Great poems by the masters

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a fine bit of lovers' wit by Sir Walter Ralegh (1552-1618):

The Excuse

Calling to mind, my eyes went long about

To cause my heart to forsake my breast,

All in a rage I sought to pull them out,

As who had been such traitors to my rest:

What could they say to win again my grace?----

Forsooth, that they had seen my mistress' face.

Another time, my heart I called to mind,

Thinking that he this woe on me had wrought,

Because he had his fort to Love resigned,

When of such wars my fancy never thought:

What could he say when I would have him slain?----

That he was hers, and had foregone my chain.

At last, when I perceived both eyes and heart

Excuse themselves, as guiltless of my ill,

I found MYSELF the cause of all my smart,

And told myself that I myself would kill:

Yet when I saw myself to you was true,

I loved myself, because myself loved you.

[B. Royce 0]

Here are three of my favorite sonnets by Edmund Spencer (1552-1599)

The sovereign beauty which I do admire,

Witness the world how worthy to be praised:

The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire,

In my frail spirit by her from baseness raised.

That being now with her huge brightness dazed,

Base thing I can no more endure to view:

But looking still on her I stand amazed,

At wondrous sight of so celestial hue.

So when my tongue would speak her praises due,

It stopp-ed is with thoughts' astonishment:

And when my pen would write her titles true,

It ravished is with fancy's wonderment:

Yet in my heart I then both speak and write,

The wonder that my wit cannot indite.

________________________________________

Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,

In finding fault with her too portly pride:

The thing which I do most in her admire,

Is of the world unworthy most envide.

For in those lofty looks is close implied

Scorn of base things, and 'sdain of foul dishonor:

Threat'ning rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,

That loosely they nay dare to look upon her.

Such pride is praise, such portliness is honor,

That boldened innocense bears in her eyes:

And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,

Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tried,

Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

_____________________________________________

Ye tradeful merchants that with weary toil

Do seek most precious things to make your gain,

And both the Indias of their treasure spoil,

What needeth you to seek so far in vain?

For lo, my love doth in herself contain

All this world's riches that may far be found:

If saphires, lo, her eyes be saphires plain,

If rubies, lo, her lips be rubies sound:

If pearls, her teeth be pearls both pure and round;

If ivory, her forehead ivory ween;

If gold, her locks are finest gold on ground;

If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen;

But that which fairest is, but few behold---

Her mind, adorned with virtues manifold.

_________________________________________

Well, one more; it is so smooth I cannot it refuse.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and wash-ed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Vain man, said she, that dost in vain essay

A mortal thing so to immortalize,

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wip-ed out likewise.

Not so (quod I), let baser things devize

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name.

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew.

______________________________________________

[B. Royce 0]

When one is in love all of nature can appear to be on one's side, and one's exultation seems to be mirrored everywhere, as in

My Own Cailin Donn, by George Sigerson (1839-1925)

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,

And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee;

And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,

All to deck a path of glory for my own Cailin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,

More welcome than the greening leaf to winter-stricken tree!

More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,

Is the coming of my own true love---my own Cailin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!

Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!

Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;

But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cailin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!

Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells;

Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!

Oh, the morn of all delight to me---my own Cailin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;

There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;

Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won,

Be the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin Donn!

[B. Royce 0]

Here is an ode written by the English 18th century poet, William Collins.

How Sleep The Brave

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest

By all their Country's wishes blest!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung:

There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

And Freedom shall awhile repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a very fine lyric from the early 14th century, transliterated into modern English by Margot Adamson in 1929, with a few rhythmical improvements made by myself.

By Longing I Am Led (1310) author unknown

By longing I am led,

On earth I am grown mad,

A maiden marreth me;

I grieve, I groan unglad,

Seld' her I see (oh sad!)

That seemly is to see:

Lady, thou painest me,

To ruth thou hast me led.

Be 'f help who sickness made;

My life, it longs for thee.

Lady, for all the land,

Loose me from out thy bond!

Brought I am in woe;

Give resting of thine hand,

Kind thou a message send,

Soon, ere thou slay me so.

Restless 'mid men I go;

They envy me and wonder;

To love it is no wonder,

I cannot let it go!

Lady, with all my might

My love on thee doth light

To praise thee while I may;

See me and read me right,

To death thou hast me dight;

I die long ere my day;

Thou leadest all my lay.

Troth unto thee I plight

To do what I have might

While last my life it may.

