11 thoughts on “Song, by Christina Rossetti : Poem and video”
Hi Lasha,
I loved so much this poem that I wanted to translate it into italian language.
Hope you may appreciate it.
QUOTE
Quando sarò morto, miei cari,
non cantate tristi canzoni per me;
non piantate rose sul mio capo,
e nemmeno ombrosi cipressi:
sia l’erba verde sopra di me
bagnata di pioggia e gocce di rugiada,
e se vorrete, ricordate
e se vorrete, dimenticate.
Non vedrò le ombre,
non sentirò la pioggia;
non sentirò l’usignolo cinguettare
come se soffrisse;
e sognare nel mezzo del crepuscolo che non sorge e non tramonta,
forse ricorderò e forse dimenticherò,
UNQUOTE
Gian: This is brilliant! I’m sure Christina would have loved it as she knew Italian and was deeply influenced by Dante, Petrarch and other Italian poets. Did you know she was the model for this famous pre-Raphaelite painting by her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti:
Oops, I must be losing my marbles! Error corrected! 🙂
Must be a Freudian slip, as I’ve been reading a gory book all last week about Christians being thrown to the lions in the Circus Maximus in the time of the Roman Emperors (“The Age of the Gladiators: Savagery & Spectacle in Ancient Rome”.)
I get embarrassed when I’m moved by something deep; so I make a little poem up to turn down the heat.
Life is brief
Life is short
when my time is through
here on Earth
will Darkmoon remember me,
I often wonder
O! I had a solitary prison cell in Spamblinka
will Lasha wear a Veil the color of a color I once had on
while I sat at my keyboard and typed-up comments
will Pat voice an opinion that echoes a point-of-view
I tried to share
but alas, not allowed to articulate
not even in a murmur
Will Gilbert’s fingers quiver
as he holds the pen
that composes an Ode to Me
Will the natives join in a Circle and hold hands
and under the Lack of Moonlight,
some dark black Night,
sing a Song,
the lyrics of which are from
a poetic Masterpiece of mine?
O! I had a solitary prison cell in Spamblinka!
Cheer up
All your poetry is about sadness , even your mistress ,indulgent on sad stories from distant history.
no wonder ,this blog is named Dark Moon.
I’m easily moved by the written word , I have a gift ,sometime ,I call it a curse..I visualize ,what i read ,like I;m seeing ,hearing ,feeling the words , I was told to keep away ,from reading novels or history books.
I was about to write a poem ,but after reading your poems and Christina Rossetti’s ,I felt the sadness
creeping on me.
Hi Lasha,
I loved so much this poem that I wanted to translate it into italian language.
Hope you may appreciate it.
QUOTE
Quando sarò morto, miei cari,
non cantate tristi canzoni per me;
non piantate rose sul mio capo,
e nemmeno ombrosi cipressi:
sia l’erba verde sopra di me
bagnata di pioggia e gocce di rugiada,
e se vorrete, ricordate
e se vorrete, dimenticate.
Non vedrò le ombre,
non sentirò la pioggia;
non sentirò l’usignolo cinguettare
come se soffrisse;
e sognare nel mezzo del crepuscolo che non sorge e non tramonta,
forse ricorderò e forse dimenticherò,
UNQUOTE
Gian Franco
Gian: This is brilliant! I’m sure Christina would have loved it as she knew Italian and was deeply influenced by Dante, Petrarch and other Italian poets. Did you know she was the model for this famous pre-Raphaelite painting by her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti:
THE GIRLHOOD OF MARY VIRGIN (figure on right)
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/72/Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_-_The_Girlhood_of_Mary_Virgin.jpg
second
i also like the one by Christina 😉
Oops, I must be losing my marbles! Error corrected! 🙂
Must be a Freudian slip, as I’ve been reading a gory book all last week about Christians being thrown to the lions in the Circus Maximus in the time of the Roman Emperors (“The Age of the Gladiators: Savagery & Spectacle in Ancient Rome”.)
When I am dead and gone
my love, do not think of me;
Let the tree roots slowly desecrate
and the mud and rot congeal.
“What in God’s name are you on about?”
my lovely said to me, as she cut a slice
of sponge cake and gave me a cup of tea.
Don’t you see, my darling,
That when I’m dead, I’m gone —
There will no more manly whining
Nor the singing of martial song.
“Shut up and eat your cake
my love, and sip your lovely tea —
for when our flesh is null in state
our souls are forever free”
That’s a fair point love, I said,
And sipping my gorgeous tea
I slapped my lap, gave a wink
and motioned to me knee.
“When did this become a Limerick?”
my fairest asked me straight.
The day the Muses fled me, dear,
Now I’ll finish off me cake.
Not bad, Flopot! Good for a chuckle. I had no idea you had such a poetic soul.
@Sard
😉
I get embarrassed when I’m moved by something deep; so I make a little poem up to turn down the heat.
Life is brief
Life is short
when my time is through
here on Earth
will Darkmoon remember me,
I often wonder
O! I had a solitary prison cell in Spamblinka
will Lasha wear a Veil the color of a color I once had on
while I sat at my keyboard and typed-up comments
will Pat voice an opinion that echoes a point-of-view
I tried to share
but alas, not allowed to articulate
not even in a murmur
Will Gilbert’s fingers quiver
as he holds the pen
that composes an Ode to Me
Will the natives join in a Circle and hold hands
and under the Lack of Moonlight,
some dark black Night,
sing a Song,
the lyrics of which are from
a poetic Masterpiece of mine?
O! I had a solitary prison cell in Spamblinka!
the orphan
a poem I wrote
When I was young, I used to ask about my father
And my mother would always say: He shall come back
He went on a faraway journey, son! As distant as the remote stars
O how much he loves you! Especially that you are the youngest one
The last-born and the nectar-sweet as well
It is bedtime, sweetheart; you are mightily sleepy, so go to sleep
She would then hold me close to her bosom
And embrace me amidst sighs and yearning
I would smilingly fall asleep, entertaining dreams
With delightful promises dinning in my ears
Years have passed since, and I came to realize the truth
O how I wish I were buried within the folds of those years
Now I am an adult, inhabited by sorrow
And know that grief is my lot
I have slashed my dreams with the knife of deep mental anguish
And sallied forth on the paths of life
While my festering wounds grew greater and deeper
I came to know that my Dad has taken an eternal trip
And ever since, he hasn’t come home, nor written to us
I went on playing with my companions
Yet, inwardly I was alone
Immersed in my troubled thoughts
Had I a picture of him, or seen his image
I would thank God that he does exist
My mother had described him to me
She said that his face and physique
Closely resemble those of my uncle’s
No semblance of my father, however
Will quench my scalding sorrow
Description is mere illusion
And consolation is nonexistant
Cheer up
All your poetry is about sadness , even your mistress ,indulgent on sad stories from distant history.
no wonder ,this blog is named Dark Moon.
I’m easily moved by the written word , I have a gift ,sometime ,I call it a curse..I visualize ,what i read ,like I;m seeing ,hearing ,feeling the words , I was told to keep away ,from reading novels or history books.
I was about to write a poem ,but after reading your poems and Christina Rossetti’s ,I felt the sadness
creeping on me.
Plato says, “Exactly. This is exactly what I was telling ’em about. But would they listen? Would they listen heck! Oh, I forgot, I’m dead. Goodbye!”