Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘poets’ Category

winds come winding, breathing bliss
of summer’s heat and springtime mists
ring out the bells
ring out the bells
ring out the bells and sing for joy

—shadowscapes
See more Angels on this link which will open in a new window.

MY SONG
You are every moment of the day
The land and the shore
A celestial reflection
Of my island-universe
That weaves these lines
The round caress
Between the sky and sea
A quick kiss you seem
A buried memory
Of my lost dream . . .

You are every word
True or false
The sign memory
Of a recurring sound
The unfurled voice
That always swells aloud
The echo of the crowd
The scent of Spring
Expressing our minds
When we meet again . . .
© 2002, Patrizia Gattaceca

© Translation: 2002, Sarah Lawson

See Patrizia in video here.The link will open in a new window. This post is nr 999! One more to go!
Patrizia Gattaceca is a Corsican poet and a singer. She began singing in public when she was a 13-year-old secondary school pupil and set her first poem to music. She is co-founder of the Nouvelles Polyphonies Corses, a female trio singing traditional Corsican songs.
Read more about
Patrizia here on the link which will open in a new link.

Read Full Post »

It’s been quite awhile since I’ve blogged poetry! I love poetry, as I said before…on this link here on my ..blogger-blog I once blogged one of Wayne’s poems and I want to blog it here too…as I do love South Africa –which is part of Africa…one secondary school child argued with me a few weeks ago about our country’s name..said that..there isn’t a “West Africa” as a country nor “East Africa” as a country, so how can I say that I am from South Africa and I say “South Africa” is a country! hehehe…Wayne visited my blogger blog-post and left me a message at that particular post…so let’s see if he will find this one too…lol! 
I came across Meggwilson’s blog where she says exactly what I’ve said so many times…even on my blog too….

As a native-speaking English person I know how much Afrikaans people are constantly ripped off by the English. Having a completely mixed up family I am also lucky to be completely bilingual. This all means that i have the best of both worlds, which I would like to share a bit of.

Afrikaans is an extremely expressive and descriptive language with words that can’t even possibly be translated into English…you can read it HERE ….


I’ve translated this poem of Wayne in Afrikaans on this link and you can also read Wayne’s comments about the translation on this link.

I know a place in Africa…
Inspiring poetry written by Wayne Visser,
a South African currently based in Nottingham, UK.

I know a place in Africa
Where I can feel the sun on my back
And the sand between my barefoot toes
Where I can hear the gulls on the breeze
And the waves crash on the endless shore

I know a place in Africa
Where the mountains touch the skies of blue
And the valleys shelter vines of green
Where the trees spread out a cloth of mauve
And the bushveld wears a coat of beige

I know a place in Africa
Where I can hear the voice of thunder gods
And watch their lightening spears thrown to earth
Where I can breathe the scent of rain clouds
And taste the sweet dew of dusty drops

This is the place of wildness
Of evolution and dinosaurs
Where life began and mankind first stood
Of living fossils and elephants
Where lions roar and springbok herds leap

This is the place of struggle
Of desert plains and thorn trees
Where pathways end and hunters track game
Of horizons and frontiers
Where journeys start and sunsets bleed red

This is the place of freedom
Of exploration and pioneers
Where darkness loomed and light saw us through
Of living legends and miracles
Where daybreak came and hope now shines bright

My heart is at home in Africa
Where the sound of drums beat in my chest
And the songs of time ring in my ears
Where the rainbow mist glows in my eyes
And the smiles of friends make me welcome

My mind is at ease in Africa
Where the people still live close to the soil
And the seasons mark my changing moods
Where the markets hustle with trading
And Creation keeps its own slow time

My soul is at peace in Africa
For her streams bring lifeblood to my veins
And her winds bring healing to my dreams
For when the tale of this land is told
Her destiny and mine are as one

© 2006 Wayne Visser

 

Image:flickr

I am an African…

This poem was written by Wayne Visser.

I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa’s
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa

When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When Africa honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing

I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life

When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of music
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history

I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world’s shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred

© 2005 Wayne Visser


Please click
HERE to visit Wayne’s site.

On this image you can see Wayne…image from his site.

AddThis Social Bookmark Button

Read Full Post »

 

 

23 April = St George’s Day…and…we want to believe …as this is unknown… Shakespeare’s birthday. Not only his birthday…but also the day he died!


Read HERE more about St George’s Day.
Who was St George?

