It's about a bird.

[Byron In Exile]

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,
et quantum est hominum venustiorum:
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
at vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis:
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis
o factum male! o miselle passer!
tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.

~ Catullus




Mourn, oh Cupids and Venuses,
and whatever there is of rather pleasing men:
the sparrow of my girlfriend has died,
the sparrow, delight of my girl,
whom she loved more than her own eyes.
For it was honey-sweet and it had known its
mistress as well as a girl knew her mother,
nor did it move itself from her lap,
but jumping around now here now there
he used to chirp continually to his mistress alone:
who now goes through that gloomy journey
from whence no-one can expect to return.
But may it go badly for you, bad darkness
of Orcus, you who devour all beautiful things:
and so beautiful a bird you have taken away from me
o bad deed! o miserable sparrow!
Now on account of your work my girl's
swollen little eyes are red from weeping.

 

[butters]

*waves to Byron*

a good example of how writing in a contemporary style best suits most writers.
but the sentiment still works, being ageless.


but 'swollen little eyes'? is it the translation or does this do the girlfriend something of an injustice?

personally, despite this writer's renown, i'd have preferred to see the girlfriend being spoken of as the sparrow - a sparrow dear to his heart and worth more to him in her unassuming plumage than all the fancy birds of paradise out there ... and to drop all the death stuff. but that's just me.

 

[Byron In Exile]

*waves to Byron*

a good example of how writing in a contemporary style best suits most writers.
but the sentiment still works, being ageless.


but 'swollen little eyes'? is it the translation or does this do the girlfriend something of an injustice?

personally, despite this writer's renown, i'd have preferred to see the girlfriend being spoken of as the sparrow - a sparrow dear to his heart and worth more to him in her unassuming plumage than all the fancy birds of paradise out there ... and to drop all the death stuff. but that's just me.

Hey, you!

"Slightly swollen little eyes" was the original translator's idea. Perhaps I should have left it as it was.

On the other hand,

tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli

"turgid red eyes" is more literal.

 

[butters]

Hey, you!

"Slightly swollen little eyes" was the original translator's idea. Perhaps I should have left it as it was.

On the other hand,

tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli

"turgid red eyes" is more literal.

ewwwwwww


translations sometimes just


don't

 

[Byron In Exile]

ewwwwwww

translations sometimes just

don't

Yeah. Words tend to accumulate different meanings after a couple thousand years.

It's hard to be faithful to the original when you know that the people who read it aren't going to get it.

So... how far are you willing to distort it in order to try to render the feeling?

 

[butters]

Yeah. Words tend to accumulate different meanings after a couple thousand years.

It's hard to be faithful to the original when you know that the people who read it aren't going to get it.

So... how far are you willing to distort it in order to try to render the feeling?

yep.

yep.

i'll leave that to the translators. the best, though, i suppose, are those who remain true to the spirit/voice of the poem, and who bring us that despite the language chosen to convey the message.

 

[butters]

what have you of your own to show us here? it'd be cool if you posted one on the 'tell us about one of your poems' thread. *nods*

if you don't want to do the personal insight thing, just drop one of yours here - or somewhere.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

I wonder how English poetry translates into other languages not too well I would guess

 

[Byron In Exile]

what have you of your own to show us here? it'd be cool if you posted one on the 'tell us about one of your poems' thread. *nods*

if you don't want to do the personal insight thing, just drop one of yours here - or somewhere.

You mean, something other than my famous "She Walks in Bunny Slippers"? —

She walks in bunny slippers fair
With floppy ears as soft as gauze
Their nylon whiskers comb the air
O'er brown'd and batter'd bunny paws
Yet such a babe is she, none dare
To comment on her footwear's flaws

Across the cold linoleum floor
She shuffles with a nameless grace
To fetch the paper at the door
And though the cold wind chills her face
Each foot could not be warmer more
Within its fluffy dwelling place

 

[Byron In Exile]

I wonder how English poetry translates into other languages not too well I would guess

The Romance languages are easier to rhyme in.

