11 thoughts to “Song, by Christina Rossetti : Poem and video”

  1. Hi Lasha,
    I loved so much this poem that I wanted to translate it into italian language.
    Hope you may appreciate it.

    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,

    Gian Franco

    1. 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”.)

  2. 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.

      1. @Sard


        I get embarrassed when I’m moved by something deep; so I make a little poem up to turn down the heat.

  3. 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!

  4. 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

  5. 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.

    1. 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!”

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