St. George is the patron saint of England. His emblem, a red cross on a white background, is the flag of England, and part of the British flag. St George’s emblem was adopted by Richard The Lion Heart and brought to England in the 12th century. The king’s soldiers wore it on their tunics to avoid confusion in battle.Like England, every country in the UK has its own patron saint who in times of great peril is called upon to help save the country from its enemies.
Who was the real St George and what did he do to become England’s patron saint?

St George was a brave Roman soldier who protested against the Romans’ torture of Christians and died for his beliefs. The popularity of St George in England stems from the time of the early Crusades when it is said that the Normans saw him in a vision and were victorious.

Dragon-Slaying Patron Saint of England

One of the best-known stories about Saint George is his fight with a dragon. But it is highly unlikely that he ever fought a dragon, and even more unlikely that he ever actually visited England. Despite this, St George is known throughout the world as the dragon-slaying patron saint of England.

 

       Image and info from this link…. http:// www. woodlands-junior. kent. sch.uk /customs /stgeorge . html

When I was at Secondary School, we studied  Hamlet… and for our exams we also had to learn many quotes..I can remember I had a list of about 50 or more…and… we had to know exactly in which Act/Scene…etc that quote could be found!! A nightmare! ..to study all those quotes, because you never knew which quotes you would get asked! Quotes that I remember well……. “To be…or not to be….” and a few more……”A little more than kin, and less than kind, Frailty, thy name is woman! Give thy thoughts no tongue. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice…Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”… Shakespeare was also a chess player!
 
William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564 – 23 April 1616)[a] was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world’s pre-eminent dramatist.[1] He is often called England’s national poet and the “Bard of Avon” (or simply “The Bard”). His surviving works consist of 38 plays,[b] 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language, and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.[2]

Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age of 18 he married Anne Hathaway, who bore him three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Between 1585 and 1592 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part owner of the playing company the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, later known as the King’s Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare’s private life survive, and there has been considerable speculation about such matters as his sexuality, religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by others.[3]

Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were mainly comedies and histories, genres he raised to the peak of sophistication and artistry by the end of the sixteenth century. Next he wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest examples in the English language. In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights. Many of his plays were published in editions of varying quality and accuracy during his lifetime, and in 1623, two of his former theatrical colleagues published the First Folio, a collected edition of his dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognised as Shakespeare’s.

Continue reading HERE about Shakespeare and…on THIS LINK

you will find all his works. Please click HERE for more quotes.

Comedies
 All’s Well That Ends Well
As You Like It
The Comedy of Errors
Cymbeline
Love’s Labours Lost
Measure for Measure
The Merry Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Venice
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Much Ado About Nothing
Pericles, Prince of Tyre
Taming of the Shrew
The Tempest
Troilus and Cressida
Twelfth Night
Two Gentlemen of Verona
Winter’s Tale
History
Henry IV, part 1
Henry IV, part 2
Henry V
Henry VI, part 1
Henry VI, part 2
Henry VI, part 3
Henry VIII
King John
Richard II
Richard III
Tragedies
Antony and Cleopatra
Coriolanus
Hamlet
Julius Caesar
King Lear
Macbeth
Othello
Romeo and Juliet
Timon of Athens
Titus Andronicus

AddThis Social Bookmark Button

Read Full Post »

Image…Wikipedia
Click HERE on this post to read my translation of his poem “Dans van die reën” in English…The link will open in a new window. “The Dance of the rain”…and you can read about this book on the link too.

Dance_in_rain_peerflydotcom

EUGÈNE Marais was a South African poet, a story-teller, a journalist, a lawyer, a psychologist, a natural scientist, a drug-addict, and a great genius — an abused and forgotten genius, and the world is the worse off for that.”
Read “Soul of the Ant” HERE online.

 

Eugene Marais was one of  South Africa’s more talented writers/poets. I love his poems although I haven’t read his books. I borrowed “The Soul of the Ant” one day – when I was at Primary – but I guess I was too young to read such a book, so I didn’t finish it and read only the first few pages. Some of his poems is about nature like the ‘Winter’s Night’ (translated in English here) and the “Dans van die reën” which is -translated: ‘Dance of the rain.‘ In this poem, he describes the animals’ reaction when the rain is on its way and he describes the rain and her ‘dance.‘ Marais is just brilliant in the way he played with words/metaphors etc. Sadly, he committed suicide in 1936.
Read
HERE on Wiki  more about him. The link will open in a new window.
On the bottom of this post you will find a link to a post on my blog – in English – about Eugene Marais…he was a naturalist, scientist, writer and poet. He made a study of  ants and you can see the book he wrote “The soul of the Ant” on that link…and his other book…”The soul of the Ape”
 