So, actually, it's easier to go that way that to try to translate from them into English and maintain a particular rhyme scheme. That's why most translations of Dante reek. If you don't know Italian and want to read L'Inferno in something like its glory, read John Ciardi's translation. He doesn't worry about rhyme, but rhythm and meaning. It's very powerful.

 

[butters]

You mean, something other than my famous "She Walks in Bunny Slippers"? —

She walks in bunny slippers fair
With floppy ears as soft as gauze
Their nylon whiskers comb the air
O'er brown'd and batter'd bunny paws
Yet such a babe is she, none dare
To comment on her footwear's flaws

Across the cold linoleum floor
She shuffles with a nameless grace
To fetch the paper at the door
And though the cold wind chills her face
Each foot could not be warmer more
Within its fluffy dwelling place

lovin' it
the content is enhanced by form, as it should be, form being the vehicle to deliver the package and rendered virtually invisible.

and yes, more.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

You mean, something other than my famous "She Walks in Bunny Slippers"? —

She walks in bunny slippers fair
With floppy ears as soft as gauze
Their nylon whiskers comb the air
O'er brown'd and batter'd bunny paws
Yet such a babe is she, none dare
To comment on her footwear's flaws

Across the cold linoleum floor
She shuffles with a nameless grace
To fetch the paper at the door
And though the cold wind chills her face
Each foot could not be warmer more
Within its fluffy dwelling place

More more!!! I like slipping in an occasional comedic value poem and I love this, the only bit that grates is the word 'babe' although I can offer you no alternative off the top of my head

 

[Byron In Exile]

lovin' it
the content is enhanced by form, as it should be, form being the vehicle to deliver the package and rendered virtually invisible.

and yes, more.

More? Alright, sweetling. Remember that you wrung this out of me.

Years ago, I saw a poem that a girl wrote and put in her sigline. And, while I thought I could fairly well determine what she was trying to say, I found the lack of stucture disturbing. There was no rhyme scheme, just random ones which were disconcerting, and no attention to meter at all. It was only ten or fifteen lines. But it did inspire me to write a reponse. My intent was principally to amuse myself, but I did want to write a poem that demonstrated how effective adhering to a structure could be. That's what music is: infinite creativity within a strict framework. There are only twelve notes, after all. How many words are there?

Two favorite quotes:

"Poetry we will call musical thought." — Thomas Carlyle, 1840

...and...

"Who is there that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us? A kind of inarticulate unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the Infinite and lets us for moments gaze into that?" — Thomas Carlyle, 1840

I prefer music as a means of expression, but I'm a big fan of poetry.

However, I felt a compulsion to try my hand at it. I started by attempting to write in my favorite stanza, the one Spenser invented for "The Fairy Queene," and which Lord Byron used for "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." (I've posted Cantos III and IV of the latter in their entirety on this board, btw. I think III is on this board, and IV on the GB. Perhaps I have them reversed, it's been a while.)

It's way harder to write in than it is to read. At the end of an evening, I had two stanzas, and the second one sucked.

So I gave up that idea. I really love CHP... not a big fan of Don Juan, but... the ottava rima form was really was more in tune with my mood... so I tried that. And it worked. It's much more light-hearted and funny, and, as an added benefit, it wasn't so difficult to write in.

 

[butters]

you may have gathered i'm a Lord B fan, maybe not; are they his originals you posted here or your own rewrites using ottava rima?

if your own, have you the links, please?

as to the musicality of poetry, i agree wholeheartedly; having said that, there are many forms of music that fall short of pleasurable to my ear. sound has to be one of the most important constructs of poetry - and i appreciated the subtleties displayed in your 'bunny slippers' write that run throughout the lines, not merely for end-rhymes. when sound is used in this manner, and i'm guessing you've a natural ear for it, a piece feels more cohesive; when combined with a metre that reflects natural speech-patterning, the imagery and apparent simplicity of the poem become the focus.

