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Title: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 15 May, 2010, 20:57:45
Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς

(https://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSGptAH6joS_UliZ0Bh2YU1UmjUbl0s6dCg4QBQ2gG_HcWk1Uk&t=1)

Poems translated into Greek and published in translatum - Ποιήματα μεταφρασμένα στα ελληνικά και δημοσιευμένα στο translatum


— Robert Graves, The Metaphor (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η μεταφορά, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=190211.0)
— Robert Graves, Sick Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Έρως ασθενής, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=187507.0)
— Robert Graves, A shift of scene (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Αλλαγή σκηνικού, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=177948.0)
— Robert Graves, What Is Love? (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Τι είναι ο έρωτας;, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=177795.0)
— Robert Graves, In time (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Συν τω χρόνω, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=177628.0)
— Robert Graves, Your Private Way (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Με τον δικό σου τρόπο, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=177175.0)
— Robert Graves, Ours is no wedlock (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Δεν είναι γάμος ο δικός μας, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=176971.0)
— Robert Graves, A Court of Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Το Δικαστήριο του Έρωτα, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=176672.0)
— Robert Graves, Love as Lovelessness (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Έρως ανέραστος, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=176390.0)
— Robert Graves, Above the Edge of Doom (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Στο χείλος της αβύσσου, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=175841.0)
— Robert Graves, Woman Poet and Man Poet (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Ποιητής εκείνος, ποιήτρια εκείνη, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=175700.0)
— Robert Graves, I Will Write (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Θα σου γράψω, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=175499.0)
— Robert Graves, To be in Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Να είσαι ερωτευμένος, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=175003.0)
— Robert Graves, Call it a good marriage (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Ας πούμε ότι ήταν ένας επιτυχημένος γάμος, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=174842.0)
— Robert Graves, Lost Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η χαμένη αγάπη, μετάφραση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=174248.0)
— Robert Graves, The Cure (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η γιατρειά, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=115533.0)
— Robert Graves, Surgical Ward: Men (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Χειρουργικός θάλαμος αντρών, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=111848.0)
— Robert Graves, Song: Though Once True Lovers (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Τραγούδι: Παρότι κάποτε αληθινοί εραστές, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=96186.0)
— Robert Graves, The foreboding (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Το κακό προαίσθημα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=95964.0)
— Robert Graves, The Yet Unsayable (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Αυτό που δεν μπορεί ακόμη να ειπωθεί, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=92230.0)
— Robert Graves, Not to sleep (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Ξάγρυπνος να μείνεις, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=92066.0)
— Robert Graves, Spoils (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Τρόπαια, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=91526.0)
— Robert Graves, Wild Cyclamen (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Αγριοκυκλάμινα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=90646.0)
— Robert Graves, A Dream of Frances Speedwell (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η Φράνσις Σπίντγουελ στ’ όνειρό μου, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας)  (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=90456.0)
— Robert Graves, Perfectionists (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Τελειομανείς, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=90184.0)
— Robert Graves, Possibly (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Μπορεί δεν ξέρω, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=80924.0)
— Robert Graves, The Starred Coverlet (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Το πέπλο των άστρων, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=71886.0)
— Robert Graves, She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Μιλάει για τον έρωτα της μεταξύ ύπνου και ξύπνιου, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69971.0)
— Robert Graves, The Door (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η πόρτα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69814.0)
— Robert Graves, Penthesileia (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Πενθεσίλεια, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69738.0)
— Robert Graves, Symptoms of Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Τα συμπτώματα του έρωτα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69646.0)
— Robert Graves, The love letter (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η ερωτική επιστολή, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69572.0)
— Robert Graves, I’d Die for You (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Θα πέθαινα για σένα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69493.0)
— Robert Graves, The Narrow Sea (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η στενή θάλασσα, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=69492.0)
— Robert Graves, Lamia in Love (Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς: Η Λάμια ερωτευμένη, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=68731.0)
— Robert Graves, Pure Death and A Former Attachment (Θάνατος αμιγής και Μια παλιά ιστορία, απόδοση: Σπύρος Δόικας) (https://www.translatum.gr/poetry/graves.htm)

