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astrix777 favorited a video
(2 days ago)
{{watch in high quality?}}
Sappho's Poem of Jealousy. In the sapphic trad...
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{{watch in high quality?}}
Sappho's Poem of Jealousy. In the sapphic tradition it was meant to be Tugger she's jealous of, because she loves Bomba, but I realised it could be interpreted the other way round as well.
Don't worry, more 'proper' vids and requests coming soon.
Godlike is the man who sits at her side,
who watches, and catches
that laughter, which
(softly!)
tears me to tatters
nothing is left of me.
Each time I see her
a delicate fire runs in my limbs
my eyes are blinded and my ears are thunder.
Sweat pours out; a trembling hunts me down
I grow paler than grass.
I am neither living nor dead
and cry from the narrow between.
It's a slightly weird version because I spliced together three different translations...
Apparently, the island of Lesbos is trying to stop the word 'Lesbian' being used, becuase they find it insulting.... Ah, Sappho, it's all your fault. I'm sure she'd be laughing...
I'm really annoyed that the bits of black look all weird, it really spoils it :( And some of the clips have done that jerky thing that I can't seem to do anything about.
Also sorry about the crappy music, I couldn't think of anything better at 4 in the morning.
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astrix777 favorited a video
(2 days ago)
Heres a virtual movie of the celebrated French poet Arthur Rimbaud, (185...
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Heres a virtual movie of the celebrated French poet Arthur Rimbaud, (1854-1891)reading his poem "Ophélie" The poem is read excellently by Laurent Bieber.
Arthur Rimbaud was born into the provincial middle class of Charleville (now part of Charleville-Mézières) in the Ardennes département in northeastern France.
Rimbaud had a great influence on the symbolists and subsequent modern poets, b. Charleville. A defiant and precocious youth, Rimbaud at 16 sent some poems to Verlaine , who liked his work and invited him to Paris. In 1872-73 the two poets lived together in London and Brussels. In a drunken quarrel Verlaine fired a pistol, wounding Rimbaud, and their relationship ended. Rimbaud returned home and finished Une Saison en enfer (1873), a confessional autobiography in which he renounces his former hellish life and his work. At an undetermined time he produced Les Illuminations, consisting of prose poems that transcend all traditional syntax and narrative elements.
Rimbaud is thought to have stopped writing poetry at the age of 19, and he never wrote another literary work. Thereafter, he wandered throughout Europe and N Africa, working in various jobs, from circus cashier to commercial traveler to African gunrunner, and engaging in numerous business ventures. Six months after the amputation of his leg due to cancer, he died in Marseilles at 37. Rimbaud's poetry has been called hallucinatory because the poet seems to write not of material reality but of his dreamworld; his technique anticipates the symbolists in its suggestiveness, its abstract verbal music, and its images drawn from the subconscious. "Le Bateau ivre" ( "The Drunken Boat" ) is an outstanding example. Rimbaud's works were published by Verlaine in several posthumous editions, the first complete collection appearing in 1898.
Kind Regards
Jim Clark
All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2008
Ophélie.........
On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.
For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.
The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.
The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.
II
O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.
It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;
It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees!
Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!
You melted to him as snow does to a fire;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!
III
- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.
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