, yet again, come, come. Come, come again, whoever you are, come! Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come! Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times, Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are. ------------------------------------------------------- Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi, or Zen. Not any religion or cultural system. I am not from the east or the west, not out of the ocean or up from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not composed of elements at all. I do not exist, am not an entity in this world or the next, did not descend from Adam and Eve or any origin story. My place is the placeless, a trace of the traceless. Neither body or soul. I belong to the beloved, have seen the two worlds as one and that one call to and know, first, last, outer, inner, only that breath breathing human being. ------------------------------------------------------------------ ▲ Collapse | | | Paul Dixon Brazil Local time: 09:25 Portuguese to English + ... TOPIC STARTER Something from Brazil | Feb 9, 2012 |
I would now like to post a famous Brazilian poem, as I have just noticed I haven't posted anything in Portuguese. The translation (supplied by Wikipedia) follows: CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO By Gonçalves Dias (1823 - 1864) Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o sabiá. As aves que aqui gorjeiam Não gorjeiam como lá. Nosso céu tem mais estrelas, Nossas várzeas têm mais flores. Nossos bosques têm mais vida, Nossa vida mais a... See more I would now like to post a famous Brazilian poem, as I have just noticed I haven't posted anything in Portuguese. The translation (supplied by Wikipedia) follows: CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO By Gonçalves Dias (1823 - 1864) Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o sabiá. As aves que aqui gorjeiam Não gorjeiam como lá. Nosso céu tem mais estrelas, Nossas várzeas têm mais flores. Nossos bosques têm mais vida, Nossa vida mais amores. Em cismar, sozinho, à noite, Mais prazer encontro eu lá. Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o sabiá. Minha terra tem primores Que tais não encontro eu cá; Em cismar — sozinho, à noite — Mais prazer encontro eu lá. Minha terra tem palmeiras, Onde canta o sabiá. Não permita Deus que eu morra Sem que eu volte para lá; Sem que desfrute os primores Que não encontro por cá; Sem qu'inda aviste as palmeiras Onde canta o sabiá. English translation as supplied by Wikipedia: SONG OF EXILE My land has palm trees, Where the thrush sings. The birds that sing in here Do not sing as they do there. Our skies have more stars, Our valleys have more flowers. Our forests have more life, Our lives have more loves. In dreaming, alone, at night, I find more pleasure there. My land has palm trees Where the thrush sings. My land has beauties Who cannot be found in here; In dreaming — alone, at night — I find more pleasure there. My land has palm trees, Where the thrush sings. May God never allow That I die before I return; That I do not see the beauties That I cannot find in here; That I do not see the palm trees Where the thrush sings. ▲ Collapse | |
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P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 14:25 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... Great job, Jack, thank you! | Feb 9, 2012 |
Jack Doughty wrote: (...) Following George Hopkins' example, here is a favourite Russian poem and my translation of it. ОН НЕ ВЕРНУЛСЯ ИЗ БОЯ Владимир Высоцкий Почему всё не так? Вроде всё как всегда: То же небо, опять голубое, тот же лес, тот же воздух и та же вода, только он не вернулся из боя. Мне теперь не понять, кто же прав был из нас, в наших спорах без сна и покоя. Мне не стало хватать его только сейчас, когда он не вернулся из боя. Он молчал невпопад и не в такт подпевал, он всегда говорил про другое, Он мне спать не давал, он с восходом вставал, а вчера не вернулся из боя. То, что пусто теперь, не про то разговор: Вдруг заметил я – нас было двое... Для меня словно ветром задуло костёр, когда он не вернулся из боя. Нынче вырвалась, будьто из плена, весна, по ошибке окликнул его я: «Друг, оставь покурить», - а в ответ – тишина... Он вчера не вернулся из боя. Наши мёртвые нас не оставят в беде. Наши павшие – как часовые... Отражается небо в лесу, как в воде, И деревья стоят