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Old October 14th, 2012, 10:19 AM   #701

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Shame upon you, ye hosts of the Gael,
For your own Innisfail has been taken,
And the Gall is dividing the emerald lands
By your treacherous bands forsaken.


Clan Carthy of Munster from first unto last
Have forsaken the past of their sires,
And they honour no longer the men that are gone,
Or the song of the God-sent lyres.


The O'Briens of Banba whom Murrough led on,
They are gone with the Saxon aggressor,
They have bartered their heirloom of ages away
And forgotten to slay the oppressor.


The old race of Brian mac Yohy the stern
With gallowglass, kern, and bonnacht
They are down on their knees, they are cringing today
'Tis the way through the province of Connacht.


In the valleys of Leinster the valorous band
Who lightened the land with their daring,
In Erin's dark hour now shift for themselves,
The wolves are upon them and tearing.


And O'Neill, who is throned in Emania afar
And gave kings unto Tara for ages,
For the earldom of Ulster has bartered, through fear,
The kingdom of heroes and sages.


Alas for the sight! the O'Carrolls of Birr
Swear homage in terror, sore fearing,
Not a man one may know for a man can be found
On the emerald ground of Erin.


And O'Donnell the chieftain, the lion in fight,
Who defended the right of Tirconnell,
(Ah! now may green Erin indeed go and droop!)
He stoops with them—Manus O'Donnell!


Shame for the court where no English was spoke,
Shame for the court of the stranger,
Shame for the gun in the foreigner's train,
Shame for the chain of danger.


Ye faltering madmen, God pity your case!
In the flame of disgrace ye are singeing.
Shame is the word of the bard and the saint,
Shame for the faint and the cringing.



- Anonymous Irish Bard, 1542. Translated by Douglas Hyde.

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Old October 16th, 2012, 03:52 PM   #702

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I Am Raftery
by
Antaine Ó Raifteirí (1784-1835)

I am Raftery the poet.
Full of hope and love.
My eyes without sight,
My mind without torment.


Going west on my journey
By the light of my heart,
Tired and weary
To the end of the road.


Behold me now
With my back to the wall.
Playing music
To empty pockets.
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Old October 16th, 2012, 05:51 PM   #703
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'I am...' (1928)
by Cigerxwin ("bleeding liver")


I'm the son of Corduene, Hurrian and Media;
the land of the thousand prophets,
the leaders of civilization,
the founders of all Abrahamic religions.

I'm the son of Hittiti, Guti and Mitanni;
where the first laws ever were put in place,
where democracy and justice was born before words even existed,
where the alphabet and mathematics were founded,
where the most beautiful poetry, literature and melodies were produced,
where Kurds like Cyaxares, first King of Media,
Selahedînê Eyubî, Sultan of the Muslim world,
Said Nursî, the Wonder of the age, took their last breath.

I'm the son of Kurdistan, heaven on earth, the Garden of Eden itself, the only place on earth with;
mountains surrounded by
plains in the north,
forests in the east,
deserts in the west,
palm trees in the south
and a soil made of martyrs.

With my own blood I defended the Muslim regions,
my shadows consisted of Arabs, Turks and Persians; whom leaders held my horse's head.
Now, what irony; a rosary I've become,
who have lost crown and reign,
deprived of might and wealth,
divided, torn and powerless,
my cities and castles demolished
and betrayed in the name of Islam,
yet I saved the Middle-East from the Romans and Crusaders.

Though, I announce without fright;
boundless liberty is my goal,
so I shall struggle and continue my path towards freedom.
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Old October 17th, 2012, 05:55 AM   #704

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This is an extract of the Poem of Abu Tammam.....He wrote the Poem after the famous Abbassid victory under Caliph Al-Mutasim in Amorium...


السَّيْفُ أَصْدَقُ إِنْبَاءً مِنَ الكُتُبِ

في حدهِ الحدُّ بينَ الجدِّ واللَّعبِ

بيضُ الصَّفائحِ لاَ سودُ الصَّحائفِ في

مُتُونِهنَّ جلاءُ الشك والريَبِ

لقد تركتَ أميرَ المؤمنينَ بها

للنَّارِ يوماً ذليلَ الصَّخرِ والخشبِ

غادرتَ فيها بهيمَ اللَّيلِ وهوَ ضُحى ً

يَشُلُّهُ وَسْطَهَا صُبْحٌ مِنَ اللَّهَبِ

حتَّى كأنَّ جلابيبَ الدُّجى رغبتْ

عَنْ لَوْنِهَا وكَأَنَّ الشَّمْسَ لَم تَغِبِ


فبَيْنَ أيَّامِكَ اللاَّتي نُصِرْتَ بِهَا

وبَيْنَ أيَّامِ بَدْر أَقْرَبُالنَّسَبِ

أَبْقَتْ بَني الأصْفَرالمِمْرَاضِ كاسِمِهمُ

صُفْرَ الوجُوهِ وجلَّتْ أَوْجُهَ العَرَبِ





Transaltion:

1- The Sword is more honest than words......In its edge lay the edge of right and fake

2- Its the lightened blades not the black pages......their blades clear suspicion and doubts

3- O' Commander of the Faithful, you left it.........for the fire its disgraceful brick and wood

4- As if the night took its darkness.........and the sun never fell into dusk

5- In your victorious das lays the heir.......to the first great day of Bader

6- You shattered Bani Al-Asfar (Yellow People).......paled is their faces and glorified are the Arab faces

Description:

Points 1 and 2 -
The Poet emphasizes that swords and courage defines battles, not the fakes of fortunes. Basically referring to the fact that some fortune tellers told Caliphe Al-Mutasim to only attack Amorium after grapes and fig are harvested....