Links
— Robert Graves Archive  (http://homes.ukoln.ac.uk/~lispjh/graves/)
— RobertGraves.org  (http://www.robertgraves.org)
— Robert Graves at poets.org   (http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=197&CFID=4560040&CFTOKEN=10098505)
— Robert Graves at bartleby.com (http://www.bartleby.com/people/Graves-R.html)
— Robert Graves at poetryarchive (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoet.do?poetId=7073)
— Full text of poetry collection Fairies and Fusiliers (http://www.bartleby.com/120/index1.html)
—  Robert Graves: Poetry / Bibliography [Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/external-search?tag=translgrthegr-20&keyword=Robert+Graves+poetry+poems&mode=books) | Amazon UK (http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/external-search?tag=translthegree-21&keyword=Robert+Graves+poetry+poems&mode=books-uk)]   


Ο Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς (http://www.kaktos.gr/default.asp?pid=13&itm=19) γεννήθηκε στο Ουΐμπλεντον στα περίχωρα του Λονδίνου το 1895. Ο πατέρας του Άλφρεντ Πέρσιβαλ Γκρέιβς υπήρξε σημαντικός ποιητής της ιρλανδικής αναγέννησης των αρχών του αιώνα η μητέρα του Αμαλία φον Ράνκε ήταν ανιψιά του περίφημου Γερμανού ιστορικού του 19ου αιώνα Λέοπολντ φον Ράνκε. Μεγαλώνοντας σε περιβάλλον διανοουμένων, καλλιτεχνών και ιστορικών κατόρθωσε να αντισταθεί στην παραδοσιακή του δομή κρατώντας μόνο όσα στοιχεία τον αντιπροσώπευαν. Με το ξέσπασμα του Α΄ Παγκόσμιου Πολέμου, μόλις είχε τελειώσει το γυμνάσιο, κατατάχτηκε στο πυροβολικό. Γυρίζοντας βαριά τραυματισμένος από το μέτωπο παρασημοφορήθηκε και συνέχισε τις σπουδές του στην Οξφόρδη. Αφού πήρε το πτυχίο του, δίδαξε στη μέση εκπαίδευση και κατόπιν σε πανεπιστήμια αγγλική λογοτεχνία και κλασικά γράμματα. Συνεργάστηκε με πολλούς εκδοτικούς οίκους εκδίδοντας αρχαίους Έλληνες και Λατίνους συγγραφείς το 1961 εκλέχτηκε καθηγητής στην Οξφόρδη όπου δίδαξε ποίηση. Πέθανε στη Μαγιόρκα το 1985. Με ωριμότητα υπερβολικά πρώιμη, σφυρηλατημένη στον πόλεμο, δημοσίευσε τον πρώτο τόμο με ποιήματά του, Πάνω από την πυροστιά, το 1916. Όλη η ποιητική παραγωγή του πάνω από 40 τόμοι, και κυρίως των δεκαετιών του ’20 και του ’30, καθορίζεται από έντονη αντιπολεμική πεποίθηση, από εντελώς προσωπική μελαγχολική αίσθηση ζωής, από ακραίο σαρκασμό και πικρό λυρισμό. Μαζί με τους προδρόμους του Ουΐλιαμ Μπάτλερ Γέιτς και Τ. Χάρντι, και τους συγχρόνους του Έζρα Πάουντ, Τ. Σ. Έλιοτ, Χ. Όντεν και Ντίλαν Τόμας, θεωρείται από τους σπουδαιότερους ποιητές του 20ού αιώνα. Η ίδια ατμόσφαιρα και στάση ζωής αποτελούν τον πυρήνα και του αυτοβιογραφικού μυθιστορήματός του Αποχαιρετισμός σε όλα αυτά, ενός από τα πιο συγκινητικά λογοτεχνήματα του μεσοπολέμου. Δημοσιεύτηκε το 1929 και κυκλοφόρησε πάλι το 1957 ξαναδουλεμένο με μεγαλύτερη οξύτητα στον αντιπολεμικό χαρακτήρα του. Η μεγάλη δημοτικότητα του Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς όμως στο πλατύ αναγνωστικό κοινό οφείλεται κυρίως στα ιστορικά μυθιστορήματά του, όπου συνταιριάζονται αρμονικά ιστορική πιστότητα, πλούσια αφηγηματική δεξιοτεχνία και λεπτό χιούμορ. Κορυφαία έργα του είναι: Εγώ, ο Κλαύδιος (1934), Κλαύδιος ο θεός (1934) και Βελισάριος (1938). Ασφαλώς στο τεράστιο σε έκταση έργο του Γκρέιβς –περισσότεροι από 140 τόμοι έχουν εκδοθεί μέχρι σήμερα καταλαμβάνουν ξεχωριστή θέση τα δοκίμια και τα κριτικά βιβλία του για την ποίηση από την αρχαιότητα ως τις μέρες μας. Το 1948, ύστερα από ατέλειωτες εκδοτικές περιπέτειες, εκδόθηκε από τον Τ. Σ. Έλιοτ Η Λευκή Θεά: ιστορική γραμματική του ποιητικού μύθου του Ρόμπερτ Γκρέιβς. Πρόκειται για ιδιόρρυθμο βιβλίο που ερευνά τους εσωτερικούς συσχετισμούς και τις ταυτίσεις των πρωτόγονων γυναικείων μύθων και τις λατρείες γυναικείων θεοτήτων στην εποχή της μητριαρχίας. Το έργο ξάφνιασε τον επιστημονικό κόσμο με την πρωτοτυπία των απόψεών του και, μαζί με άλλα, όπως Ποια ήταν η τροφή των Κενταύρων (1958), Το αποκαταστημένο ναζαρηνό ευαγγέλιο (1960), αποτέλεσε το θεωρητικό υπόβαθρο των μεγάλων του έργων Οι ελληνικοί μύθοι και Οι εβραϊκοί μύθοι (1963).