голубые. Нам и места в землянке хватало вполне, Нам и время текло для обоих... Всё теперь одному, только кажется мне, это я не вернулся из боя. HE DIDN’T RETURN FROM THE BATTLE Why is everything wrong? Yet it seems just as fine: The same sky, just as blue as before; The same air, the same water, same forest of pine - But he didn't come back from the war. Who was right, who was wrong, I have no idea now, In our ongoing quarrels and faction. They wearied me then, now I long for a row, Since he's been posted missing in action. He'd go suddenly quiet. He would sing out of tune, And his voice had a harsh kind of rattle. He would keep me awake, then he'd get up too soon - But he didn't return from the battle. The loneliness isn't just all it's about. I've just realised, we two made a pair. It's as if the wind suddenly blew the fire out, Now I know that he's no longer there. With the spring blooming out now, in colourful riot, I called him this morning, forgetting. "Hey, leave me a dog-end!" No answer. Dead quiet - For he didn't come back from the fighting. Our dead will not leave us behind in the lurch. The fallen still guard us forever. The trees reach aloft like the nave of a church - But my friend will return to me never. There is plenty of room in the dugout below, But it's time for us both now to yield. I've the place to myself, yet I feel that I know It is I who was killed in that field. | | | P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 14:25 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... The Second Coming, an unsettlingly topical poem | Sep 23, 2020 |
Amy Duncan (X) wrote: by William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? | | | Mervyn Henderson (X) Spain Local time: 14:25 Spanish to English + ... Percy French | Sep 23, 2020 |
My mother used to recite this one, and I found it so funny as a kid that I learned it too. It's supposedly Queen Victoria talking to Zetland on how to treat the Paddies, but the "narrator" reports, pronounces and spells it in the vernacular: THE QUEEN’S ADVICE TO LORD ZETLAND BEFORE STARTING FOR IRELAND (as Overheard and Reported by Larry Flynn, Waiter) “See here, me lord,” sez she, “Ye’ll find it hard,” sez she, “To play ye... See more My mother used to recite this one, and I found it so funny as a kid that I learned it too. It's supposedly Queen Victoria talking to Zetland on how to treat the Paddies, but the "narrator" reports, pronounces and spells it in the vernacular: THE QUEEN’S ADVICE TO LORD ZETLAND BEFORE STARTING FOR IRELAND (as Overheard and Reported by Larry Flynn, Waiter) “See here, me lord,” sez she, “Ye’ll find it hard,” sez she, “To play yer card,” sez she, “So I’ll give ye the tip,” sez she, “Before ye thrip,” sez she. “Take yer mackintoshes,” sez she, “And yer ould galoshes,” sez she, “For it’s raining there,” sez she, “If it rains anywhere,” sez she. “Ye’ll meet with ovations,” sez she, “And orations,” sez she, “So have yer reply,” sez she, “All cut and dhry,” sez she. “Remark out loud,” sez she, “Yer dreadful proud,” sez she, “At being sent,” sez she “To represent,” sez she, “This glorious land,” sez she. “Augh, I’m not too clever,” sez he, “But I’ll do me endeavour,” sez he. “Take a party down,” sez she “To Punchestown,” sez she, “And give a ball,” sez she, “In St Patrick’s Hall,” sez she: “Or maybe two,” sez she, “For one mightn’t do,” sez she, “And Merrion Square,” sez she, “Just mightn’t care,” sez she, “To be goin’ till supper,” sez she, “Wid the Baggot Street Upper,” sez she. “Don’t be axin’ for ale,” sez she, “At yer midday male,” sez she. “Make a lot of J.P.’s,” sez she, “‘Tis a cheap way to please,” sez she, “And sometimes an R.M.,” sez she, “But not many of them,” sez she. “Then open bazaars,” sez she. “Bless me stars,” sez he, “That’s not much fun,” sez he, “When all's said and done,” sez he. “Hould on, asthore,” sez she, “There’s a trifle more,” sez she, “You know, I presume,” sez she, “At the drawing room,” sez she, “There’s many a miss,” sez she, “Ye’ll have to kiss,” sez she. “That’s not so bad,” sez he. “Oh, ho! Yer a lad,” sez she. “I mean for to say,” says he, “In a fatherly way,” sez he. “Go home, ye ould sinner,” sez she, “I must order me dinner,” sez she. “Remember and steer,” sez she, “Uncommonly clear,” sez she. “I know what you mean,” sez he, “Betwixt and between,” sez he. “Up wid the green,” sez he, “And ‘God Save the Queen’,” sez he.