Point 6 -

The poet says that Al-Mutasim defeated Bani Al-Asfar (by the yellow people he refers to the Romans - Al Rum 'In Arabic')
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Old October 17th, 2012, 06:45 AM   #705

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Sonnet of Fidelity
Vinicius de Moraes

De tudo ao meu amor serei atento
Antes, e com tal zelo, e sempre, e tanto
Que mesmo em face do maior encanto
Dele se encante mais meu pensamento.

Quero vivê-lo em cada vão momento
E em seu louvor hei de espalhar meu canto
E rir meu riso e derramar meu pranto
Ao seu pesar ou seu contentamento

E assim, quando mais tarde me procure
Quem sabe a morte, angústia de quem vive
Quem sabe a solidão, fim de quem ama

Eu possa me dizer do amor (que tive):
Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama
Mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.


Translation:

Above all, to my love I'll be attentive
First and always, with care and so much
That even when facing the greatest enchantment
By love be more enchanted my thoughts.

I want to live it through in each vain moment
And in its honor I'll spread my song
And laugh my laughter and cry my tears
When you are sad or when you are content.

And thus, when later comes looking for me
Who knows, the death, anxiety of the living,
Who knows, the loneliness, end of all lovers

I'll be able to say to myself of the love (I had):
Be not immortal, since it is flame
But be infinite while it lasts.
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Old October 28th, 2012, 08:31 AM   #706

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Walt Whitman, from "Song of Myself"

31
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg
of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits,
grains, esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call any thing back again when I desire it.
In vain the speeding or shyness,
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,
In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones,
In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,
In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador,
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.
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Old October 28th, 2012, 08:42 AM   #707
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Posts: 16

"Self-Pity"
D.H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
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Old November 1st, 2012, 02:41 PM   #708

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From: Manila
Posts: 35

Six P.M.
Nick Joaquin

Trouvere at night, grammarian in the morning,
ruefully architecting syllables—

but in the afternoon my ivory tower falls.
I take a place in the bus among people returning
to love (domesticated) and the smell of onions burning
and women reaping the washlines as the Angelus tolls.

But I—where am I bound?

My garden, my four walls
and you project strange shores upon my yearning:
Atlantis? the Caribbeans? Or Cathay?
Conductor, do I get off at Sinai?

Apocalypse awaits me: urgent my sorrow
towards the undiscovered world that I
roam warm responding flesh for a while shall borrow:
conquistador tonight, clock-puncher tomorrow.
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Old December 10th, 2012, 05:18 PM   #709

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Old December 21st, 2012, 01:08 PM   #710

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The Volunteer
Over one hundred years we’ve been falling in
Side by side our regular brethren
By some once regarded as second rate
Our efforts overcome all derision of late
For times have changed, many wars having passed
And still we fight whenever we’re asked
One night a week, twelve weekends a year
We say our farewells and don our gear
We learn, we train, keep ourselves fit
Until the day we’re told ‘‘this is it’’
Where gaps would be we fill the roll
But on our numbers, this takes its toll
So in lining street and bowing head
We join a Wiltshire town to mourn our dead
And Padres lead us in November cold
As we march in ranks and crowds behold
Before cenotaph we bring to mind
All fallen comrades and those left behind
Or alone while reading a name on a wall
We quietly hope no others will fall
Politicians come and then they go
And we wonder if they truly know
What it takes from kin who sit and pray
Please don’t volunteer, don’t go away
But who hug and kiss and say they’ll write
Not blame us for going, as well they might
For we have a choice and we choose to serve
This takes courage, this takes nerve
Reassuring families that we’ll take care
When we know fine well it’s dangerous there
But still we’re needed and so still we go
Long may this continue, let’s hope so
For though volunteers aren’t worth ten other men
At least others aren’t called so often then
And what is asked for the service we give
No high praise or riches if we should live
Just silence from friends, our name on a wall
If this time around, it is I that fall

John Bailey November 2009

Quote:
John Bailey is a former regular and now serving Territorial Army* soldier and served in Afghanistan in 2008.
Recently a member of his unit, Corporal Steven Boote, was killed along with four others by a rogue Afghan policeman.
He spent the day in Wootton Bassett the day their bodies were repatriated and that night he wrote this poem as a comment on TA service in general but more importantly as a tribute to ''Booty''.
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