Poetry Wanted: Seasons of a2k.

Er...hastily backtracking if I appeared to be fishing for compliments. I guess I was thinking that if my audience was not familiar with French they could hardly fault me for mangling pronunciation.

I had a pleasant voice -- not exactly in Eva Cassidy's league. (Will stop digressing now.)

Don't worry, I think I got the gist of what you were trying to convey..

tsarstepan, I love your cantata for Autumn.

"..a litany..a fuge...a harvest moon..." and the mood music was perfect.

Thank you for starting this thread.

Thank you... and your welcome.

Maple Leaves and Seven Stars
by Bei Dao

The world is as small as a street scene
when we met you nodded briefly
dispensing with the past
and friendly greetings
happiness is just a passage perhaps
and all is at an end
but why do you still wear that red scarf
look, through the lace of maple leaves the sky
is very clear, and the sun
has shifted to the last windowpane

The seven stars ascending
behind the massive roofs
no longer look like a cluster of ripe grapes
it is another autumn
the street lights will soon be lit of course
I should dearly like to see your smile
forgiving but indifferent
and that calm gaze
the street lights will soon be lit

This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.

(Faiz Ahmed Faiz)

That's a beautifully intimate poem.

And the great imagery in ...
look, through the lace of maple leaves the sky
and
The seven stars ascending
behind the massive roofs
no longer look like a cluster of ripe grapes

And I love when astronomy finds its way into the poetry I read.

That's a hauntingly depressing poem.

Yes, autumn can be quite depressing, especially towards the end when all
there is left is bare tree branches and a gray, moist and foggy sky. As beautiful
as September and parts of October are, November can be depressing.

Here's a happier one!!!

The greatest Spring poem in the language (IMHO)

Remembering the properer part of the world is in Spring....


1. The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales



Geoffrey Chaucer (1340(?)–1400)


WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages:





Here's one with a pronunciation guide (though I thought there was some discord between those who favour a more French or a more German mode...but I digress:


Pronunciation Help

First 18 lines of the General Prologue

Whan that Aprille with his shoores soote
Wan thot A'prill with his sure-es so-tuh

The drought of March hath perced to the roote
The drewgt of March hath pear-said to the row-tuh

And bathed every vein in swich liquor
And ba-thed every vane in sweech lee-coor

Of which vertu engendred is the flour
of wheech ver-too en-jen-dred is the flu-er

When Zephyrus eek with his sweete breeth
When Zeph-er-us ache with his sway-tuh breath

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
In-spear-ed hath in every holt and heth

The tendre croppes and the yonge sun
The tawn-dray crop-pays and the young-gay soan

Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne
Hath in the rahm his hall-vey coors e-rown

And smale fowles maken melodye
And smal-ay foe-lays mock-en mel-oh-dee-uh

That slepen all the night with open eye
That slep-en all the neekdt with open ee-ah

So priketh hem nature in hir courages
So prick-eth him nah-tour in hear core-ahj-ez


And here's one modern English version:

When in April the sweet showers fall
That pierce March's drought to the root and all
And bathed every vein in liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower;
When Zephyr also has with his sweet breath, 5
Filled again, in every holt and heath,
The tender shoots and leaves, and the young sun
His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run,
And many little birds make melody
That sleep through all the night with open eye 10
(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)

Scél lem dúib
Irish 9thC

Summer Has Gone


Scél lem dúib:
dordaid dam,
snigid gaim,
ro-fáith sam;

gáeth ard úar,
ísel grían,
gair a rith,
ruirthech rían;

rorúad rath,
ro-cleth cruth,
ro-gab gnáth
giugrann guth;

ro-gab úacht
etti én,
aigre ré:
é mo scél.

Thus my song:
shouting stag;
drips down ice;
summer sags.

high wind wails.
sun can't pierce;
short its course.
sea swims fierce.

red run ferns,
shape concealed.
frequent calls
greygoose peal

fetters frost
seagulls strong.
time is ice;
thus my song.

Ooh... my first Gaelic poem!

Sounds like Irish autumns are bitterly cold.