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Q: What's you're favourite sophisticated pomes?
Distinguished Gentlemen and Mademoiselles of these Venerable and Ancient Fora,
It was brought to my attention that these fora had been tragically overrun by a motely crew of louts, thugs, prostitutes, petty thieves, and drunkards. In an attempt to bring a modicum of lively discourse back into what was was the salon society of eChinacities answers, I have taken the liberty of opening a round table discussion on poetry. I will give you my top five, with excerpts and a vivid body of scholia.
5) e.e. cummings: Epithalamion the Second
And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air,for now the red
leaps in the maple's cheek,and suddenly
by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress
ascends the golden crocus from the dead.
Scholion: An absolutely stunning invocation of the violent beauty of the changing seasons. Commendable. Simply commendable.
4) Robert Frost - Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Scholion: One of his lesser known works, and one of the few unsullied by the cheap proletarian sentimentalism of "Road less Taken".
3) Homer - The Iliad
Scholion: A bit too long to post here in its entirity. But basically, Achilles is going to get angry, and then he gets angry. You scurrilous unwashed masses are unlikely to be able to understand this, but that's what we humble intellectual giants call "foreshadowing".
2) Emily Dickinson - I died for Beauty
I died for beauty but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
Scholion: I, too, feel that I have died for beauty. More so than Dickenson herself. The other day, at a brunch with the Marquis Tavistock, that less-than-distinguished layabout was heard to remark, "My lord, where on earth can one find a good silk Ottoman these days?" To which I was heard to quippingly retort, "Where can't you find a good silk Ottoman these days, Marquis?" What a comtemptable layabout idler he is! I am just thankful that I was there to put him in is place, figuratively speaking.
1) Li Bai
处世若大梦，胡为劳其生。
所以终日醉，颓然卧前楹。
觉来盼庭前，一鸟花间鸣。
借问此何时，春风语流莺。
感之欲叹息，对酒还自倾。
浩歌待明月，曲尽已忘情
OH DISS! IT WAS A CHINA-RELATED THREAD ALL ALONG IN YO FACE. I bet you were all like, "This isn't China-related I should report this abuse forthwith." But then BAM ALL ABOUT CHINA
Anyway, this is a poem about waking up hungover, unable to move or remember what time it is and where you are, then getting drunk again as a hair of the dog thing. It is by the most famous and respected Chinese poet ever. Which basically proves that China is the perfect and most welcoming country for my chosen lifestyle.
Alexandre Pushkin, the greatest Russian writer.
Evgeni Onegin, particularly the opening:
"Мой дядя самых честных правил,
Когда не в шутку занемог,
Он уважать себя заставил
И лучше выдумать не мог.
Его пример другим наука;
Но, боже мой, какая скука
С больным сидеть и день и ночь,
Не отходя ни шагу прочь!
Какое низкое коварство
Полу-живого забавлять,
Ему подушки поправлять,
Печально подносить лекарство,
Вздыхать и думать про себя:
Когда же чорт возьмет тебя!"
"My uncle, a most worthy gentleman,
When he fell seriously ill,
By snuffing it made us all respect him,
Couldn't have done better if he tried.
His behaviour was a lesson to us all.
But, God above, what crushing boredom
To sit with the malingerer night and day
Not moving even one footstep away.
What demeaning hypocrisy
To amuse the half-dead codger,
To fluff up his pillows, and then,
Mournfully to bring him his medicine;
To think to oneself, and to sigh:
When the devil will the old rascal die?
Also, the great Russian poet Mikhail Lermontov, his eulogy for Pushkin.
Смерть поэта/Death of the Poet
Погиб поэт! - невольник чести-
Пал, оклеветанный молвой,
С свинцом в груди и жаждой мести,
Поникнув гордой головой!..
Не вынесла душа поэта
Позора мелочных обид,
Восстал он против мнений света
Один, как прежде... и убит!
Убит!.. к чему теперь рыданья,
Пустых похвал ненужный хор
И жалкий лепет оправданья?
Судьбы свершился приговор!
Не вы ль сперва так злобно гнали
Его свободный, смелый дар
И для потехи раздували
Чуть затаившийся пожар?
Что ж? веселитесь... - он мучений
Последних вынести не мог:
Угас, как светоч, дивный гений,
Увял торжественный венок.
The Poet's dead! - a slave to honor -
He fell, by rumor slandered,
Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge,
Hanging his proud head!...
The Poet's soul could not endure
Petty insult's disgrace.
Against society he rose,
Alone, as always...and was slain!
Slain!...What use is weeping now,
The futile chorus of empty praise
Excuses mumbled full of pathos?
Fate has pronounced its sentence!
Was it not you who spitefully
Rebuffed his free, courageous gift
And for your own amusement fanned
The nearly dying flame?
Well now, enjoy yourselves...he couldn't
Endure the final torture:
Quenched is the marvelous light of genius,
Withered is the triumphal wreath.