Author: Julee Dickerson Thompson
ISBN: 865432597
Binding: Paperback
Publisher: Africa World Press (March 1997)

The following translation of Marais’ “Winternag” is by J. W. Marchant:

“Winter’s Night”

O the small wind is frigid and spare
and bright in the dim light and bare
as wide as God’s merciful boon
the veld lies in starlight and gloom
and on the high lands
spread through burnt bands
the grass-seed, astir, is like beckoning hands.

O East-wind gives mournful measure to song
Like the lilt of a lovelorn lass who’s been wronged
In every grass fold
bright dewdrop takes hold
and promptly pales to frost in the cold!

Eguene N Marais
WINTERNAG
by Eugene Marais

O koud is die windjie
en skraal.
En blink in die dof-lig
en kaal,
so wyd as die Heer se genade,
le die velde in sterlig en skade
En hoog in die rande,
versprei in die brande,
is die grassaad aan roere
soos winkende hande.

O treurig die wysie
op die ooswind se maat,
soos die lied van ‘n meisie
in haar liefde verlaat.
In elk’ grashalm se vou
blink ‘n druppel van dou,
en vinnig verbleek dit
tot ryp in die kou!

DIE DANS VAN DIE REËN – Eugene Marais
Lied van die vioolspeler. Jan Konterdans.
Uit die Groot Woestyn
O die dans van ons Suster!
Eers oor die bergtop loer sy skelm,
en haar oge is skaam;
en sy lag saggies.
En van ver af wink sy met die een hand;
haar armbande blink en haar krale skitter;
saggies roep sy.
Sy vertel die winde van die dans
en sy nooi hulle uit, want die werf is wyd en die bruilof groot.
Die grootwild jaag uit die vlakte,
hulle dam op die bulttop,
wyd rek hulle die neusgate
en hulle sluk die wind;
en hulle buk, om haar fyn spore op die sand te sien.
Die kleinvolk diep onder die grond hoor die sleep van haar voete,
en hulle kruip nader en sing saggies:
“Ons Suster! Ons Suster! Jy het gekom! Jy het gekom!”
En haar krale skud,
en haar koperringe blink in die wegraak van die son.
Op haar voorkop is die vuurpluim van die berggier;
sy trap af van die hoogte;
sy sprei die vaalkaros met altwee arms uit;
die asem van die wind raak weg.
O, die dans van ons Suster!

[Uit: Versamelde gedigte – Eugene Marais]
Read on THIS LINK on my blog more about Eugene Marais…Article in English…The link will open in a new window.

dvdreen_laurinda

I don’t know Laurinda Hofmeyr’s music, but she’s got an album with the song…”Dans van die reen”. I hope one of my blogger-visitors from SA would be able to tell me more…

Snitte:
1. Lied van die bruidegom – Johan Myburg
2. 26 November 1975 – Breyten Breytenbach
3. Op reis na die Suide – Breyten breytenbach
4. Inbrand – Breyten Breytenbach
5. Die dans van die reën – Eugène N. Marais
6. Kind – Rabindranath Tagore
7. Ek sal sterf en na my vader gaan – Breyten Breytenbach
8. ‘n Halwe engel – Breyten Breytenbach
9. Last grave at Dimbaza – Fanie Olivier
10. Die reis – Breyten Breytenbach
11. Lied van die bruidegom (improvisasie)

Read Full Post »

Love Poems



All links in this post will open in a new window.
I will always like the music of Queen..this song is called..Las Palabras de Amor. Enjoy!

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightfowardingly, without complexeties or pride. So I love you because i know no other way than this…” Pablo Neruda

“A kiss is something you cannot give without taking and cannot take without giving.”

“Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know”. William Shakespeare in Twelfth Night (II, iii, 44-45)
“Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.” Alexander Smith

Enjoy this song by South African singer…Steve Hofmeyr…”You got me”…


And this South African Golden Oldie! Ge Korsten with “Liefling” and liefling means..”darling”…


Enjoy this song…”Fields of Gold” by Eva Cassidy

Enjoy this song by Ilse de Lange: “What does your heart say now?”