Robert Ranke Graves (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Graves) (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was an English poet, translator and novelist. During his long life, he produced more than 140 works. He was the son of the Anglo-Irish writer Alfred Perceval Graves and Amalie von Ranke, a niece of historian Leopold von Ranke. He was the brother of the author Charles Patrick Graves and half-brother of Philip Graves.

Graves' poems, together with his translations and innovative interpretations of the Greek Myths, his memoir of his early life, including his role in the First World War, Good-bye to All That, and his historical study of poetic inspiration, The White Goddess, have never been out of print.

He earned his living from writing, particularly popular historical novels such as I, Claudius; King Jesus; The Golden Fleece; and Count Belisarius. He also was a prominent translator of Classical Latin and Ancient Greek texts; his versions of The Twelve Caesars and The Golden Ass remain popular today for their clarity and entertaining style. Graves was awarded the 1934 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for both I, Claudius and Claudius the God.

Poetry – collections
— Over the Brazier. London: William Heinemann, 1923; New York: Alfred. A. Knopf, 1923.
— The Feather Bed. Richmond, Surrey: Hogarth Press, 1923.
— Mock Beggar Hall. London: Hogarth Press, 1924.
— Welchmans Hose. London: The Fleuron, 1925.
— Poems. London: Ernest Benn, 1925.
— The Marmosites Miscellany (as John Doyle). London: Hogarth Press, 1925.
— Poems (1914–1926). London: William Heinemann, 1927; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1929.
— Poems (1914–1927). London: William Heinemann
— To Whom Else? Deyá, Majorca: Seizin Press, 1931.
— Poems 1930–1933. London: Arthur Barker, 1933.
— Collected Poems. London: Cassell, 1938; New York: Random House, 1938.
— No More Ghosts: Selected Poems. London: Faber & Faber, 1940.
— Work in Hand, with Norman Cameron and Alan Hodge. London: Hogarth Press, 1942.
— Poems. London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1943.
— Poems 1938–1945. London: Cassell, 1945; New York: Creative Age Press, 1946.
— Collected Poems (1914–1947). London: Cassell, 1948.
— Poems and Satires. London: Cassell, 1951.
— Poems 1953. London: Cassell, 1953.
— Collected Poems 1955. New York: Doubleday, 1955.
— Poems Selected by Himself. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1957; rev. 1961, 1966, 1972, 1978.
— The Poems of Robert Graves. New York: Doubleday, 1958.
— Collected Poems 1959. London: Cassell, 1959.
— The Penny Fiddle: Poems for Children. London: Cassell, 1960; New York: Doubleday, 1961.
— More Poems 1961. London: Cassell, 1961.
— Collected Poems. New York: Doubleday, 1961.
— New Poems 1962. London: Cassell, 1962; as New Poems. New York: Doubleday, 1963.
— The More Deserving Cases: Eighteen Old Poems for Reconsideration. Marlborough College Press, 1962.
— Man Does, Woman Is. London: Cassell, 1964/New York:Doubleday, 1964.
— Ann at Highwood Hall: Poems for Children. London: Cassell, 1964.
— Love Respelt. London: Cassell, 1965/New York: Doubleday, 1966.
— One Hard Look, 1965
— Collected Poems, 1965. London: Cassell, 1965.
— Seventeen Poems Missing from "Love Respelt". privately printed, 1966.
