A poem by Alistar Crowley (1875-1947)
I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street –
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?
I with a heart that’s sound,
You with sick fancies of pain –
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?
I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss –
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?
Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive –
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe?
You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,
To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low,
Yet I heard a voice that cried:
For he is the god of the
Sacrifice,
You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe,
A foolish game of play,
Our garden of Allah
A drawing-room,
Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls,
Tears for forget-me-nots,
And a deadly pain
Of the sickening shame
Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded,
The heart of me faded as well,
Until nothing is left
Of my garden,
But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail!
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire,
No more together we’ll enter the
Enchanted garden of make-believe,
Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you’ll be the God of Sacrifice,
Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet
Thy fruit. Why breakest thou the heart?
Why spoilest thou the soul with notes
From thy golden lute?
Lo! our garden a common room
Our Chinese god burnt clay, and
The singing of verses a funeral hymn
That awakes with awakening day.
‘Twas all such a meaningless play,
Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail!
Poet, take my hand -we’ll walk
Still a little way.
I’ll not desert thee at the close of day,
I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by,
Does not refuse a drink to one who’s dry
That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye
Take thou my hand, we’ll walk still
A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm,
What harmed the one, was’t not the other’s harm?
Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye?
Poet, take thou my hand -we’ll still
Walk a little way.
A few random poems:
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- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 26. Erin, Oh Erin. Томас Мур.
- Astrophel and Stella: XXXIX by Sir Philip Sidney
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- I Am Me by Patrick Neo Mabiletsa
- Together by Siegfried Sassoon
- Lady Clare poem – Lord Alfred Tennyson poems
- Colloquy by Weldon Kees
- Robert Burns Country: In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer:
- Artegal And Elidure by William Wordsworth
- The Story Of Our Lives by Mark Strand
- Владимир Набоков – Безумец
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External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Lover’s Gifts XLVIII: I Travelled the Old Road by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLVII: The Road Is by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLIV: Where Is Heaven by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLIII: Dying, You Have Left Behind by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XLII: Are You a Mere Picture by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XL: A Message Came by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts XIII: Last Night in the Garden by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts V: I Would Ask For Still More by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LVIII: Things Throng and Laugh by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LIV: In the Beginning of Time by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts LII: Tired of Waiting by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts IV: She Is Near to My Heart by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lover’s Gifts II: Come to My Garden Walk by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lotus by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lost Time by Rabindranath Tagore
- Lost Star by Rabindranath Tagore
- Little Of Me by Rabindranath Tagore
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Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
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