Slide down for the article…”Romance in Chess”…


Listen to the poem on this audio file too…by Robert Burns….source: http://www.chivalry.com/cantaria/lyrics/redredrose.html
Notes: According to “Scottish Songs Illustrated,” this song is a Robert Burns rewrite of an older street ballad, which is said to have been written by a Lieutenant Henches, as a farewell to his betrothed.

0, my love is like a red, red rose,
that’s newly sprung in June.
0, my love is like a melody,
that’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,
so deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will love thee still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.

And fare the weel, my only love!
And fare the well awhile!
And I will come again, my love.
Tho it were ten thousand mile!


Read on THIS LINK too the poem by Elizabeth Barret Browning…”How do I love thee”…enjoy! One of my favourites!

”How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Today I’m in a mood to blog about love… What is love? What is your view, we discussed this at work….and we all agreed to the following conclusions…..Is it a sensation..a shared feeling between two people… ..based on physical and emotional attraction..  spontaneously generates when the right person appears. And of course also, it can spontaneously degenerate when the magic “just isn’t there” anymore. You fall in love, and you can fall out of it.
Love is the attachment that results from deeply appreciating another’s goodness. What we value most in ourselves, we must value most in others. God created us to see ourselves as good ….hence our need to either rationalize or regret our wrongdoings….In the Bible He said…after creating us humans… “and that was good”… So, too, we seek goodness in others. Nice looks, an engaging personality, intelligence, and talent may attract you, but goodness is what moves you to love.LOVE IS A CHOICE. Love is active. You can create it. Just focus on the good in another person …..and everyone has some!! If you can do this easily, you’ll love easily.
Love is care, demontrating active concern for the recipient’s life. Love is responsibility. Love is respect, the ability to see a person as he/she is, to be aware of his/her unique individuality. A big part of love is putting another person’s happiness ahead of your own. If you have to “prove” your love to someone, I don’t believe that he/she loves you the way you might think he/she does.When you love another person you don’t ask them to sacrifice a part of themselves in the name of that love. Love is not about jealousy. It is not about conflict. It is not about testing. Love is not about spitefulness. How do you show love to other people? Nobody expect you to “love” all people the way you love your husband/wife, but it is expected from us to “love your neighbour as you love yourself”.
Enjoy the poem: Love Song by T S Eliot
Communication, Communication, and Communication……..on THIS LINK you can read how important communication in a relationship between a married couple is.The link will open in a new window.

 

T S Eliot

On THIS LINK you can read his extract “The Game of Chess”.
Click HEREto read more love poems on my blog.

And…on THIS LINK on my blog….you can read the poem of E A Poe…Annabel Lee…a beautiful love poem.
Ben Jonson

T H E F O R E S T .
IX. — SONG. — TO CELIA.

Drink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither’d be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Love Song