Lilywhite her hue is,

And rosy so her red is,

That reaves from me my rest.

Woman aware and wise,

Proudly she bears the prize,

Maiden all the best.

She dwells far in the west,

Brightest of all that is;

All heaven I hold is his

That one night were her guest!

[Guest Michelle F. Cohen]

A poem that distinguishes man from animals by the English poet Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)

THEIR LONELY BETTERS

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade

To all the noises that my garden made,

It seemed to me only proper that words

Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.

A robin with no Christian name ran through

The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,

And rustling flowers for some third party waited

To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,

There was not one which knew that it was dying

Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme

Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters

Who count some days and long for certain letters;

We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:

Words are for those with promises to keep.

* * *

[Stephen Speicher 0]

A poem that distinguishes man from animals by the English poet Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)

THEIR LONELY BETTERS ...

←

What an interesting poem that is. I never paid any attention to Auden's poetry before. Is this poem typical of his work?

[Guest Michelle F. Cohen]

What an interesting poem that is. I never paid any attention to Auden's poetry before. Is this poem typical of his work?

←

Regrettably, this poem is an exception.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a happy poem by Sir Walter Scott.

Jock O' Hazeldean

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride:

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen"---

But ay she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;

Young Frank is chief of Errington

And lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen"---

But ay she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you the foremeost o' them a'

Shall ride our forest-queen"---

But ay she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning tide,

The tapers glimmered fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there:

They sought her baith by bower and ha':

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a delightfully expressive poem about music.

The Passions, An Ode for Music, by William Collins (1721-1759)

When Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell.

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,

Possest beyond the Muse's painting;

By turns they felt the glowing mind

Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:

'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,

Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round

They snatched her instruments of sound,

And, as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each, for Madness ruled the hour,

Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,

And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings;

In one rude clash he struck the lyre

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair---

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled,

A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delightful measure?

Still it whispered promised pleasure

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo still through all the song;

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;---

And longer had she sung:---but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;

And with a withering look

The war-denouncing trumpet took

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,

Pale Meloncholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmers died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green:

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol

Whose sweet entracing voice he loved the best:

They would have thought who heard the strain

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids

Amidst the festal-sounding shades

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!

Why, goddess, why, to us denied,

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

As in that loved Athenian bower

You learn'd an all-commanding power,

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!

Can well recall what then it heard,

Where is thy native simple heart

Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?

Arise, as in that elder time,

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!

Thy wonders, in that god-like age,

Fill thy recording Sister's page;---

'Tis sad, and I believe the tale,

Thy humblest reed could more prevail,

Had more of strength, diviner rage,

Than all which charms this laggard age,

E'en all at once together found

Cecilia's mingled world of sound:---

O bid our vain endeavors cease:

Revive the just designs of Greece:

Return in all thy simple state!

Confirm the tales her sons relate!

[B. Royce 0]

Here is a spirited call to arms. Pibroch is pronounced peebrok. A pibroch is a martial air performed on the bagpipe.

Gathering Song Of Donald The Black, by Sir Walter Scott

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!

Come in your war-array,

Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky;

The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,

Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges:

Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended,

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;

See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Knell for the onset!

[Guest Michelle F. Cohen]

(Another exceptional poem by W.H. Auden.)

The Hidden Law

by W.H. Auden

The Hidden Law does not deny

Our laws of probability,

But takes the atom and the star

And human beings as they are,

And answers nothing when we lie.

It is the only reason why

No government can codify,

And verbal definitions mar

The Hidden Law.

Its utter patience will not try

To stop us if we want to die:

When we escape It in a car,

When we forget It in a bar,

These are the ways we’re punished by

The Hidden Law

[1941]

[egochick 0]

Here is one of my faves from A. E. Housman's A Shropshire Lad

When I was one-and-twenty

WHEN I was one-and-twenty

I heard a wise man say,

‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas

But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

But keep your fancy free.’

But I was one-and-twenty,

No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,

‘The heart out of the bosom

Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

And sold for endless rue.’

And I am two-and-twenty,

And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is Cyrano's great speech from Act Two of Cyrano De Bergerac.

Cyrano has just refused the patronage of a man he dislikes. Speaking to a friend, who admonishes him for throwing away a chance.

Cyrano---What would you have me do?

Seek for the patronage of some great man,

And like a creeping vine on a tall tree

Crawl upward, where I cannot stand alone?

