Moonlight Sonata, Yiannis Ritsos, 1956.

''...This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.
It insists on living with its dead
on living off its dead
on living off the certainty of its death
and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.
Let me come with you.... ''

''....The lip of the glass gleams in the moonlight
like a round razor – how can I lift it to my lips?
however much I thirst – how can I lift it – Do you see?
I am already in a mood for similes – this at least is left me,
reassuring me still that my wits are not failing.
Let me come with you....''

http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/2678 (Original Greek & English Translation)



Theogony (Θεογονία), Hesiod.

''...Next he married bright Themis who bare the Horae (Hours)
and Eunomia (Order), Dike (Justice), and blooming Eirene (Peace)
who mind the works of mortal men
and the Moerae (Fates) to whom wise Zeus gave the greatest honour
Clotho, and Lachesis, and Atropos who give mortal men evil and good to have....''

http://www.sacred-texts.com/cla/hesiod/theogony.htm

From my all time favourite poem (had to select one stanza):

“Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.”


Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

The beginning line of "The Knight's Tale", first in the Canterbury Tales, sets the tone for the rest of this philosophical meditation on the principle virtues of the time.

Ful many a riche contree hadde he wonne,
What with his wysdom and his chivalrie;
He conquered al the regne of Femenye,
That whilom was ycleped Scithia,
And weddede the queene Ypolita,
And broghte hir hoom with hym in his contree,
With muchel glorie and greet solempnytee,
And eek hir yonge suster Emelye.


PS-Much of the rest of the stories are bawdy, farcical and comic, expect to see some of those examples coming up.

A bit of a scatological one from the High Middle Ages:

(belch) Pox on you (belch) for a Fop,"
"your stomach too queazy
cannot I Belch and fart,

you Coxcomb to ease me,

what if I let fly in your Face,
and shall please ye?"
"Fogh, fogh, how sow'r he smells,
now he's at it again,
out ye Beast, I never met so nasty a man,
I'm not able to bear it",

"What the Devil d'ye mean?

no less that a Ceasar
decreed with great reason
no restraint shou'd be laid
on the Bum or the Weason,
for Belching and farting
were always in season"

As performed by Baltimore Consort / Merry Companions on the album The Art of the Bawdy Song!

Bah, come on ye lot, let's see some more poetry!

Quand je bois du vin clairet,
Amis, tout tourne,
Aussi désormais
je bois Anjou ou Arbois.
Chantons et buvons,
à ce flacon faisons la guerre,
chantons et buvons,
mes amis, buvons donc.

Le bon vin nous a rendus gais, chantons,
oublions nos peines, chantons.
En mangeant d'un gras jambon,
à ce flacon faisons la guerre.

Buvons bien, là buvons donc
à ce flacon faisons la guerre.
En mangeant d'un gras jambon
à ce flacon faisons la guerre.

Buvons bien, mes amis, trinquons,
buvons, vidons nos verres.
En mangeant d'un gras jambon
à ce flacon faisons la guerre

WHEN I DRINK A CLARET WINE

When I drink a Claret Wine,
friends, my head turns,
but that is true now also
when I drink Anjou or Arbois.
Let's sing and drink,
let's make war on this bottle
let's sing and drink,
my friends, drink up then.

Good wine makes us gay let's sing,
forget our troubles, let's sing.
While eating a fat ham,
let's make war on this bottle.

Let's drink our fill, let's drink
and make war on this bottle.
While eating a fat ham,
let's make war on this bottle.

Drink up, my friends, let's toast
and drink, empty our glasses.
While eating a fat ham,
let's make war on this bottle.

Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Well, I have read some very good poetry in my time, and some quite good in this thread.

I will deviate, for a moment, into what I deem to be functional, modern poetry.

Have you ever been burdened, cursed, or otherwise inconvenienced by those calls that come at 3 am, 4 am, 5 am, and even 6 am? If you have, you will be able to relate to this short piece of prose, that suddenly sprang to mind after being questioned as to why I didn't answer the call(s) that took place over many years.

It is very simple, definitely crude, but somehow quite effective upon its recitation; it is as follows:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If I wanted to talk,

I'd fucking call you.


Try it, it might just work!

This one has always held a special place in my heart, and in addition to another poem which has a title in Latin, is the line that still "sticks out" the most to me to this day

"since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you"

I will not even attempt to punctuate it, which will bring a smile to the face of any ee cummings fans here, because they know that's a near impossible task ;)

Roses are red, games are bad. =)

Under one small star- Wislawa Szymborska

This small part from the poem

My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.

Edit: A song with this poem at the end

I really like that.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas has always been a favourite of mine.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Charles Bukowski - Back to the Machine Gun

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot
gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks
in my path
still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.

the young housewife next door shakes a rug
out of her window and sees me:
"hello, Hank!"

god damn! it's almost like being shot in the ass
with a .22

"hello," I say
gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver coupons,
a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice,
a letter from the mortgage people
plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department
giving me 30 days to clean up my act.

I mince back again over the small sharp rocks
thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight,
they all seem
to be closing in.

there's only one way to handle those motherfuckers.

the night harness races will have to wait.

Eating Poetry
BY MARK STRAND

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.