I lie here thinking of you:
the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
horned branched the lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world-
you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west!

~~~William Carlos Williams

 

 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Song to Celia
by Ben Jonson

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did’st onely breath,
And sent’st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

Read about Ben Jonson HERE

Robert Browning
A Woman’s Last Word
Let’s contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent’s tooth is
Shun the tree—

Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—

Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.

–Robert Browning

Next I have a National Poet of South Africa…A G Visser. He’s written some beautiful love poems in Afrikaans!
A.G. Visser en Lettie Conradie.
Hy trou in 1913 met Lettie, oorlede in 1920,
en in 1927 met Marie de Villiers.
Read more about
A G Visser here on this link.

Liefdes gedigte: A G Visser
Misère
(Triolet)
The light that lies
In women’s eyes
Just… lies and lies!

In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink,
Dat die liefde iets is
so beroerd ongestadig?
Dat die hand wat uit gulde
bokale laat drink,
In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink
Dat dit eendag nog edik
en gal weer sal skink,
Ongevoelig meedoënloos,
wreed, ongenadig?
In die eerste instansie,
wie sou nou kon dink
Dat die liefde iets is
So beroerd ongestandig!

http://www.gedichtenbundel.be/testliefdefoto1Eheu fugaces…

Si jeunesse savait.
Si vitesse avait.
Onthou jy nog, Anita lief,
Die aand daar by die strand,
My hart vir jou ’n ope brief,
Jou handjie in my hand?
Die maanlig het die see gesoen,
Die see … die strand, nog heet –
En ons … wat kon ons anders doen?
Kan ons dit ooit vergeet?
Cherie Yvonne, het jy vergeet
Die les in Afrikaans?
Die beste taal het ons geweet,
Die tyd in ou la France.
En aan my hemel onbewolk
Was jy die goue son;
“Toujours l’Amour” was onse tolk;
Onthou jy nog, Yvonne?
Mooi Gretchen, kan jy nog onthou
Ons tyd van soete min?
Die Neckar met sy waters blou,
Jou ogies blou daarin?
Die donkergroene dennewoud
Was liefdes-heiligdom –
Alt Heidelberg, die jeug van goud,
En jy – sal nooit weer kom!
En, bonnie Jean, onthou jy nog
Die eiland van die Swaan?
Ben Lomond en die donker loch
By heldere somermaan?
Aan rosebanke trek ons twee
(Was dit ’n droom – wie weet?)
Wit swane oor die lewensee –
Kan ek dit ooit vergeet?
Maar eenmaal in die lewe kom
Die liefde weergaloos;
En eenmaal in die gaarde blom
Volmaak ’n wonderroos.
Verwelk, helaas, my tuin se prag –
Weg met die donker stroom –
Die wind deurwaai my hof by nag
En vind my met my droom.
O lippe wat nog lag en lonk!
O harte wat nog klop!
Steeds doem gestaltes ewig-jonk
Uit die verlede op.
“Eheu fugaces anni …” sing
Gedagtes wat nou skroei;
Op velde van herinnering
Pers amarante bloei!

Ballade van die roos

’n Ou Spaanse gesegde noem die volgende
drie stadieë in die lewe van ‘n roos:
In die more: rosa pallida.
In die middag: rosa perfecta.
In die aand: rosa incarnada

Waarheen ook my oë mag staar
En waar ook my voete mag gaan,
Geduriglik droom ek van haar;
Haar beeltenis lief lag my aan,
Ek sien – as die sterrelig taan –
’n Roosknop wat stadig ontvou: –
– My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan –
O „Pallida Rosa”, vir jou!

O blomkelk, met skoonheid belaan,
Ek smag op die middag-uur lou
My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan
O „Rosa Perfecta”, na jou!

Ek ken jou nog nie – dit is waar –
Maar êrens moet jy tog bestaan;
Die aandson gloei rooi op die blaar
En ’k voel jy’s g’n ydele waan,
Want rooi sprei die liefde haar vaan!
En donker die oë getrou
– My noointjie van ver-hier-vandaan –
O Roos „Incarnada” – van jou!

red_roses1

Andries Gerhardus Visser (1878 – 1929)

visser_lettie

Image:  http://users.telenet.be/

This first video is the song “Words” by F R David

Princesse Lointaine

Was jy ’n rosebloesem
En ek die roos se geur,
Hoe heerlik deur die lewe
Steeds rondom jou te swewe.
Beswymend aan jou boesem,
Betower deur jou kleur.
Was jy ’n rosebloesem
En ek die roos se geur.

Was jy ’n lied se woorde
En ek die melodie.
Hoe sou die dag verheerlik
Jou skoonheid so begeerlik;
Die nag tril van akkoorde
En soetste harmonie.
Was jy ’n lied se woorde,
En ek die melodie.

Was jy die hoogste kranse,
En ek die sonnegloed.
Jou wange sou dan verwe
En op jou lippe sterwe
My eerste moreglanse
En laaste awend-groet;
Was jy die hoogste kranse
En ek die sonnegloed

Maar jy ’s Prinses van Verre
En ek… ’n troebadoer;
Al gloei ook my gesange
Van liefde en verlange,
– Die vuurvlieg vir die sterre –
Wat my ten hemel voer;
Jy bly Prinses van Verre
En ek… ’n troebadoer.

prinses.jpg

Stille Rivierstroom….Nick Taylor

Die middagson helder en klaar
Sien neer van sy blou hemelbaan;
Die roos sal haar hart openbaar
Aan wie haar geheime verstaan.
Jou huis is waar jou hart is
My hart is leeg geween
Vandat sy verdwyn het
wandel ek oral alleen

Sing oor somer briese
Jou weemoed sleep weer oor
Saammet die lowerstruike
sing my ‘n hemelse koor

Chorus:
Liefde, Liefde’s ‘n stille rivierstroom