No thank you! Dedicate, as others do,

Poems to pawnbrokers? Be a buffoon

In the vile hope of teasing out a smile

On some cold face? No thank you! Eat a toad

For breakfast every morning? Make my knees

Callous, and cultivate a supple spine,---

Wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?

No thank you! Scratch the back of any swine

That roots up gold for me? Tickle the horns

Of Mammon with my left hand, while my right,

Too proud to know his partner's business,

Takes in the fee? No thank you! Use the fire

God gave me to burn incense all day long

Under the nose of wood and stone? No thank you!

Shall I go leaping into ladies laps

And licking fingers?---or---to change the form---

Navigating with madrigals for oars,

My sails full of the sighs of dowagers?

No thank you! Publish verses at my own

Expense? No thank you! Be the patron saint

Of a small group of literary souls

Who dine together every Tuesday? No

I thank you! Shall I labor night and day

To build a reputation on one song,

And never write another? Shall I find

True genius only among Geniuses,

Palpitate over little paragraphs,

And struggle to insinuate my name

Into the columns of the Mercury?

No thank you! Calculate, scheme, be afraid,

Love more to make a visit than a poem,

Seek introductions, favors, influences?---

No thank you! No, I thank you! And again

I thank you!---But...

To sing, to laugh, to dream,

To walk in my own way and be alone,

Free, with an eye to see things as they are,

A voice that means manhood---to cock my hat

Where I choose--- At a word, a Yes, a No,

To fight---or to write. To travel any road

Under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt

If fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne---

Never to make a line I have not heard

In my own heart; yet, with all modesty

To say: 'My soul, be satisfied with flowers,

With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them

In the one garden you may call your own.'

So, when I win some triumph, by some chance,

Render no share to Caesar---in a word,

I am too proud to be a parasite,

And if my nature wants the germ that grows

Towering to heaven like the mountain pine,

Or like the oak, sheltering multitudes---

I stand, not high it may be---but alone!

Le Bret---Alone, yes!---But why stand against the world?

What devil has possessed you now, to go

Everywhere making yourself enemies?

Cyrano---Watching you other people making friends

Everywhere---as a dog makes friends! I mark

The manner of these canine courtesies

And think: "My friends are of a cleaner breed;

Here comes---thank God!---another enemy!"

Le Bret---But this is madness!

Cyrano---Method, let us say.

It is my pleasure to displease. I love

Hatred. Imagine how it feels to face

The volley of a thousand angry eyes---

The bile of envy and the froth of fear

Spattering little drops about me--- You---

Good nature all around you, soft and warm---

You are like those Italians, in great cowls

Comfortable and loose--- Your chin sinks down

Into the folds, your shoulders droop. But I---

The Spanish ruff I wear around my throat

Is like a ring of enemies; hard, proud,

Each point another pride, another thorn---

So that I hold myself erect perforece

Wearing the hatred of the common herd

Haughtily, the harsh collar of Old Spain,

At once a fetter and a halo!

__________________________________

The author is, of course, Edmond Rostand; the translation is by Brian Hooker

[JohnRgt 0]

I found the following poem in Dianne L. Durante’s, Forgotten Delights: The Producers. A Selection of Manhattan’s Outdoor Sculpture

For reviews of this great book, see (you want the CD-Rom):

http://www.cordair.com/durante/delights.aspx

+++

“The Ships That Won’t Go Down”

We hear a great commotion

`Bout the ship that comes to grief,

That founders in mid-ocean,

Or is driven on a reef;

Because it’s cheap and brittle

A score of sinners drown.

But we hear but mighty little

Of the ships that won’t go down.

Here’s honour to the builders –

The builders of the past;

Here’s honour to the builders

That builded ships to last;

Here’s honour to the captain,

And honour to the crew;

Here’s double-column headlines

To the ships that battle through.

They make a great sensation

About famous men that fail,

That sink a world of chances

In the city morgue of gaol,

Who drink, or blow their brains out,

Because of “Fortune’s frown.”

But we hear far too little

Of the men who won’t go down.

The world is full of trouble,

And the world is full of wrong,

But the heart of man is noble,

And the heart of man is strong!

They say the sea sings dirges,

But I would say to you

That the wild wave’s song’s a paean

For the men that battle through.

-- Henry Lawson, d. 1922

[B. Royce 0]

I found the following poem in Dianne L. Durante’s, Forgotten Delights: The Producers. A Selection of Manhattan’s Outdoor Sculpture

For reviews of this great book, see (you want the CD-Rom):

http://www.cordair.com/durante/delights.aspx

+++

“The Ships That Won’t Go Down”

We hear a great commotion

`Bout the ship that comes to grief,

That founders in mid-ocean,

Or is driven on a reef;

Because it’s cheap and brittle

A score of sinners drown.

