Die Hallen der Gnome
Gedichteecke
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [10:33]
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| Rhius Kalimdors Späher [Themenersteller] Dabei seit: 22.07.2007 Beiträge: 286 |
Um euch mal ein bisschen Kultur näher zu bringen, hier eine Gedichteecke mit schönen, interessanten, berühmten Gedichten. Vielleicht gefällts euch ja, vielleicht ergänzt ihr es (aber bitte immer nur eines posten, wenn einer gleich 10 Gedichte postet, les ich die auch nicht mehr  ) Ich bin schön, ich bin stark, ich bin weise, ich bin gut.
Und ich habe das alles selbst herausgefunden! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [10:34]
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| Rhius Kalimdors Späher [Themenersteller] Dabei seit: 22.07.2007 Beiträge: 286 |
Zu Beginn gleich mal ein leider ziemlich langes Gedicht, aber ein sehr sehr schönes, von William Blake: Auguries of Innocence To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov'd by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by woman lov'd. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of envy's foot. The poison of the honey bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands; Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mock'd in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow, To peaceful arts shall envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate. The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day Ich bin schön, ich bin stark, ich bin weise, ich bin gut.
Und ich habe das alles selbst herausgefunden! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [11:21]
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| andranath Bund der wilden Pfade  Dabei seit: 27.11.2007Beiträge: 110 |
Dieses Gedicht darf natürlich in keiner lyrischen Sammlung fehlen: The Raven von Edgar Allan Poe. THE RAVEN Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamo-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from tha memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take tha form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [11:30]
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| Rhius Kalimdors Späher [Themenersteller] Dabei seit: 22.07.2007 Beiträge: 286 |
Ja, das ist ein tolles Gedicht. Wer zu faul ist es zu lesen, kann es sich auch anhören, genial vorgetragen von Christopher Walken. Christopher Walken - The Raven Ich bin schön, ich bin stark, ich bin weise, ich bin gut.
Und ich habe das alles selbst herausgefunden! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [11:34]
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mirlith Dabei seit: 27.06.2007Beiträge: 970 |
Eine wunderfeine Idee ist dieser Thread *lächelt* - und einen hübschen Einstand hat unser Neuankömmling gegeben. Dann ... von wem sind wohl die folgenden Worte? Die Nacht holt heimlich durch des Vorhangs Falten aus deinem Haar vergeßnen Sonnenschein. Schau, ich will nichts, als deine Hände halten und still und gut und voller Frieden sein. Da wächst die Seele mir, bis sie in Scherben den Alltag sprengt; sie wird so wunderweit: An ihren morgenroten Molen sterben die ersten Wellen der Unendlichkeit. Gutes RP erkennt man daran, dass alle daran Freude haben - nicht daran, dass es 100%ig konsequent ist.
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [14:04]
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| andranath Bund der wilden Pfade Dabei seit: 27.11.2007Beiträge: 110 |
Ganz klar: Das ist von Rainer Maria Rilke. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [14:10]
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| mirlithDabei seit: 27.06.2007 Beiträge: 970 |
Feinfein *freu* Nun seid Ihr wieder dran ^^ Gutes RP erkennt man daran, dass alle daran Freude haben - nicht daran, dass es 100%ig konsequent ist.
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [14:15]
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| andranath Bund der wilden Pfade Dabei seit: 27.11.2007Beiträge: 110 |
Dieses kleine Werk von Rilke zeigt wie ich finde, dass Gedichte nicht unbedingt 20 Strophen haben müssen, um "literarisch wertvoll" und einfach schön zu sein. Klein aber fein. [Dieser Beitrag wurde 1mal bearbeitet, zuletzt am 28.11.2007 um 14:23.] And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [14:36]
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| marrinja Kalimdors Späher Bruderschaft der Qualen Dabei seit: 23.02.2007 Beiträge: 494 |
Gegen Rilke hab ich noch ne Abneigung durch die Schule... die Gedichte der Romantik find ich meist ganz gut im Gegesatz zu den anderen Werken dieser Zeit. Wer nämlich mit h schreibt ist dämlich... gleiches gibt für sämtliche Vergangenheitsformen des Verbes: "Sein".
War hat nix mit der Wahrheit zu tun, und das ist wahr. |
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Verfasst am: 28. 11. 07 [15:10]
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| andranath Bund der wilden Pfade Dabei seit: 27.11.2007Beiträge: 110 |
Ja, die Romantik...nicht nur in der Literatur eine der angenehmsten Epochen. Auch die Malerei und die bildende Kunst dieser Zeit können sich sehen lassen. Was hälst du denn von Heinrich Heine oder Achim von Arnim? [Dieser Beitrag wurde 2mal bearbeitet, zuletzt am 28.11.2007 um 15:43.] And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |