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Poetry Meme...
...gacked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
penknife, among others. Couldn't resist going for two poems here, by men of the same generation, but with a very different approach.
When you see this, post a bit of poetry in your own journal.
So, poem the first, which remains to me one of the most powerful in the English language. Written by Wilfrid Owen in the middle of World War I, a war in which he served and which eventually killed him. Bearing in mind that Latin isn't exactly on everyone's curriculum these days: the title and punchline is a quote from Horace, meaning "It is sweet and honorable to die for one's country".
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Meanwhile, there was Constantine Cavafy, a Greek poet born in Alexandria, whom I discovered when visiting Greece some years ago. My hosts were quite shocked I had never heard of him and told me that to the Greeks, he was the most highly regarded poet since Homer. Cavafy, writing at the same time as Owen, often picked historical subjects, infusing them with a longing that is tangible. He didn't pick history's victors, though, or the various Empire-building days. Instead, he went for Byzantium decaying in splendour, or the last years of the Ptolemaians in Egypt. Here he is, using an anecdote about Mac Antony Plutarch reports, that Antony, after Actium, thought he heard his patron god Dionysos leaving the city:
The God Forsakes Antony
When suddenly, at the midnight hour,
an invisible troupe is heard passing
with exquisite music, with shouts --
your fortune that fails you now, your works
that have failed, the plans of your life
that have all turned out to be illusions, do not mourn in vain.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
bid her farewell, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all do not be fooled, do not tell yourself
it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;
do not stoop to such vain hopes.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
as it becomes you who have been worthy of such a city,
approach the window with firm step,
and with emotion, but not
with the entreaties and complaints of the coward,
as a last enjoyment listen to the sounds,
the exquisite instruments of the mystical troupe,
and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are losing.
Lastly, gacked fromaltariel1: pictures from the Faramir and Eowyn scenes in the House of Healing which are going to be on the RotK Extended Edition!
penknife, among others. Couldn't resist going for two poems here, by men of the same generation, but with a very different approach. When you see this, post a bit of poetry in your own journal.
So, poem the first, which remains to me one of the most powerful in the English language. Written by Wilfrid Owen in the middle of World War I, a war in which he served and which eventually killed him. Bearing in mind that Latin isn't exactly on everyone's curriculum these days: the title and punchline is a quote from Horace, meaning "It is sweet and honorable to die for one's country".
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Meanwhile, there was Constantine Cavafy, a Greek poet born in Alexandria, whom I discovered when visiting Greece some years ago. My hosts were quite shocked I had never heard of him and told me that to the Greeks, he was the most highly regarded poet since Homer. Cavafy, writing at the same time as Owen, often picked historical subjects, infusing them with a longing that is tangible. He didn't pick history's victors, though, or the various Empire-building days. Instead, he went for Byzantium decaying in splendour, or the last years of the Ptolemaians in Egypt. Here he is, using an anecdote about Mac Antony Plutarch reports, that Antony, after Actium, thought he heard his patron god Dionysos leaving the city:
The God Forsakes Antony
When suddenly, at the midnight hour,
an invisible troupe is heard passing
with exquisite music, with shouts --
your fortune that fails you now, your works
that have failed, the plans of your life
that have all turned out to be illusions, do not mourn in vain.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
bid her farewell, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all do not be fooled, do not tell yourself
it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;
do not stoop to such vain hopes.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
as it becomes you who have been worthy of such a city,
approach the window with firm step,
and with emotion, but not
with the entreaties and complaints of the coward,
as a last enjoyment listen to the sounds,
the exquisite instruments of the mystical troupe,
and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are losing.
Lastly, gacked from
altariel1: pictures from the Faramir and Eowyn scenes in the House of Healing which are going to be on the RotK Extended Edition!
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And great pictures! Oh I can't wait for the extended edition!
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Antony: Well, for starters, Shakespeare's version is an Elizabethan nobleman. Not to diss old Will, but as Jonson observed, he wasn't that familiar with the Romans (or the Greeks), and it shows.
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Will find something to post.
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And those pictures are gorgeous. Is it December yet?