— Colophon to "Love Respelt". Privately printed, 1967.
— Poems 1965–1968. London: Cassell, 1968; New York: Doubleday, 1969.
— Poems About Love. London: Cassell, 1969; New York: Doubleday, 1969.
— Love Respelt Again. New York: Doubleday, 1969.
— Beyond Giving. privately printed, 1969.
— Poems 1968–1970. London: Cassell, 1970; New York: Doubleday, 1971.
— The Green-Sailed Vessel. privately printed, 1971.
— Poems: Abridged for Dolls and Princes. London: Cassell, 1971.
— Poems 1970–1972. London: Cassell, 1972; New York: Doubleday, 1973.
— Deyá, A Portfolio. London: Motif Editions, 1972.
— Timeless Meeting: Poems. privately printed, 1973.
— At the Gate. privately printed, London, 1974.
— Collected Poems 1975. London: Cassell, 1975.
— New Collected Poems. New York: Doubleday, 1977.
— Selected Poems, ed. Paul O'Prey. London: Penguin, 1986
— The Centenary Selected Poems, ed. Patrick Quinn. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1995.
— Complete Poems Volume 1, ed. Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1995.
— Complete Poems Volume 2, ed. Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1996.
— Complete Poems Volume 3, ed. Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1999.
— The Complete Poems in One Volume, ed. Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward. Manchester: Carcanet Press, 2000.

Fiction
— My Head! My Head!. London: Sucker, 1925; Alfred. A. Knopf, New York, 1925.
— The Shout. London: Mathews & Marrot, 1929.
— No Decency Left. (with Laura Riding) (as Barbara Rich). London: Jonathan Cape, 1932.
— The Real David Copperfield. London: Arthur Barker, 1933; as David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens, Condensed by Robert Graves, ed. M. P. Paine. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1934.
— I, Claudius. London: Arthur Barker, 1934; New York: Smith & Haas, 1934.
— Sequel: Claudius the God and his Wife Messalina. London: Arthur Barker, 1934; New York: Smith & Haas, 1935.
— Antigua, Penny, Puce. Deyá, Majorca/London: Seizin Press/Constable, 1936; New York: Random House, 1937.
— Count Belisarius. London: Cassell, 1938: Random House, New York, 1938.
— Sergeant Lamb of the Ninth. London: Methuen, 1940; as Sergeant Lamb's America. New York: Random House, 1940.
— Sequel: Proceed, Sergeant Lamb. London: Methuen, 1941; New York: Random House, 1941.
— The Story of Marie Powell: Wife to Mr. Milton. London: Cassell, 1943; as Wife to Mr Milton: The Story of Marie Powell. New York: Creative Age Press, 1944.
— The Golden Fleece. London: Cassell, 1944; as Hercules, My Shipmate, New York: Creative Age Press, 1945.
— King Jesus. New York: Creative Age Press, 1946; London: Cassell, 1946.
— Watch the North Wind Rise. New York: Creative Age Press, 1949; as Seven Days in New Crete. London: Cassell, 1949.
— The Islands of Unwisdom. New York: Doubleday, 1949; as The Isles of Unwisdom. London: Cassell, 1950.
— Homer's Daughter. London: Cassell, 1955; New York: Doubleday, 1955.
— Catacrok! Mostly Stories, Mostly Funny. London: Cassell, 1956.
— They Hanged My Saintly Billy. London: Cassell, 1957; New York: Doubleday, 1957.
— Collected Short Stories. Doubleday: New York, 1964; Cassell, London, 1965.
— An Ancient Castle. London: Peter Owen, 1980.