But we hear but mighty little

Of the ships that won’t go down.

Here’s honour to the builders –

The builders of the past;

Here’s honour to the builders

That builded ships to last;

Here’s honour to the captain,

And honour to the crew;

Here’s double-column headlines

To the ships that battle through.

They make a great sensation

About famous men that fail,

That sink a world of chances

In the city morgue of gaol,

Who drink, or blow their brains out,

Because of “Fortune’s frown.”

But we hear far too little

Of the men who won’t go down.

The world is full of trouble,

And the world is full of wrong,

But the heart of man is noble,

And the heart of man is strong!

They say the sea sings dirges,

But I would say to you

That the wild wave’s song’s a paean

For the men that battle through.

-- Henry Lawson, d. 1922

Great poem. Thanks!

[JohnRgt 0]

Great poem. Thanks!

High praise, B. Royce.

For those interested in reading more of Lawson's poems (this link is provide in the book):

http://members.ozemail.com.au/~natinfo/lawson

JohnRGT

[Free Capitalist 0]

Here let me share with the rest of the Forum members this incredible passage from a play of Aristophanes, translated into English with near equal genius. The passage comes from Aristophanes' play, The Clouds, which was intellectually his most demanding, and the poet himself considered to be his greatest achievement. The play failed. Athenian public didn't want it. What you see here is the passage from the revised version of The Clouds, which Aristophanes published after his defeat.

The Clouds, 518-562

O spectators, I will utter

honest truths with accents free,

Yea ! by mighty Dionysius,

Him wo bred and nurtured me.

So may I be deemed a poet,

and this day obtain the prize,

As till that unhappy blunder

I had always held you wise,

And of all my plays esteeming

this the wisest and the best,

Served it up for your enjoyment,

which had, more than all the rest,

Cost me thought, and time, and labour:

then most scandalously treated,

I retired in mighty dungeon,

by unworthy foes defeated.

This is why I blame your critics,

for whose sake I framed the play:

Yet the clever ones amongst you

even now I won't betray.

No ! for ever since from judges (1)

unto whom 'tis joy to speak,

Brothers Profligate and Modest (2)

gained the praise we fondly seek,

When, for I was yet a Virgin,

and it was not right to bear,

I exposed it, and Another

did my newborn nurse with care,

But 'twas you who nobly nurtured,

you who brought it up with skill; --

From that hour I proudly cherish

pledges of your sure good will.

Now then comes its sister hither, (3)

like Electra in the Play,

Comes in earnest expectation

kindred minds to meet today;

She will recognize full surely,

if she find, her brother's tress.

And observe how pure her morals:

who, to notice her first dress,

Enters not with filthy symbols

on her modest garments hung,

Jeering bald-heads, dancing ballets,

for the laughter of the young.

In this play no wretched greybeard

with a staff his fellow pokes,

So obscuring from the audience

all the poorness of his jokes.

No one rushes in with torches,

no one groans, "Oh, dear ! Oh, dear !"

Trusting in its genuine merits

comes this play before you here.

Yet, though such a hero-poet,

I, the bald-head, do not grow

Curling ringlets : neither do I

twice or thrice my pieces show.

Always fresh ideas sparkle,

always novel jests delight,

Nothing like each other, save that

all are most exceeding bright.

I am he who floored the giant,

Cleon, in his hour of pride, (4)

Yet when down I scorned from striking,

And I left him when he died,

Still the others (5), when a handle

once Hyperbolus did lend,

Trample down the wretched caitiff,

and his mother, without end.

In his Maricas the Drunkard,

Eupolis the charge began,

Shamefully my Knights distorting,

as he is a shameful man,

Adding on the tipsy matron,

just the ballet-dance to keep,

Phrynichus's prime invention,

eat by monsters of the deep. (6)

Then Hermippus on the caitiff

opened all his little skill,

And the rest upon the caitiff

are their wits exhausting still;

And my simile to pilfer

"of the Eels" (7) they all combine.

Whoso laughs at their productions,

let him not delight in mine.

But for you who praise my genius,

you who think my writings clever,

Ye shall gain a name for wisdom,

yea ! for ever and for ever.