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Also: Read the Cavafy!
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Ithaka
As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
Translated by
Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard
Me too!
Caesarion
Partly to verify an era,
partly also to pass the time,
last night I picked up a collection
of Ptolemaic epigrams to read.
The plentiful praises and flatteries
for everyone are similar. They are all brilliant,
glorious, mighty, beneficent;
each of their enterprises the wisest.
If you talk of the women of that breed, they too,
all the Berenices and Cleopatras are admirable.
When I had managed to verify the era
I would have put the book away, had not a small
and insignificant mention of king Caesarion
immediately attracted my attention.....
Behold, you came with your vague
charm. In history only a few
lines are found about you,
and so I molded you more freely in my mind.
I molded you handsome and sentimental.
My art gives to your face
a dreamy compassionate beauty.
And so fully did I envision you,
that late last night, as my lamp
was going out -- I let go out on purpose --
I fancied that you entered my room,
it seemed that you stood before me; as you might have been
in vanquished Alexandria,
pale and tired, idealistic in your sorrow,
still hoping that they would pity you,
the wicked -- who whispered "Too many Caesars."
Re: Me too!
What are we waiting for, gathered in the market-place?
The barbarians will come today.
Why is there no activity in the senate?
Why are the senators seated without legislating?
Because the barbarians will come today;
What laws can the senators pass now?
The barbarians, when they come, they'll make the laws.
Why has our emperor risen so early,
and is seated at the greatest gate of the city
on the throne, in state, wearing the crown?
Because the barbarians will come today,
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a parchment to give him.
There he has written out for him many titles and names.
Why did our two consuls and our praetors come out today
in the scarlet, the embroidered togas?
Why did they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings with bright flashing emeralds?
Why did they get hold of the precious staves
splendidly wrought with silver and gold?
Because the barbarians will come today;
and such things dazzle barbarians.
And why don't the worthy orators come as always
to deliver their speeches, and say what they usually say?
Because the barbarians will arrive today,
and they are bored with eloquence and public speaking.
Why has this uneasiness suddenly started, this confusion?
How grave the faces have become!
Why are the streets and squares quickly emptying,
and why is everyone going back home so very concerned?
Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some men have arrived from the frontiers
and they said that there are no barbarians any more.
And now, what will become of us without barbarians?
Those people were a kind of solution.
Re: Me too!
Exiles
It goes on being Alexandria still. Just walk a bit
along the straight road that ends at the Hippodrome
and you'll see palaces and monuments that will amaze you.
Whatever war-damage it's suffered,
however much smaller it's become,
it's still a wonderful city.
And then, what with excursions and books
and various kinds of study, time does go by.
In the evenings we meet on the sea front,
the five of us (all, naturally, under fictitious names)
and some of the few other Greeks
still left in the city.
Sometimes we discuss church affairs
(the people here seem to lean toward Rome)
and sometimes literature.
The other day we read some lines by Nonnos:
what imagery, what rhythm, what diction and harmony!
All enthusiasm, how we admired the Panopolitan.
So the days go by, and our stay here
isn't unpleasant because, naturally,
it's not going to last forever.
We've had good news: if something doesn't come
of what's now afoot in Smyrna,
then in April our friends are sure to move from Epiros,
so one way or another, our plans are definitely working out,
and we'll easily overthrow Basil.
And when we do, at last our turn will come.
Translated by
Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard
NOTES:
Written October 1914.
The anonymous exiles of the poem cannot be identified precisely, yet their situation falls within what Cavafy called "historical possibility." The scene is set in Alexandria, obviously after its conquest by the Arabs (641) and probably shortly after the murder of the Byzantine Emperor Michael III by his coemperor Basil I (867-886), founder of the Macedonian dynasty. The mention of Christians who "seem to lean toward Rome" further points to the period of the Photian schism (867-870), when its initiator, the Patriarch of Constantinople. Photios, had been deposed by the emperor and most of his friends had been driven into exile. The "Panopolitan" of line 17 is of course the Egyptian-Greek poet Nonnus (5th c. A.D.?) mentioned in line 15.
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