And the great Russian 20th century poetess, Marina Tsvetaeva, murdered by Stalin, this from the "Greatcoats of the Generals"
You, whose greatcoats were lithely streaming,
Reminiscent of broad sails,
Whose voice and spurs were gaily ringing
Like silver bells,
Whose eyes, like diamonds, were leaving
On hearts their delightful trace, --
The charming fops of vanished being
In time and space.
With help of heartened aspiration
You conquered hearts and rocky walls, --
The kings in every field of action
And at the balls.
For you -- stiff bread was no wander,
And greatest mountains were flats,
O, young and passionate commanders
Of own fates!
In single gallop, fierce and risky,
You passed your shortest lives and glow --
And your ambitious curls and whiskers
Sank under snow.
You all were winning and enjoying
And love and edges of a sword...
And with a sunny smile were going
Out the world.
The Psalms of David, particularly the 1st Psalm, in Classical Hebrew:
א אַֽשְֽׁרֵי־הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר לֹא הָלַךְ בַּֽעֲצַת רְשָׁעִים וּבְדֶרֶךְ חַטָּאִים לֹא עָמָד וּבְמוֹשַׁב לֵצִים לֹא יָשָֽׁב
:ב כִּי אִם־בְּתוֹרַת יְהֹוָה חֶפְצוֹ וּֽבְתוֹרָתוֹ יֶהְגֶּה יוֹמָם וָלָֽיְלָה
:ג וְֽהָיָה כְּעֵץ שָׁתוּל עַֽל־פַּלְגֵי מָיִם אֲשֶׁר פִּרְיוֹ | יִתֵּן בְּעִתּוֹ וְעָלֵהוּ לֹֽא יִבּוֹל וְכֹלאֲשֶׁר־יַֽעֲשֶׂה יַצְלִֽיחַ
ד לֹא־כֵן הָרְשָׁעִים כִּי אִם־כַּמֹּץ אֲֽשֶׁר־תִּדְּפֶנּוּ רֽוּח:ַ
:ה עַל־כֵּן | לֹא־יָקֻמוּ רְשָׁעִים בַּמִּשְׁפָּט וְחַטָּאִים בַּֽעֲדַת צַדִּיקִֽים
:ו כִּֽי־יוֹדֵעַ יְהֹוָה דֶּרֶךְ צַדִּיקִים וְדֶרֶךְ רְשָׁעִים תֹּאבֵֽד
- Happy is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scorners.
- But whose delight is in the Torah of the Lord; and in his Torah he meditates day and night.
- And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that brings forth its fruit in its season; its leaf also shall not wither; and whatever he does shall prosper.
- The wicked are not so; but are like the chaff which the wind drives away.
- Therefore the wicked shall not stand in the judgment, nor the sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
- For the Lord knows the way of the righteous: but the way of the wicked shall perish.
From the Twentieth Century American master, David Lee Roth, PBUH
And the cradle will rock
and the cradle will roll
and I say rock on.
981977405:
Is this "sophisticated" to use your word? More like modern primitive, picture included. Once a backwater red neck, always a backwater red neck, so to speak. Sobriety increases one's lifespan, don't you think?
kchur:
He's taken a commonplace expression and subverted it. Subverted it to be about rock. What's more sophisticated than that?
kchur:
Also, don't you mean "picture included"? Also, a proper English sentence needs a finite verb. Taught English much lately?
kchur:
ALSO ALSO EDDIE VAN HALEN IS HALF CHINESE - I SWEAR TO GOD LOOK IT UP. YOU SIR HAVE AN ANTI-CHINESE BIAS! :O
981977405:
Kchur, in your shoes, I wouldn't swear to God. The Good Lord probably already has you in His Sight.
kchur:
This troll went better than I would have every thought possible. Look upon David Lee Roth, ye mighty, and dispair!
Ugh. It's too early for poetry.
I'm surprised I'm not seeing the lyrics for China Girl (David Bowie) posted though.
From The Boss:
I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the Seven-Eleven store
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch
And he rides with me from town to town
We only run for the money, got no strings attached
We shut 'em up and than we shut 'em down
Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat
Summer's here and the time is right
For racin' in the street
We take all the action we can meet
And we cover all the northeast state
When the strip shuts down we run 'em in the street
From the fire roads to the interstate
Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece,
Some guys come home from work and wash up,
And go racin' in the street.
Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em all out of their seats
Calling out around the world, we're going racin' in the street.
I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camero with this dude from L.A.
I blew that Camero off my back,
and drove that little girl away,
But now there's wrinkles around my baby's eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs, "Baby did you make it all right,"
She sits on the porch of her Daddy's house
But all her pretty dreams are torn,
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born
For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels,
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me, we're gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands.
Tonight, tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way, mister you best keep
'Cause summer's here and the time is right
For racin' in the street.
I appricate Emily Dickinson's poems . and my university graduation thesis is studying Emily Dickinson's life and her poetry . here . i would like to share one of hers ' with you :
I AM NOBODY , WHO ARE YOU
I am nobody , who are you ?
Are you nobody too ,
then there's a pair of us
they'd banish , you know
how dreary to be sombody !
how public --like a frog--
to tell your name the livelong June!
to an admiring bog
Tiger by William Blake has always stuck with me.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