(1) Aristophanes' first play The Banqueteers as a young man is described, originally published under a pseudonym

(2) Two characters from The Banqueteers

(3) "Now, speaking about the current play here"

(4) Aristophanes wrote his play Knights about the Athenian demagogue Cleon, and made a laughingstock of him in front of everyone

(5) Other comedians popular in Aristophanes' time

(6) "He seems to have travestied the story of Andromeda, bringing on a tipsy old woman to be devoured by the sea-monster" -- Loeb Classics Library

(7) From one of Aristophanes' plays

[Free Capitalist 0]

I'd have to add that the passage looks intimidating at first, but I'm pretty sure that those who give it a try, especially from the middle to the end, will find it richly enjoyable.

"Always fresh ideas sparkle,"

[Stephen Speicher 0]

I'd have to add that the passage looks intimidating at first, but I'm pretty sure that those who give it a try, especially from the middle to the end, will find it richly enjoyable.

Can you summarize, succinctly in a couple of sentences, or a short paragraph, what it is about the poem that you find richly enjoyable?

[Free Capitalist 0]

Well, I like the idea of how some 2,500 years ago, a man still wrote:

Always fresh ideas sparkle,

always novel jests delight,

Nothing like each other, save that

all are most exceeding bright.

Or, after criticizing his opponents for their lack of skill, Aristophanes proudly proclaims:

And my simile to pilfer

"of the Eels" (7) they all combine.

Whoso laughs at their productions,

let him not delight in mine.

But for you who praise my genius,

you who think my writings clever,

Ye shall gain a name for wisdom,

yea ! for ever and for ever.

Which gains a further significance due to the fact that Aristophanes' intellectually demanding kind of comedy died with him (and is almost unseen even today), so that it was his name that ended up gaining a name for wisdom "for ever and for ever". The poem also forms kinship across the centuries, with the kind of reader who reads and understands Aristophanes, especially when the poet writes that he will continue writing for his own kind of audience:

This is why I blame your critics,

for whose sake I framed the play:

Yet the clever ones amongst you

even now I won't betray.

[Free Capitalist 0]

The context for the play is also important. Aristophanes thought The Clouds to be his best and most challenging work. It failed miserably; the Athenian public didn't want it, giving the prizes to other, less demanding, productions. Aristophanes in a sense dismisses all of them, and writes to the reader across the centuries: "Not for them are my plays, then; I wrote them for you, who understands them."

[Stephen Speicher 0]

The context for the play is also important. Aristophanes thought The Clouds to be his best and most challenging work. It failed miserably; the Athenian public didn't want it, giving the prizes to other, less demanding, productions. Aristophanes in a sense dismisses all of them, and writes to the reader across the centuries: "Not for them are my plays, then; I wrote them for you, who understands them."

Well, I guess I am just one of those who does not understand. Aside from isolated elements, I have never really been able to appreciate Aristophanes.

But, I do have to give credit where due. It is truly amazing that he wrote in ancient Greek and his poetry still rhymes in English!

[HaloNoble6 0]

I have always wondered about that!

[B. Royce 0]

Well, I guess I am just one of those who does not understand. Aside from isolated elements, I have never really been able to appreciate Aristophanes.

But, I do have to give credit where due. It is truly amazing that he wrote in ancient Greek and his poetry still rhymes in English!

Stephen, is this last statement a criticism?

A great translation of a foreign language poem into English should make use of the best of English musical/verbal devices, including rhyme, just as a translation of an English rhyming poem into Ancient Greek should dispense with rhyme and use the best of Ancient Greek lyrical devices. The ultimate test of a good translation is---does it sound like an original poem in its current language. If you are reading it and it "sounds" like a translation, then it is not so great, perhaps not even good. I have no authority to quote for this view, it is simply my own, based on the reading of so many so-called literal translations which have absolutely no music, passion or flow to them, so that I am left asking, What was that done for?

Here is the first section of Swinburne's translation of the Grand Chorus of Birds from Aristophanes "The Birds":

Come on then, ye dwellers by nature in darkness, and like to the leaves' generations,

That are little of might, that are moulded of mire, unenduring and shadowlike nations,

Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, as visions fast fleeing,

Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, and dateless the date of our being:

Us, children of heaven, is, ageless for aye, us, all of whose thoughts are eternal;

That ye may henceforth, having heard of us all things aright as to matters supernal,

Of the being of birds and beginning of gods, and of streams, and the dark beyond reaching,

Truthfully knowing aright, in my name bid Prodicus pack with his preaching.