 

[Byron In Exile]

you may have gathered i'm a Lord B fan, maybe not;

I did not know that.

are they his originals you posted here or your own rewrites using ottava rima?

Heavens, no, that would be sacrilege. I used the Oxford University Press edition of Lord Byron's complete poetical works. There were a number of versions available online, but I couldn't find any that weren't defective. So, I would clip a stanza, edit it to conform to the book, and then post it. That might sound tedious, but it wasn't, at all — the poem is that good. And, it gave me a reason to read each stanza three times before I went on to the next one.

Here they are (and I did reverse them: Canto III is on the GB, Canto IV is on this forum) —

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV

 

[butters]

I did not know that.

Heavens, no, that would be sacrilege. I used the Oxford University Press edition of Lord Byron's complete poetical works. There were a number of versions available online, but I couldn't find any that weren't defective. So, I would clip a stanza, edit it to conform to the book, and then post it. That might sound tedious, but it wasn't, at all — the poem is that good. And, it gave me a reason to read each stanza three times before I went on to the next one.

Here they are (and I did reverse them: Canto III is on the GB, Canto IV is on this forum) —

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto III

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto IV

one of my favourite poets. thanks for the links - i hope more people go read him. it's high time i put him back in the bookshelf instead of leaving him around on my puter desk - but not before reading more from him.

 

[Byron In Exile]

*edited as spam post*
not you, Byron, of course.

That was a prompt, wasn't it?

 

[Byron In Exile]

Ode on a Signature Poem

The sun's rays do not hide from thee, my dear,
And yet thou canst not see them 'til they strike
Some object, and do make that thing appear
As if it were itself a source of light.
The true source of it can't be view'd for fear,
Lest it should rob thee of thy very sight.
Dost deem that price one not too dearly paid?
Of doubtful cheer would be a blinded maid.

The breed's another matter, and 'tis Time
Hath play'd the role of spoiler: most are dead.
Those very few that in this day survive
Must quell their spirits, sheath their souls in lead.
This world doth not reward creative minds,
But, wanting money, uses them instead.
It spits them out when finish'd, quite well batter'd,
Or holds and grinds them 'til their hopes are shatter'd.

It may seem impolite to make this point,
When innocent, with love, thy gifts do bring
Such honor to the shrine thou dost anoint.
Yet I should seek to mute somewhat the sting
Of stern reality. If not, appoint
Some other jackass who can better sing
A song less woeful and perhaps more pleasing,
And in ottava rima! -- (No, just teasing!)

Like Keats when Milton's verse did haunt his brain,
And so, he thought, did circumscribe his lines,
My predecessors have conspir'd with pain
To bring out thusly in this verse of mine
The dreaded cynic. Flee him, ye who gain
From serving ends material, for thine
Are those amongst most fragile thoughts and systems,
And I'd not want to clog thy mental pistons.

Is Love the key? But Love is not Desire,
For that is just the opposite of Hate,
And though to lofty heights it doth inspire
Us, still it lacks. It can't unlock the gate,
But rages in us, taunts us with its fire,
Then changes with the wind. If not too late,
I must confess I find thine "Av's" appealing --
Thy like could turn an honest man to stealing!

The portals of those planes that thou in bold
Verse search for do exist -- the hinges creak
From rust -- They are not oil'd much, truth be told,
Since rarely comes one visitor per week.
The hearth within is empty and grown cold,
And weeds are all around, the roof doth leak
On books which sadly sport the dust of ages,
For there are few or none peruse their pages.

Before the gate of Heav'n Saint Peter stands.
His bolts have loosen'd and his paint doth peel.
The speaker which to visitors commands
Them forthwith to announce themselves and kneel
Doth not match movements of his jaw and hands.
His comical appearance makes one feel
The system as it stands could use corrections.
Where does the money go from church collections?

