The poetry thread

[micrologus]

When the sweet air turns bitter
Poem by Cercamon (first half of the 12th century)


When the sweet air turns bitter
and the leaf falls from the twigs
and the birds change their language,
here I sigh and sing because of him,
because of Love, who keeps me ensnared and caught,
whereas I never had him in my power.

Alas! I haven't gained, of Love,
but the torment and pain,
for nothing is as hard to gain
as that which I am seeking,
nor any longing affects me
as that for what I cannot have.

I rejoice because of a pearl
so fine that I never loved anything as much;
when I am with her, I am so astonished
that I don't dare vouch my desire,
and when I part, it seems to me
that I lose all my sense and my learning.

The fairest woman one has ever seen,
compared to her, isn't worth a glove;
when the entire world turns to darkness,
light shines from the place she rests.
I shall pray god that I may touch her one day
or that I may see her go to bed.

Awake or asleep, I quiver and am all startled
and shaken because of my love for her.
I am so afraid of dying
that I don't dare think how to entreat her,
but I shall serve her two or three years
and then, maybe, she'll learn the truth.

I don't die nor live nor heal,
nor do I feel my malaise, although it's serious,
for I am not parted from her love
and I don't know whether I'll have it, nor when,
for in her is all the grace
that can raise me or cast me down.

It pleases me when she drives me insane
and make muse and gape in stupor;
it pleases me when she abuses me
and makes fun of me, behind my back or to my face,
for after the ill, the good will come
soon, if her fancy turns that way.

If she doesn't want me, I wish I had died
the day she took me in her service!
Alas! She murdered me so sweetly
when she seemed to love me,
for she has gripped me so
that I don't want to see any other woman.

Although worried, I rejoice:
for, although I shun or blandish her,
for her sake I shall be false or faithful,
or righteous or full of guile,
or a complete scoundrel or a complete gentleman,
or agitated or peaceful.

But, whoever may like it or grieve it,
she can retain me, if she wants.

Cercamon says: he is hardly courteous
who despairs of love.

[fivelive]

Thank you Micrologus. It appears so freshly written, though centuries have passed.

[micrologus]

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.

[micrologus]

He was hidden in the nascent
emerging buds of the
lilac branches, singing his
ornate, urgent, compelling song
to the back of the hall
to the ladies, to the heavens
letting the world hear his
beautiful, erudite trill
shared in joy,
piercing the momentary gloom
of the gentle spring rain

[birabiro]

spring is going;
hesitating and indecisive,
the last cherry blossoms
buson

[micrologus]

The Pilgrims

An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,
Where every beam that broke the leaden sky
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;
Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:
And this was Life.

Wherein we did another's burden seek,
The tired feet we helped upon the road,
The hand we gave the weary and the weak,
The miles we lightened one another's load,
When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:
This too was Life.

Till, at the upland, as we turned to go
Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night,
The mists fell back upon the road below;
Broke on our tired eyes the western light;
The very graves were for a moment bright:
And this was Death.





John McCrea

[micrologus]

Now, albeit my lady, and Love,
have degraded and disdained me,
don't think that I forget my art because of this,
nor that my prowess is diminished,
nor that I abandon any other honourable trade
nor any good deed that befits a knight,
nor that a base death shall take my noble life,
as it did when I crossed those passes.


Galloping and trotting, jumping and running,
nightly watch and discomfort and fatigue
will be my entertainment henceforth,
and I shall suffer from cold and from heat,
armed with iron, with wood and with steel,
and woods and roads shall be my lodgings
and many songs shall be strident satires
and I shall uphold the weak against the strong.

But since it'd be an honour for me
if I found a lady of distinction,
attractive, pleasing and worthy,
and who wouldn't enjoy my grievance
and who wouldn't be fickle, or believe slanderers
and who wouldn't be too hard to win if I wooed her,
I should be readily prone to love her,
if she loved me, because such is my comfort.

But now folly wins over my sense,
for I shall have wasted a year
for a faithless one with a treacherous heart;
but Joy has so many sweet flavours
that it can give me bliss and take care away
in spite of love and of my fickle heart
and of my lady, for I have escaped from all three
and without their influence, I shall try to apply myself

to service and to other praiseworthy acts
and to putting forward all good deeds
of valour and lance and sword
among the kings and emperors.
Yonder in Monferrato and here in Foncalquier
I shall live of war as a mercenary!
And since love comforts me no further,
I shall go away, and it will take all the blame;

because I have assayed all sides of love:
those who are inconstant and fickle
are loved best, and he who serves is lost,
so that I'm rich, having escaped from it.

Lady Biatriz, your precious, unequalled fame
I commend to God, as I wish and pray;
and he who opposes this, let him be undone and dead,
since he dislikes joy, pleasure and delight.



Raimbaut de Vaqueiras

[birabiro]

The earth lies open breasted
In gentleness of spring,
When hay so close and frozen
In winter's blustering.
The northern winds are quiet,
The west wind winnowing
In all this sweet renewing
How shall a man not sing.

Now go the young men singing,
and singing every bird,
Harder is he than iron
Whom Beauty hath not stirred.
And colder than the rocks is he
Who is not set on fire,
When cloudless are our spirits,
serene and still the air.

Behold, all things are springing
With life come from the dead,
The cold that wrought for evil
Is routed now and fled.

[fivelive]

I think I would struggle to learn this poem by heart!!
Well done to the young winner of today's Poetry by Heart competition on BBC 2.


Macavity: The Mystery Cat
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

[The Sparrow]

Just bought


Seamus Heaney probably my favorite poet of all time