Other works
— On English Poetry. New York: Alfred. A. Knopf, 1922; London: Heinemann, 1922.
— The Meaning of Dreams. London: Cecil Palmer, 1924; New York: Greenberg, 1925.
— Poetic Unreason and Other Studies. London: Cecil Palmer, 1925.
— Contemporary Techniques of Poetry: A Political Analogy. London: Hogarth Press, 1925.
— Another Future of Poetry. London: Hogarth Press, 1926.
— Impenetrability or The Proper Habit of English. London: Hogarth Press, 1927.
— The English Ballad: A Short Critical Survey. London: Ernest Benn, 1927; revised as English and Scottish Ballads. London: William Heinemann, 1957; New York: Macmillan, 1957.
— Lars Porsena or The Future of Swearing and Improper Language. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1927; E.P. Dutton, New York, 1927; revised as The Future of Swearing and Improper Language. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1936.
— A Survey of Modernist Poetry (with Laura Riding). London: William Heinemann, 1927; New York: Doubleday, 1928.
— Lawrence and the Arabs. London: Jonathan Cape, 1927; as Lawrence and the Arabian Adventure. New York: Doubleday, 1928.
— A Pamphlet Against Anthologies (with Laura Riding). London: Jonathan Cape, 1928; as Against Anthologies. New York: Doubleday, 1928.
— Mrs. Fisher or The Future of Humour. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1928.
— Good-bye to All That: An Autobiography. London: Jonathan Cape, 1929; New York: Jonathan Cape and Smith, 1930; rev., New York: Doubleday, 1957; London: Cassell, 1957; Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1960.
— But It Still Goes On: An Accumulation. London: Jonathan Cape, 1930; New York: Jonathan Cape and Smith, 1931.
— T. E. Lawrence to His Biographer Robert Graves. New York: Doubleday, 1938; London: Faber & Faber, 1939.
— The Long Weekend (with Alan Hodge). London: Faber & Faber, 1940; New York: Macmillan, 1941.
— The Reader Over Your Shoulder (with Alan Hodge). London: Jonathan Cape, 1943; New York: Macmillan, 1943.
— The White Goddess. London: Faber & Faber, 1948; New York: Creative Age Press, 1948; rev., London: Faber & Faber, 1952, 1961; New York: Alfred. A. Knopf, 1958.
— The Common Asphodel: Collected Essays on Poetry 1922–1949. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1949.
— Occupation: Writer. New York: Creative Age Press, 1950; London: Cassell, 1951.
— The Nazarene Gospel Restored (with Joshua Podro). London: Cassell, 1953; New York: Doubleday, 1954.
— The Greek Myths. London: Penguin, 1955; Baltimore: Penguin, 1955.
— The Crowning Privilege: The Clark Lectures, 1954–1955. London: Cassell, 1955; New York: Doubleday, 1956.
— Adam's Rib. London: Trianon Press, 1955; New York: Yoseloff, 1958.
— Jesus in Rome (with Joshua Podro). London: Cassell, 1957.
— Steps. London: Cassell, 1958.
— 5 Pens in Hand. New York: Doubleday, 1958.
— Food for Centaurs. New York: Doubleday, 1960.
— Greek Gods and Heroes. New York: Doubleday, 1960; as Myths of Ancient Greece. London: Cassell, 1961.
— Selected Poetry and Prose (ed. James Reeves). London: Hutchinson, 1961.
— Oxford Addresses on Poetry. London: Cassell, 1962; New York: Doubleday, 1962.
— The Siege and Fall of Troy. London: Cassell, 1962; New York: Doubleday, 1963.
— The Big Green Book. New York: Crowell Collier, 1962; Penguin: Harmondsworth, 1978. Illustrated by Maurice Sendak
— Hebrew Myths. The Book of Genesis (with Raphael Patai). New York: Doubleday, 1964; London: Cassell, 1964.
— Majorca Observed. London: Cassell, 1965; New York: Doubleday, 1965.
— Mammon and the Black Goddess. London: Cassell, 1965; New York: Doubleday, 1965.
— Two Wise Children. New York: Harlin Quist, 1966; London: Harlin Quist, 1967.
— The Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam (with Omar Ali-Shah). London: Cassell, 1967.
— Poetic Craft and Principle. London: Cassell, 1967.
— The Poor Boy Who Followed His Star. London: Cassell, 1968; New York: Doubleday, 1969.
— Greek Myths and Legends. London: Cassell, 1968.
— The Crane Bag. London: Cassell, 1969.
— On Poetry: Collected Talks and Essays. New York: Doubleday, 1969.
— Difficult Questions, Easy Answers. London: Cassell, 1972; New York: Doubleday, 1973.
— In Broken Images: Selected Letters 1914–1946, ed. Paul O'Prey. London: Hutchinson, 1982
— Between Moon and Moon: Selected Letters 1946–1972, ed. Paul O'Prey. London: Hutchinson, 1984
— Collected Writings on Poetry, ed. Paul O'Prey, Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1995.
— Complete Short Stories, ed. Lucia Graves, Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1995.
— Some Speculations on Literature, History, and Religion, ed. Patrick Quinn, Manchester: Carcanet Press, 2000.
— An Anthology from X (Oxford University Press 1988). X (magazine) ran from 1959–62. Edited by the poet David Wright & the painter Patrick Swift. Contributors include Graves, W.H. Auden, Samuel Beckett, et al.