Yet this unhappy scene doth bring us back
Again unto our earlier design
To forge or find that key, the which we lack,
Which might be love, or not. Though I incline
To think it so, we know not what attack
Will win the realms beyond. We need a sign
That shows it clearly -- 'twill be found by thinking,
Or else a night of very heavy drinking.

The Universe creates, and then destroys,
And what might be its purpose? Is there one?
Suns, planets, oceans, mayflies, all mere noise;
All tempests in a teacup. Just for fun,
Why not suppose there's none -- no longer toys
Of some Great Bearded God who makes us run
In hamster-wheels of fever'd speculation,
To justify ourselves a chosen nation.

Then doth creation without purpose bind
The workings of all Nature? How bizarre,
To think for Beauty's sake all this we find
Ourselves surrounded by is made. What are
We, then, who toil toward a purpose blind,
If not Her messengers? When from afar
Her inspiration fills us with its passion,
We Art create, oft contradicting fashion.

But in that humble act we needs must be
Steadfast unto the course that we have set
For our endeavors, nor deterr'd when we
Are swarm'd about by whispers foul, though yet
Unseen, nor some troll on a posting spree,
Nor any such ought satisfaction get.
It had been better if we'd not begun,
Be they the cause our works are left undone.

There is one puzzle more springs from my pen,
Into the face of logic this thing flies:
Thou searchest for a thing external, when,
Didst thou not know, thou wouldst not recognize,
And recognizing thou hast then within
Thy mind its purest image undisguis'd!
Thou art the thing thou seek'st! Ah, 'tis no matter,
I'm late for tea with Doormouse and the Hatter.

~ BIE

 

[butters]

i shall return, the morrow, to this Ode,
an offering of morsels tart and sweet;
an' should i start to babble, or a tear
escape on its lone journey, it is meet
for sweet meat odes are rarely al dente
and this old tart is more than pleased, today.

 

[Byron In Exile]

i shall return, the morrow, to this Ode,
an offering of morsels tart and sweet;
an' should i start to babble, or a tear
escape on its lone journey, it is meet
for sweet meat odes are rarely al dente
and this old tart is more than pleased, today.

A fair reply.

No worries.

I am patient to a fault, despite that such a fault has undone me in the past.

 

[butters]

a glorious ottava, my dear poet. and reminds me all the way through of Byron and why i enjoy reading his writings. the way you dapple the more archaic word-forms with modern language is the biggest reason, though your light touch with language/meter/rhyme speaks volumes. You address reality with a steady eye and yet the humour apparent in the write makes the reader smile with each unfolding line.

in bold, some of the lines that most took my fancy, either for their construction, imagery, or message:

The sun's rays do not hide from thee, my dear,
And yet thou canst not see them 'til they strike
Some object, and do make that thing appear
As if it were itself a source of light.
The true source of it can't be view'd for fear,
Lest it should rob thee of thy very sight.
Dost deem that price one not too dearly paid?
Of doubtful cheer would be a blinded maid.

The breed's another matter, and 'tis Time
Hath play'd the role of spoiler: most are dead.
Those very few that in this day survive
Must quell their spirits, sheath their souls in lead.
This world doth not reward creative minds,
But, wanting money, uses them instead.
It spits them out when finish'd, quite well batter'd,
Or holds and grinds them 'til their hopes are shatter'd.

It may seem impolite to make this point,
When innocent, with love, thy gifts do bring
Such honor to the shrine thou dost anoint.
Yet I should seek to mute somewhat the sting
Of stern reality. If not, appoint
Some other jackass who can better sing
A song less woeful and perhaps more pleasing,
And in ottava rima! -- (No, just teasing!)

