Poetry Corner - A place for favourite poems

[Bluenose]

Tangmalangmaloo  John O'Brien

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,
And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time;
And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,
With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too
An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangmaloo?

A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature's had her fling,
And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;
Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim,
And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;
There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too -
But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangmaloo.

The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,
And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangmaloo.

"Come, tell me, boy," his lordship said, in crushing tones severe,
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?"
"How is it that around the world we celebrate that day"
"And send a name upon a card to those who're far away?"
"Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?"
– A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangmaloo.

He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,
He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.
And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,
"That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?"
The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew -
"It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangmaloo."

[Swatopluk]

Dû bist mîn, ich bin dîn.
des solt dû gewis sîn.
dû bist beslozzen
in mînem herzen;
verlorn ist das sluzzelîn:
dû muost ouch immer darinne sîn.

[Pachyderm]

I must go down to the sea again,
The lonely sea and the sky
I left my vest and socks there,
I wonder if they're dry?

Spike Milligan

[beagle]

Thirty thousand savages
sitting down to lunch,
gobble, gobble, glup, glup
munch, munch, munch

Ogden Nash (I think)

[pieces o nine]

'Twas here my summer paused
What ripeness after then
To other scene or other soul
My sentence had begun.

To winter to remove
With winter to abide
Go manacle your icicle
Against your Tropic Bride.

~ Emily Dickinson

[Swatopluk]

Mother holds her little daughter
20 minutes under water
not to make her any troubles
but to see the funny bubbles

Alas, poor John
I knew him well
we'll see his face no more
For what he thought was H₂O
was H₂SO₄

Sorry, I am a friend of the macabre 

[Opsa]

Us Two
from Now We Are Six
A.A. Milne (1882-1956)

Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh...
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
"Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.

"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh,
"Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.
"I think it ought to be twenty two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.

"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few...
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.

"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"... and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."

So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said... "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two
Can stick together," says Pooh, says he.
"That's how it is," says Pooh.

[Pachyderm]

The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."

Another Milligan number...

[Swatopluk]

Did you leave out some stanzas, Pachy? There seems to be a gap between L and U.

----

«Die Seeschlacht»
by Günter Grass

Ein amerikanischer Flugzeugträger
und eine gotische Kathedrale
versenkten sich
mitten im Stillen Ozean
gegenseitig.
Bis zum Schluss
spielte der junge Vikar auf der Orgel.
Nun hängen Flugzeuge und Engel in der Luft
und können nicht landen


engl.translation:

«The Naval Battle»

An American aircraft carrier
And a gothic cathedral
Sank
In the middle of the Pacific Ocean
Each other.
Up to the end
The young vicar played the organ.
Now aircraft and angels hang in the air
And can't land.

This absurd little poem was in our German school textbook.
We found it extremly funny.

[Pachyderm]

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
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 name 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 mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon 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 he will 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 fancy 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, ghastly, 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath 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 name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in 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 lamplight 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!


And, no, I didn't leave out any stanzas above, blame Milligan for that

[stellinacadente]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And–which is more–you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

[Swatopluk]

DER ZIPFERLAKE (Christian Enzensberger's ingenious translation of Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll)

Verdaustig wars, und glasse Wieben
Rotterten gorkicht im Gemank;
Gar elump war der Pluckerwank
und die gabben Schweisel frieben.

"Hab acht vorm Zipferlak, mein Kind!
Sein Maul ist beiß, sein Griff ist bohr!
Vorm Fliegelflagel sieh dich vor,
Dem mampfen Schnatterrind!"

Er zückt' sein scharfgebifftes Schwert,
Den Feind zu futzen ohne Saum,
Und lehnt' sich an den Dudelbaum
Und stand da lang in sich gekehrt.

In sich gekeimt, so stand er hier;
Da kam verschnoff der Zipferlak
Mit Flammenlefze angewackt
Und gurgt' in seiner Gier.

Mit eins! und zwei! und bis aufs Bein!
Die biffe Klinge ritscheropf!
Trennt er vom Hals den toten Kopf,
Und wichernd springt er heim.

"Vom Zipferlak hast uns befreit?
Komm an mein Herz, aromer Sohn!
O blumer Tag! O schlusse Fron!"
So kröpfte er vor Freud.

Verdaustig wars, und glasse Wieben
Rotterten gorkicht im Gemank;
Gar elump war der Pluckerwank
und die gabben Schweisel frieben.

Even after all these years I still know this by heart.
No other translation (if that can be the right word in the context) I know comes even close.

[pieces o nine]

'Twas here my summer paused
Emily Dickinson

'Twas here my summer paused
What ripeness after then
To other scene or other soul
My sentence had begun.

To winter to remove
With winter to abide
Go manacle your icicle
Against your Tropic Bride.



~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
That translation simply cried out to be babelfished, Swato!   

Verdaustig wars, and glasse Wieben
Rotterten gorkicht in the Gemank;
Elump was the Pluckerwank
and the gabben Schweisel frieben.

"Have eight vorm Zipferlak, my child!
Its muzzle is bites, its grasp is bores!
Vorm Fliegelflagel plans you,
The mampfen Schnatterrind!

"It zückt' his scharfgebifftes sword,
the enemy to futzen without seam,
And lehnt' itself at the Dudelbaum
And stood there long in itself turned.

In itself germinated, then he stood here;
There verschnoff the Zipferlak
came With Flammenlefze angewackt
And gurgt' in its greed.

With one! and two! and to on the leg!
The biffe blade ritscheropf!
It separates the dead head from the neck,
And wichernd it jumps home.

"From the Zipferlak us freed?
Come to my heart, aromer son!
O blumer day! O conclusion Fron!"
Thus it bent before Freud.

Verdaustig wars, and glasse Wieben
Rotterten gorkicht in the Gemank;
Elump was the Pluckerwank
and the gabben Schweisel frieben.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Just in case any interested siblings are unaware of it, Jabberwocky Variations sports an impressive list of 'translations' and parodies.

[Swatopluk]

Here is a small exerpt of a poem of wisdom (Havamal) from the Elder Edda that became the official motto of my academic works.
(with two translations (not by me) attached)

27.
Ósnotur maður,
er með aldir kemur,
það er best, að hann þegi.
Engi það veit,
að hann ekki kann,
nema hann mæli til margt;
veit-a maður,
hinn er vætki veit,
þótt hann mæli til margt.

28.
Fróður sá þykist,
er fregna kann
og segja ið sama.
Eyvitu leyna
megu ýta synir,
því er gengur um guma.

27.
For the unwise man 'tis best to be mute
when he come amid the crowd,
for none is aware of his lack of wit
if he wastes not too many words;
for he who lacks wit shall never learn
though his words flow ne'er so fast.

28.
Wise he is deemed who can question well,
and also answer back:
the sons of men can no secret make
of the tidings told in their midst.

27.
The ignorant booby had best be silent
When he moves among other men,
No one will know what a nit-wit he is
Until he begins to talk;
No one knows less what a nit-wit he is
Than the man who talks too much.

28.
To ask well, to answer rightly,
Are the marks of a wise man:
Men must speak of men's deeds,
What happens may not be hidden.

[Sibling DavidH]

WYNTER wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

Anonymous. c. 1300  Said to have been written in Ludlow, which is only just up the road from me.