[Edited at 2020-09-23 17:36 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | expressisverbis Portugal Local time: 13:25 Member (2015) English to Portuguese + ... Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen (Porque / Because) | Sep 23, 2020 |
«Porque Porque os outros se mascaram mas tu não Porque os outros usam a virtude Para comprar o que não tem perdão. Porque os outros têm medo mas tu não. Porque os outros são os túmulos caiados Onde germina calada a podridão. Porque os outros se calam mas tu não. Porque os outros se compram e se vendem E os seus gestos dão sempre dividendo. Porque os outros ... See more «Porque Porque os outros se mascaram mas tu não Porque os outros usam a virtude Para comprar o que não tem perdão. Porque os outros têm medo mas tu não. Porque os outros são os túmulos caiados Onde germina calada a podridão. Porque os outros se calam mas tu não. Porque os outros se compram e se vendem E os seus gestos dão sempre dividendo. Porque os outros são hábeis mas tu não. Porque os outros vão à sombra dos abrigos E tu vais de mãos dadas com os perigos. Porque os outros calculam mas tu não.» English translation provided here: https://thebookswelove.wordpress.com/2013/12/08/poems-terror-de-te-amar-and-porque-by-sophia-de-mello-breyner-andresen/ "Because Because others mask themselves, but you don’t Because others use virtue To buy what is unforgivable. Because others are afraid but you aren’t. Because others are the whitewashed tombs Where rot silently germinates. Because others fall silent but not you. Because others buy and sell themselves And their gestures always give dividend. Because others are cunning but not you. Because others take shelter And you’re going hand in hand with dangers. Because others estimate but not you." Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen was born in Porto and she had Danish ancestry. She is one of my favourite poets/writers. (I need to read all these poems posted in this thread!) ▲ Collapse | |
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Mervyn Henderson (X) Spain Local time: 14:25 Spanish to English + ...
This is no more than a pathetic attempt to sign off the four uppermost threads, but it's John Cooper Clarke with Evidently Chicken Town. This was the version he was allowed to recite in polite circles. "Bloody" was replaced in other circles (he said it was a more satisfying "staccato" beat) with a word that rhymes with "mucking": The bloody cops are bloody keen To bloody keep it bloody clean The bloody chief's a bloody swine Who bloody draws a bloody line At ... See more This is no more than a pathetic attempt to sign off the four uppermost threads, but it's John Cooper Clarke with Evidently Chicken Town. This was the version he was allowed to recite in polite circles. "Bloody" was replaced in other circles (he said it was a more satisfying "staccato" beat) with a word that rhymes with "mucking": The bloody cops are bloody keen To bloody keep it bloody clean The bloody chief's a bloody swine Who bloody draws a bloody line At bloody fun and bloody games The bloody kids he bloody blames Are nowhere to be bloody found Anywhere in chicken town The bloody scene is bloody sad The bloody news is bloody bad The bloody weed is bloody turf The bloody speed is bloody surf The bloody folks are bloody daft Don't bloody make me bloody laugh It bloody hurts to look around Everywhere in chicken town The bloody train is bloody late You bloody wait, you bloody wait You're bloody lost and bloody found Stuck in bloody chicken town The bloody view is bloody vile For bloody miles and bloody miles The bloody babies bloody cry The bloody flowers bloody die The bloody food is bloody muck The bloody drains are bloody fucked The colour scheme is bloody brown Everywhere in chicken town The bloody pubs are bloody dull The bloody clubs are bloody full Of bloody girls and bloody guys With bloody murder in their eyes A bloody bloke is bloody stabbed Waiting for a bloody cab You bloody stay at bloody home The bloody neighbors bloody moan "Keep the bloody racket down!" This is bloody chicken town The bloody pies are bloody old The bloody chips are bloody cold The bloody beer is bloody flat The bloody flats have bloody rats The bloody clocks are bloody wrong The bloody days are bloody long It bloody gets you bloody down Evidently chicken town The bloody train is bloody late You bloody wait you bloody wait You're bloody lost and bloody found Stuck in bloody chicken town Four threads! I did it! 20:50 h on Wednesday 23 September. Beat that. If only I had an opinion on that XTM Cloud CAT Tool thread lower down. But I don't.
[Edited at 2020-09-23 18:51 GMT]
[Edited at 2020-09-23 18:52 GMT]
[Edited at 2020-09-23 18:57 GMT]
[Edited at 2020-09-23 18:59 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | expressisverbis Portugal Local time: 13:25 Member (2015) English to Portuguese + ... A nice corner! Thanks! | Sep 23, 2020 |
I am still reading the second page of this beautiful poem book! | | | One of my childhood favourites | Sep 23, 2020 |
Hilaire Belloc Tarantella (1929) Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the ... See more Hilaire Belloc Tarantella (1929) Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of a clapper to the spin Out and in -- And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar. Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground No sound: But the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom. The Miranda of Hilaire Belloc's "Tarantella" is Miranda Mackintosh whom Belloc met at an inn in the Pyrenean hamlet of Canranc on the River Aragon in 1909. The poem, written twenty years later, was a New Year's present to the Scottish Miranda. The holograph copy is inscribed: "For Miranda: New Year's 1929." The tarantella is a dance (for two) that is supposed to be brought on by the intoxication induced by the sting of the tarantula, which is similar to that induced by falling in love. ▲ Collapse | | | Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | To report site rules violations or get help, contact a site moderator: You can also contact site staff by submitting a support request » Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! Wordfast Pro | Translation Memory Software for Any Platform
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