wat vloei deur ons woestynland
Droog die rivier weg
dan sal al die klein vissies sterf

Ek stap deur lee strate
Die echo’s maak my seer
My hart is soos my hande
soekend maar bly altyd leeg

Woestyne kan my nie keer nie
Ek baan deur storms my weg
Ek sal die rivier weer terugvind
voor hierdie klein vissie sterf

Chorus

ROMANCE IN CHESS?
Romance in chess? ‘What could possibly be less romantic than chess?’ you might be asking. After all, chess is a game of war based on logic, isn’t it? There is nothing romantic about war or logic.

Many players are familiar with the famous quote by Dr. Siegbert Tarrasch from the preface to his classic manual The Game of Chess : ‘Chess, like love, like music, has the power to make men happy’ (which politically correct writers of more recent times change to ‘the power to make people happy’). Less familiar is Tarrasch’s preceding sentence, ‘I have always a slight feeling of pity for the man who has no knowledge of chess, just as I would pity the man who has remained ignorant of love.’

Chess once served a social function of allowing young men and women to meet above the board. Echecs et Féodalité : Raoul de Cambrai (Chess and feudalism; from Culture et curiosités, see the link box in the upper right corner of this article) tells of a poem by Bertolai, a 10th century poet from Laon, France. The poem, about a war of succession in Northern France, references chess twice. In the second reference chess is used as an excuse by the daughter of the new overlord Guerri to woo the hero Bernier to her chambers. Her chamberlain, assigned the task of arranging the meeting, says to Bernier, ‘My young lord, you can be proud of yourself, since the daughter of Guerri, the most noble woman from here to the south of France, asks that you join her in her apartments, to play chess. You should comply, but don’t play chess.’

The significance of this might be lost in our age of instant gratification, but as recently as 100 years ago, chess still occasionally served as a means to a more romantic end.


This popular illustration by Clarence Frederick Underwood (American, 1871-1929), is often listed under various titles. Our favorite is Knight takes Queen. This theme is not as unique as you might think. One web site has a collection of more than 50 drawings and photos, all with the theme ‘Couples playing chess’ (see the link box again). The images invariably have titles like ‘The right move’, ‘The greatest game in the world’, or variations on the word mate : ‘Impending Mate’, ‘Check and mate’, etc. The word ‘checkmate’ even figured in at least one early valentine.

‘My little love do you remember,
Ere we grew so sadly wise,
When you and I played chess together,
Checkmated by each others eyes?’
Source: http://chess.about.com/library/weekly/aa05b12.htm

love all night

Wow, one chess player on the chess site tells me he’s busy reading this book! E..er…

love rose

AddThis Social Bookmark Button

Read Full Post »


Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888-1965) was born in St. Louis, Missouri, of an old New England family. He was educated at Harvard and did graduate work in philosophy at the Sorbonne, Harvard, and Merton College, Oxford. He settled in England, where he was for a time a schoolmaster and a bank clerk, and eventually literary editor for the publishing house Faber & Faber, of which he later became a director. He founded and, during the seventeen years of its publication (1922-1939), edited the exclusive and influential literary journal Criterion. In 1927, Eliot became a British citizen and about the same time entered the Anglican Church.
READ
HERE more about TS Elliot.

On THIS LINK you will find the entire “Wasteland” by TS Elliot.
A Game of Chess
by T. S. Eliot
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

“What is that noise?”
  The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
  Nothing again nothing.
  “Do
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”

I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
  But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
  The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot –
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

nikita.jpg

Read Full Post »

rose3.jpg 

Trou

Ek hou van ‘n man wat sy man kan staan,
ek hou van ‘n arm wat ‘n slag kan slaan,
‘n oog wat nie wyk, wat ‘n bars kan kyk
en ‘n wil wat so vas soos ‘n klipsteen staan!

Ek hou van ‘n man wat sy moeder eer,
in die taal uit haar vrome mond geleer,
die verraaiersgeslag in sy siel verag
wat, haar verstotend, homself kleineer.

Die oog wil ek sien wat ‘n traan nog ween
vir ‘n heldegeslag, in hul rus daarheen,
maar ‘n blits van trou in die traan van rou,
wat aan liefde weer gee wat haar bron is ontleen.

Vir my d’Afrikaner van durf en daad,
wat mammon’s eer en loon versmaad,
sy hoof en sy hand vir sy volk en sy land
en ‘n trap van sy voet vir laag verraad!

O, ‘k hou van ‘n man wat sy man kan staan;
ek hou van ‘n daad wat soos donder slaan,
‘n oog wat nie wyk, wat ‘n bars kan kyk
en ‘n wil wat so vas soos ‘n klipsteen staan!

Jan FECelliers here

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »