Αφέντης μας
by Jalāl ad-Dīn Mohammad Rūmī (1207-1273)
I often try to celebrate a poet by posting one of their poems on their birthday and today is Rumi’s birthday. In addition to his native Persian, he wrote poetry in Turkish, Arabic, and Greek. Unfortunately, Greek is the only one of those languages that I can deal with at all adequately.

Αφέντης μας έν κι αγαπούμεν τον
Κι απ’ εκείνον έν καλή η ζωή μας.
Γιατί γύρισες γιατί βρώμισες;
Πέ με τι έπαθες, πέ με τι έχασες;
Άι καρδιά μου, άι ψυχή μου!
Άι το ετούτο μου, άι το εκείνο μου,
Άχ σπί τμου,άχ στέγη μου!
Άχ θησαυρέ μου, αχ χρυσοπηγή!
Έλα καλέ μου, έλα σάχη μου,
Χαρά δεν δίδεις, δός μας άνεμο!
Πού διψά πίνει, πού πονεί λαλεί,
Μηδέν τσάκωσες,καλέ, το γυαλί;

Views: 50

Wanderlied
by Justinus Kerner (1786-1862)

Wohlauf, noch getrunken
Den funkelnden Wein!
Ade nun, ihr Lieben!
Geschieden muss sein.
Ade nun, ihr Berge,
Du väterlich Haus!
Es treibt in die Ferne
Mich mächtig hinaus.

Die Sonne, sie bleibet
Am Himmel nicht stehn,
Es treibt sie, durch Länder
Und Meere zu gehn.
Die Woge nicht haftet
Am einsamen Strand,
Die Stürme, sie brausen
Mit Macht durch das Land.

Mit eilenden Wolken
Der Vogel dort zieht,
Und singt in der Ferne
Ein heimatlich Lied.
So treibt es den Burschen
Durch Wälder und Feld,
Zu gleichen der Mutter,
Der wandernden Welt.

Da grüßen ihn Vögel
Bekannt überm Meer,
Sie flogen von Fluren
Der Heimat hieher;
Da duften die Blumen
Vertraulich um ihn,
Sie trieben vom Lande
Die Lüfte dahin.

Die Vögel, die kennen
Sein väterlich Haus,
Die Blumen, die pflanzt’ er
Der Liebe zum Strauss,
Und Liebe, die folgt ihm,
Sie geht ihm zur Hand:
So wird ihm zur Heimat
Das ferneste Land.

Views: 38

The Berg (A Dream)
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

I saw a ship of martial build
(Her standards set, her brave apparel on)
Directed as by madness mere
Against a stolid iceberg steer,
Nor budge it, though the infatuate ship went down.
The impact made huge ice-cubes fall
Sullen, in tons that crashed the deck;
But that one avalanche was all—
No other movement save the foundering wreck.

Along the spurs of ridges pale,
Not any slenderest shaft and frail,
A prism over glass-green gorges lone,
Toppled; or lace of traceries fine,
Nor pendant drops in grot or mine
Were jarred, when the stunned ship went down.

Nor sole the gulls in cloud that wheeled
Circling one snow-flanked peak afar,
But nearer fowl the floes that skimmed
And crystal beaches, felt no jar.
No thrill transmitted stirred the lock
Of jack-straw needle-ice at base;
Towers undermined by waves—the block
Atilt impending—kept their place.
Seals, dozing sleek on sliddery ledges
Slipt never, when by loftier edges
Through very inertia overthrown,
The impetuous ship in bafflement went down.

Hard Berg (methought), so cold, so vast,
With mortal damps self-overcast;
Exhaling still thy dankish breath—
Adrift dissolving, bound for death;
Though lumpish thou, a lumbering one—
A lumbering lubbard loitering slow,
Impingers rue thee and go down,
Sounding thy precipice below,
Nor stir the slimy slug that sprawls
Along thy dead indifference of walls.

Views: 37

Élévation
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Au-dessus des étangs, au-dessus des vallées,
Des montagnes, des bois, des nuages, des mers,
Par delà le soleil, par delà les éthers,
Par delà les confins des sphères étoilées,

Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité,
Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l’onde,
Tu sillonnes gaîment l’immensité profonde
Avec une indicible et mâle volupté.

Envole-toi bien loin de ces miasmes morbides
Va te purifier dans l’air supérieur,
Et bois, comme une pure et divine liqueur,
Le feu clair qui remplit les espaces limpides.

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins
Qui chargent de leur poids l’existence brumeuse,
Heureux celui qui peut d’une aile vigoureuse
S’élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins!

Celui dont les pensers, comme des alouettes,
Vers les cieux le matin prennent un libre essor,
— Qui plane sur la vie et comprend sans effort
Le langage des fleurs et des choses muettes!

Views: 45

Whispers of Immortality
by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her
Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

Views: 79

Ved Rundarne
by Aasmund Olafsson Vinje (1818-1870)

No ser eg atter slike fjöll og dalar,
Som deim eg i min fyrste Ungdom saag;
Og sama vind den heite panna svalar,
Og gullet ligg paa snjo, som fyrr det laag,
Det er eit barnemaal, som til meg talar,
Og gjer’ meg tankefull, men endaa fjaag.
Med ungdomsminne er den Tala blandad:
Det strøymer paa meg, so eg knapt kann anda.

Ja, livet strøymer paa meg, som det strøymde,
Naar under snjo eg saag det grøne straa.
Eg drøymer no, som fyrr eg altid drøymde,
Naar slike fjöll eg saag i lufti blaa.
Eg gløymer dagsens strid, som fyrr eg gløymde,
Naar eg mot kveld av sol eit glimt fekk sjaa.
Eg finner vel eit hus, som vil meg hysa,
Naar soli heim til notti vil meg lysa.

Alt er som fyrr, men det er meir forklaarat,
So dagsens ljos meg synest meire bjart;
Og det, som beit og skar meg, so det saarad’,
Det gjerer sjølve skuggen mindre svart:
Sjølv det, som til at synda tidt meg daarad,
Sjølv det gjer’ harde fjøllet mindre hardt:
Forsonad’ koma atter gamle tankar:
Det sama hjarta er, som eldre bankar.

Og kver ein stein eg som ein kjenning finner,
For slik var den, eg flaug ikring som gut.
Som det var kjempur, spyrr eg, kven som vinner
Av den og denne andre haage nut.
Alt minner meg; det minner, og det minner,
Til soli burt i snjoen sloknar ut.
Og inn i siste Svevn meg eingong huggar
Dei gamle minne og dei gamle skuggar.

Views: 34