Like Keats when Milton's verse did haunt his brain,
And so, he thought, did circumscribe his lines,
My predecessors have conspir'd with pain
To bring out thusly in this verse of mine
The dreaded cynic. Flee him, ye who gain
From serving ends material, for thine
Are those amongst most fragile thoughts and systems,
And I'd not want to clog thy mental pistons.

Is Love the key? But Love is not Desire,
For that is just the opposite of Hate,
And though to lofty heights it doth inspire
Us, still it lacks. It can't unlock the gate,
But rages in us, taunts us with its fire,
Then changes with the wind. If not too late,
I must confess I find thine "Av's" appealing --
Thy like could turn an honest man to stealing!

The portals of those planes that thou in bold
Verse search for do exist -- the hinges creak
From rust -- They are not oil'd much, truth be told,
Since rarely comes one visitor per week.
The hearth within is empty and grown cold,
And weeds are all around, the roof doth leak
On books which sadly sport the dust of ages,
For there are few or none peruse their pages.

Before the gate of Heav'n Saint Peter stands.
His bolts have loosen'd and his paint doth peel.
The speaker which to visitors commands
Them forthwith to announce themselves and kneel
Doth not match movements of his jaw and hands.
His comical appearance makes one feel
The system as it stands could use corrections.
Where does the money go from church collections?

Yet this unhappy scene doth bring us back
Again unto our earlier design
To forge or find that key, the which we lack,
Which might be love, or not. Though I incline
To think it so, we know not what attack
Will win the realms beyond. We need a sign
That shows it clearly -- 'twill be found by thinking,
Or else a night of very heavy drinking.

The Universe creates, and then destroys,
And what might be its purpose? Is there one?
Suns, planets, oceans, mayflies, all mere noise;
All tempests in a teacup. Just for fun,
Why not suppose there's none -- no longer toys
Of some Great Bearded God who makes us run
In hamster-wheels of fever'd speculation,
To justify ourselves a chosen nation.

Then doth creation without purpose bind
The workings of all Nature? How bizarre,
To think for Beauty's sake all this we find
Ourselves surrounded by is made. What are
We, then, who toil toward a purpose blind,
If not Her messengers? When from afar
Her inspiration fills us with its passion,
We Art create, oft contradicting fashion.

But in that humble act we needs must be
Steadfast unto the course that we have set
For our endeavors, nor deterr'd when we
Are swarm'd about by whispers foul, though yet
Unseen, nor some troll on a posting spree,
Nor any such ought satisfaction get.
It had been better if we'd not begun,
Be they the cause our works are left undone.

There is one puzzle more springs from my pen,
Into the face of logic this thing flies:
Thou searchest for a thing external, when,
Didst thou not know, thou wouldst not recognize,
And recognizing thou hast then within
Thy mind its purest image undisguis'd!
Thou art the thing thou seek'st! Ah, 'tis no matter,
I'm late for tea with Doormouse and the Hatter.

In honesty, I might as well embolden
All of the text since your words so delight
The poet in my breast, I am beholden;
Your sunbeams shine on stanzas and their light
Reveals all things, from shadow thru' to golden;
Yet blinded not, am I, though they shine bright.
Some play with smoke and mirrors to deflect
But poet Byron's words the sun reflect!

 

[Angeline]

You mean, something other than my famous "She Walks in Bunny Slippers"? —

She walks in bunny slippers fair
With floppy ears as soft as gauze
Their nylon whiskers comb the air
O'er brown'd and batter'd bunny paws
Yet such a babe is she, none dare
To comment on her footwear's flaws

Across the cold linoleum floor
She shuffles with a nameless grace
To fetch the paper at the door
And though the cold wind chills her face
Each foot could not be warmer more
Within its fluffy dwelling place

A rabbit whose heart is innocent!

(I was right. You are incapable of bad poetry althbough you did have a purty good template).