Back to index of world poetry (https://www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php?topic=54630.0)
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 18 May, 2010, 14:20:08
Robert Graves recording of his poem "The Face in the mirror".

The Face in the Mirror
Robert Graves

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcJXrfwUiS4

Grey haunted eyes, absent-mindedly glaring
From wide, uneven orbits; one brow drooping
Somewhat over the eye
Because of a missile fragment still inhering,
Skin-deep, as a foolish record of old-world fighting.

Crookedly broken nose — low tackling caused it;
Cheeks, furrowed; coarse grey hair, flying frenetic;
Forehead, wrinkled and high;
Jowls, prominent; ears, large; jaw, pugilistic;
Teeth, few; lips, full and ruddy; mouth, ascetic.

I pause with razor poised, scowling derision
At the mirrored man whose beard needs my attention,
And once more ask him why
He still stands ready, with a boy’s presumption,
To court the queen in her high silk pavilion.

Read more about this poem at Robert Graves: the lasting poetic achievement (http://books.google.gr/books?id=NijnyjhF4RAC&pg=PA1&lpg=PA1&dq=%22mirrored+man+whose+beard+needs+my+attention%22&source=bl&ots=J4gMje-FDi&sig=qZ2XOvvkeIcoQ2M5ctbZg5WfZL0&hl=el&ei=nHfyS4mfC4T6-AaM65WnDg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CAYQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22mirrored%20man%20whose%20beard%20needs%20my%20attention%22&f=false)
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 17 Nov, 2010, 20:52:30
To an Ungentle Critic

THE GREAT sun sinks behind the town   
Through a red mist of Volnay wine….   
But what’s the use of setting down   
That glorious blaze behind the town?   
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look           5
For newer pictures in this book;   
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.   
 
