Let's speak about poetry [ And other kinds of English literature ]

[Роуз]

I love poetry very much.
I can not say that I know English very well, but I love English poetry, especially sonnets. I have read Shakespeare in English (of course, with translation – by Marshak, I think he is the best translator of Shakespeare’s sonnets). I was infatuated with English poetry.

(Uff, I had lost my way in English grammar and numerous grammatical Tenses! Help!!!
I hope you understand me, but I think that a native speaker would be faint from my English )

Do anybody else love poetry? Response, please!
And it is intresting to speak about your faworite English literature...

Кэтрин, thank you very much!

Сообщение отредактировал(а) Роуз - 20.02.2007 - 10:21

[Нисташка]

I can't say I love poetry a lot, but I have some favourite poems.
Here is one of my "beloved ones":

A man said to the universe:

"Sir, I exist!"

"However," replied the universe,

"The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation."

Stephen Crane

[Роуз]

It is an intresting thought. But I think it is sad and very cold poem... It had been wrote not by heart, but by mind.

I remember one of my faworite poems... Shakespeare’s sonnets sometimes are sad too, but they are expressive and it is true that "in black ink my love will still shine bright".

[Татя]

This is the poem about Jabberwocky from 'Alice in Wonderland'

JABBERWOCKY

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

`Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jujub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum gree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wook,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

`And has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

What I like about it, it shows something hidden about language. Namely: It shows language structures and forms that allow us to understand what it is about, even when the very words are senseless and absurd.

[Татя]

Here's a beautiful poem by R. Kipling

If

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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!

[Роуз]

R. Kipling is one of my favorite poets, and it`s one of his best and famous poems. I had newer read it in English, but there are several translations into Russian, I think that the best translation belongs to Nicolai Gumilew.

[Роуз]

Lisa, I like your poem in the topic "Haiki" very much!
I think it`s excellent when a person can write poems or prose, because it`s very pleasant and intresting both for the author and for his friends.
I had written poetry, but now I prefer writing prose, and,of course, I newer wrote in English - I don`t know this language so well.
If you please, can you tell something about American poetry?
I don`t know it, excluding Emily Dikinson (I am not sure that I write her name correctly - I have read her poems in Russian).

[Conscious]

Just to enter the discussion

I don't like english poetry. There is no music of sounds, there is no rhythm and rhymes in english poems - only the music of sense. Of course I mean the english poems, not russian version of them. When you read russian interpretation of english poems, you enjoy the russian music of english meaning:-) Some years ago I bought the book "Best english poetry" trying to find something like russian poems - without success. There is a music of different sounds in the word in the russian poems, and every word has his own place in the poem. We can neither add nor delete word from good russian poem - and I'm sure this is the etalon, basic reference standard for all styles of poetry in the word!

By the way I really like french poetry! Look! one sound is growing into second sound and noone disturb another. Music of rhythm appears and makes music of meaning!

[Роуз]

Conscious
I think that you are not right. For example I can quote one of Shakeseare`s poems and its translation.

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


Как тот актер, который, оробев,
Теряет нить давно знакомой роли,
Как тот безумец, что, впадая в гнев,
В избытке сил теряет силу воли, -

Так я молчу, не зная, что сказать,
Не оттого, что сердце охладело.
Нет, на мои уста кладет печать
Моя любовь, которой нет предела.

Так пусть же книга говорит с тобой.
Пускай она, безмолвный мой ходатай,
Идет к тебе с признаньем и мольбой
И справедливой требует расплаты.

Прочтешь ли ты слова любви немой?
Услышишь ли глазами голос мой?

Перевод С.Маршака

There is an opinion that a translator of proze is a slave but a translator of poetry is a rival. Of course Marshak isn`t Shakespeare`s rival – he is only a good translator. And the original poem is full of music and passion more then the translation that looks like a pale photo of the original poem. It`s the first English poem that I have read, then I could not understand propely the sense of every word and have been charmed exactly by the music of Shakespeare`s poetry.

[Conscious]

Роуз,

you have chosen the good example, I agree. There is no bad rhyme here etc.

Of course all of us can have his own point of view

But I don't like strings, where tone syllable must be read as atonic syllable.

Look at the string

More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

This string I'd like to read (Uppercase means tone syllable )

mOre than that tOngue

but I must read it as

more thAn that tOngue.

By the way there are 3 times when word "more" appear in ths string, and second and third times we should read this word different way then frist time.

Unfortunately, there are too many confusions like this where my tongue stumbles, which jar on ear for me.

Best regards!!

Сообщение отредактировал(а) Conscious - 15.03.2007 - 11:18

[Роуз]

Conscious, of course, everybody has his own perception of poetry and of the whole language.
I`d like to quote one more poem. I like the poetry of Robert Burns very much and I think that he is one of the most “musical” english poets.
I wish you enjoy this song!

My Heart's In The Highlands

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.


Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

В горах мое сердце... Доныне я там.
По следу оленя лечу по скалам.
Гоню я оленя, пугаю козу.
В горах мое сердце, а сам я внизу.

Прощай, моя родина! Север, прощай, -
Отечество славы и доблести край.
По белому свету судьбою гоним,
Навеки останусь я сыном твоим!

Прощайте, вершины под кровом снегов,
Прощайте, долины и скаты лугов,
Прощайте, поникшие в бездну леса,
Прощайте, потоков лесных голоса.

В горах мое сердце... Доныне я там.
По следу оленя лечу по скалам.
Гоню я оленя, пугаю козу.
В горах мое сердце, а сам я внизу.

To my opinion, the Russian text is a very good poetic translation, but it`s far from the original poetic song as the land is far from the sky.

Сообщение отредактировал(а) Роуз - 15.03.2007 - 21:34

[Тигренок]

I love poetry. I used to translate some English poems for the competition in our university. Let me suggest my variant of translation of the famous poem by Walt Whitman:

* * *
O Captain!
My Captain! Our fearful trip is done.
The ship has weathered every rack,
The prize we sought was won.
The port is near, the bells I hear,
The people are exulting,
But follow eyes the steady keel,
The vessel grim and daring.
But – heart! heart! heart!
Oh the bleeding drops of red
Where on the deck my Captain lies
Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman

***
О капитан!
Мой капитан!
Закончен наш страшный путь.
Три сотни морей покорил корабль,
рискуя пойти ко дну.
Награда близка, ликует толпа,
беснуясь на берегу,
Но лишь для меня звучит в тишине
не этот суетный гул.
Я слышу набат!! Я знаю - следят
за нами взгляды толпы, -
За кораблем друзей-смельчаков,
что приняли вызов судьбы
И бросились вслед за своей мечтой,
наивно веря в нее...
Так много нас отправилось в путь...
Вернулись лишь мы вдвоем.
Черт все побери!!!
О время, замри!
О сердце, остановись!
Мой капитан, ценой для тебя
за дерзость
явилась жизнь,
А я на корме остался один.
Клянусь, что я все отдам
За то, чтобы встал
рядом со мной
поверженный капитан.

Уолт Уитмен (перевод Екатерины Божко (Тигренок))