Diotimalle
Ensio Kataja wrote well about myths and stories in his blog today. It strikingly reminded me of the power of poetry and a wonderful movie called Dead Poets Society. Good poetry is truly a language of the gods. I am not sure if I can claim to have much skills in it myself but I still consider that the two best books I have written thus far have been privately published poetry.
What works of poetry have moved you the most in your life thus far? Are there special stories about your life involved? In the Dead Poets Society's spirit of carpe diem I challenge you to grasp the moment and to write few lines of poetry for someone you love - right now.
posted by Tapio Kotkavuori at Sunday, March 05, 2006
14 Comments:
Just curious... what are those privately published poetry books you mentioned here?
Because you insisted, I translated one of my Rúna-poems into English and will publish it in my blog PYHÄ tomorrow...:-)
I'll stick to the Finnish in this one.
Ih!
Tuhisevasta unesta
kirjojen hiljaisuuten,
Ymmärtävistä katseista
kiivaisiin väitteisiin
Ih!
Ja oluttuopin takana salmiakkitaivaassa
hymyilet kuin piru;
silität siiltä piikkien pistämättä
Ih!
Olet haaste,
olet turva,
kaikkea tätä olet ja enemmän.
Dear Vlek,
ah, I answered lenghtly to your post but the net decided to delete all I wrote. Maybe it was poetically meaningful. I am not sure.
Anyway, I am glad to see the interactive nature of a blog to work in the way I would like to. Thanks for your contributions!
:-)
T.
Mariel
you danced to the beat
of my heart; child born of plans
destroyed by time's knife.
the knife that cut ties
with confusion - you wore at
your birth. It was death.
Stabbed me through the heart
until I saw light, glowing
past the flaming blade.
Bled out, close to death
I reached in, burning my hand
on the steaming blade.
Burned dry, ashes falling,
the blade writhed, a mirror born
of pain and cinders.
The mirrored blade cut
the reflected past away.
Would I burn this too?
Your laughter once pain,
Child of pain, child of joy, born.
I held pain too long.
Tormented no more,
we dance lit by burning blades
glowing gifts of flame.
Past, present, future,
once knives in my heart, become
warm glow in the hearth.
...bwn
Molten Silver
Was your heart
ever touched by molten silver -
molten silver of the eyes
so clear, so straight
as an arrow
shot by the fragile fingers of a girl
you once kissed and left behind?
If your heart
was touched by molten silver -
I suppose you know
how sweet and horrid
is the fire that melts down
my heart,
so easily left behind.
sinä ja sun kauniit sanasi
kesäilloista ja tuulesta
tahtoisin sanoa älä puhu enempää
koska menen sekaisin näistä tunteista
mutten sano, haluan vielä
kuulla äänesi
pidä kiinni vielä vähän aikaa
silitä päätäni vielä vähän aikaa
niin kauan kuin olen tässä
ei tarvitse käsitellä
vaikeuksia, ahdistusta:
olen paha ihminen pahassa maailmassa
tahdon vaan olla tässä
vielä hetken saanko olla tässä?
The 6th Century Middle Welsh poem 'The Spoils of Annwn'. An early Grail poem.
I WILL praise the sovereign, supreme king of the land,
Who hath extended his dominion over the shore of the world.
Complete was the prison of Gweir in Caer Sidi,
Through the spite of Pwyll and Pryderi.
No one before him went into it.
The heavy blue chain held the faithful youth,
And before the spoils of Annwvn woefully he sings,
And till doom shall continue a bard of prayer.
Thrice enough to fill Prydwen, we went into it;
Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi
Am I not a candidate for fame, if a song is heard?
In Caer Pedryvan, four its revolutions;
In the first word from the cauldron when spoken,
From the breath of nine maidens it was gently warmed.
Is it not the cauldron of the chief of Annwvn? What is its intention?
A ridge about its edge and pearls.
It will not boil the food of a coward, that has not been sworn,
A sword bright gleaming to him was raised,
And in the hand of Lleminawg it was left.
And before the door of the gate of Uffern [hell] the lamp was burning.
And when we went with Arthur; a splendid labour,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Vedwyd.
Am I not a candidate for fame with the listened song
In Caer Pedryvan, in the isle of the strong door?
The twilight and pitchy darkness were mixed together.
Bright wine their liquor before their retinue.
Thrice enough to fill Prydwen we went on the sea,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Rigor.
I shall not deserve much from the ruler of literature,
Beyond Caer Wydyr they saw not the prowess of Arthur.
Three score Canhwr stood on the wall,
Difficult was a conversation with its sentinel.
Thrice enough to fill Prydwen there went with Arthur,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Golud.
I shall not deserve much from those with long shields.
They know not what day, who the causer,
What hour in the serene day Cwy was born.
Who caused that he should not go to the dales of Devwy.
They know not the brindled ox, thick his head-band.
Seven score knobs in his collar.
And when we went with Arthur of anxious memory,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Vandwy.
I shall not deserve much from those of loose bias,
They know not what day the chief was caused.
What hour in the serene day the owner was born.
What animal they keep, silver its head.
When we went with Arthur of anxious contention,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Ochren.
Monks congregate like dogs in a kennel,
From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge,
Is one the course of the wind, is one the water of the sea?
Is one the spark of the fire, of unrestrainable tumult?
Monks congregate like wolves,
From contact with their superiors they acquire knowledge.
They know not when the deep night and dawn divide.
Nor what is the course of the wind, or who agitates it,
In what place it dies away, on what land it roars.
The grave of the saint is vanishing from the altar-tomb.
I will pray to the Lord, the great supreme,
That I be not wretched. Christ be my portion.
Dave Griffiths
Poetry has a funny way of leaving me feeling a bit like Melkor in the beginning of Tolkien's Silmarillion. My guitar is out of tune on purpose here not because I want to, but because of who I am. Each dissonant chord backing the words is just a layer of my own pulse...
III
I am in the middle of nothing
The roots of the sky are pierced
With a taste of strawberries
I am the middle of nothing
If not pierced by my self
Colored with my own blood
I am in the middle
Wonderful challenge Tapio!
Here's my quick contribution
from a snowy monday morning in
Helsinki.
Best regards,
Korpinsilmä
--->
Traveller of Barren Plains
Your eyes were the deepest waters
where I set sail,
where I drowned
Your voice was a turquoise dream
that stroke thunderous chords
for my heart to endure
Now I am deaf
Your touch was fire
that released rivers
of lava
I was burnt to the bone
Now I am a traveller
of barren plains;
wanderer in the dreams
of my own devising
<---
It is so odd to me
that the others do not see you as I do
Your strength and beauty,
joy to my eyes, calm to my soul...
I look in to your eyes
and I forget everything
except what really matters.
You.
sie oot miun kikkilintu
ja kaikista paras ötö
rakastan sua oma päivi
jostain tähtien takaa
Aleksis Kivellä ja Eino Leinolla on toinen toistaan hurmaavampia lauseita kuolemasta, kuolemankaipuusta, haudoista ja niihin päätymisistä...
"Meitä kaikkia musta kuolo päähän koppaa" - vai miten se legendaarinen sitaatti menikään ;)
Naive
I liked you so
just turned seven
felt shy before you
could hardly speak.
I liked you more
already eleven
still unaware
of the thunder to come.
My heavens, sixteen!
she my eternal love
a fusion of minds
promise of an afterlife.
Loved you all,
twenty, then more,
with peace
with passion
want you so.
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