 

[Angeline]

The sun's rays do not hide from thee, my dear,
And yet thou canst not see them 'til they strike
Some object, and do make that thing appear
As if it were itself a source of light.
The true source of it can't be view'd for fear,
Lest it should rob thee of thy very sight.
Dost deem that price one not too dearly paid?
Of doubtful cheer would be a blinded maid.

The breed's another matter, and 'tis Time
Hath play'd the role of spoiler: most are dead.
Those very few that in this day survive
Must quell their spirits, sheath their souls in lead.
This world doth not reward creative minds,
But, wanting money, uses them instead.
It spits them out when finish'd, quite well batter'd,
Or holds and grinds them 'til their hopes are shatter'd.

It may seem impolite to make this point,
When innocent, with love, thy gifts do bring
Such honor to the shrine thou dost anoint.
Yet I should seek to mute somewhat the sting
Of stern reality. If not, appoint
Some other jackass who can better sing
A song less woeful and perhaps more pleasing,
And in ottava rima! -- (No, just teasing!)

Like Keats when Milton's verse did haunt his brain,
And so, he thought, did circumscribe his lines,
My predecessors have conspir'd with pain
To bring out thusly in this verse of mine
The dreaded cynic. Flee him, ye who gain
From serving ends material, for thine
Are those amongst most fragile thoughts and systems,
And I'd not want to clog thy mental pistons.

Is Love the key? But Love is not Desire,
For that is just the opposite of Hate,
And though to lofty heights it doth inspire
Us, still it lacks. It can't unlock the gate,
But rages in us, taunts us with its fire,
Then changes with the wind. If not too late,
I must confess I find thine "Av's" appealing --
Thy like could turn an honest man to stealing!

The portals of those planes that thou in bold
Verse search for do exist -- the hinges creak
From rust -- They are not oil'd much, truth be told,
Since rarely comes one visitor per week.
The hearth within is empty and grown cold,
And weeds are all around, the roof doth leak
On books which sadly sport the dust of ages,
For there are few or none peruse their pages.

Before the gate of Heav'n Saint Peter stands.
His bolts have loosen'd and his paint doth peel.
The speaker which to visitors commands
Them forthwith to announce themselves and kneel
Doth not match movements of his jaw and hands.
His comical appearance makes one feel
The system as it stands could use corrections.
Where does the money go from church collections?

Yet this unhappy scene doth bring us back
Again unto our earlier design
To forge or find that key, the which we lack,
Which might be love, or not. Though I incline
To think it so, we know not what attack
Will win the realms beyond. We need a sign
That shows it clearly -- 'twill be found by thinking,
Or else a night of very heavy drinking.

The Universe creates, and then destroys,
And what might be its purpose? Is there one?
Suns, planets, oceans, mayflies, all mere noise;
All tempests in a teacup. Just for fun,
Why not suppose there's none -- no longer toys
Of some Great Bearded God who makes us run
In hamster-wheels of fever'd speculation,
To justify ourselves a chosen nation.

Then doth creation without purpose bind
The workings of all Nature? How bizarre,
To think for Beauty's sake all this we find
Ourselves surrounded by is made. What are
We, then, who toil toward a purpose blind,
If not Her messengers? When from afar
Her inspiration fills us with its passion,
We Art create, oft contradicting fashion.

But in that humble act we needs must be
Steadfast unto the course that we have set
For our endeavors, nor deterr'd when we
Are swarm'd about by whispers foul, though yet
Unseen, nor some troll on a posting spree,
Nor any such ought satisfaction get.
It had been better if we'd not begun,
Be they the cause our works are left undone.

There is one puzzle more springs from my pen,
Into the face of logic this thing flies:
Thou searchest for a thing external, when,
Didst thou not know, thou wouldst not recognize,
And recognizing thou hast then within
Thy mind its purest image undisguis'd!
Thou art the thing thou seek'st! Ah, 'tis no matter,
I'm late for tea with Doormouse and the Hatter.

~ BIE

And this is wonderful. You do realize this means we'll be bugging you for more, more, more!