A fresh wind fills the evening air   
With horrid crying of night birds….   
But what reads new or curious there           10
When cold winds fly across the air?   
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,   
But find no glimpse of your “New Age   
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words.   
 
Must winds that cut like blades of steel           15
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,   
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,   
Die stillborn, because old men squeal   
For something new: “Write something new:   
We’ve read this poem—that one too,           20
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”?   
 
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl   
Just what I fancy as I strike it,   
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all   
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl           25
Across my verse in the classic way.   
And, sir, be careful what you say;   
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.   

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 09 Jul, 2011, 22:08:27
An Old Twenty-Third Man

 
“IS that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,   
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?”   
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup   
The red-faced old centurion started up,   
Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said,           5
“Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead,   
Dead in the first year of this damned campaign—   
The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again.   
Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die,   
But we need pity also, you and I,           10
Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss,   
Who live to see the Legion come to this,   
Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot,   
Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot.   
O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh!           15
Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by,   
The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine.   
Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!”   
“Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight.   
The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right.           20
If these new men are slovenly, in your thinking,   
God damn it! you’ll not better them by drinking.   
They all try, Strabo; trust their hearts and hands.   
The Legion is the Legion while Rome stands,   
And these same men before the autumn’s fall           25
Shall bang old Vercingetorix out of Gaul.”

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 11 Jul, 2011, 23:55:53
To Lucasta on Going to the War—for the Fourth Time
 
IT doesn’t matter what’s the cause,   
  What wrong they say we’re righting,   
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,   
  When we’re to do the fighting!   
And since we lads are proud and true,           5
  What else remains to do?   
Lucasta, when to France your man   
Returns his fourth time, hating war,   
Yet laughs as calmly as he can   
  And flings an oath, but says no more,           10
That is not courage, that’s not fear—   
Lucasta he’s a Fusilier,   
  And his pride sends him here.   
 
Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray,   
  And so decide who started           15
This bloody war, and who’s to pay,   
  But he must be stout-hearted,   
Must sit and stake with quiet breath,   
  Playing at cards with Death.   
Don’t plume yourself he fights for you;           20
It is no courage, love, or hate,   
But let us do the things we do;   
  It’s pride that makes the heart be great;   
It is not anger, no, nor fear—   
Lucasta he’s a Fusilier,           25
  And his pride keeps him here.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 31 Aug, 2011, 15:44:46
Two Fusiliers

AND have we done with War at last?   
Well, we’ve been lucky devils both,   
And there’s no need of pledge or oath   
To bind our lovely friendship fast,   
By firmer stuff           5
Close bound enough.   
 
By wire and wood and stake we’re bound,   
By Fricourt and by Festubert,   
By whipping rain, by the sun’s glare,   
By all the misery and loud sound,           10
By a Spring day,   
By Picard clay.   
 
Show me the two so closely bound   
As we, by the red bond of blood,   
By friendship, blossoming from mud,           15
By Death: we faced him, and we found   
Beauty in Death,   
In dead men breath.   

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 08 Sep, 2011, 13:12:29
To Robert Nichols

HERE by a snowbound river   
In scrapen holes we shiver,   
And like old bitterns we   
Boom to you plaintively:   
Robert, how can I rhyme           5
Verses for your desire—   
Sleek fauns and cherry-time,   
Vague music and green trees,   
Hot sun and gentle breeze,   
England in June attire,           10
And life born young again,   
For your gay goatish brute   
Drunk with warm melody   
Singing on beds of thyme   
With red and rolling eye,           15
Waking with wanton lute   
All the Devonian plain,   
Lips dark with juicy stain,   
Ears hung with bobbing fruit?   
Why should I keep him time?           20
Why in this cold and rime,   
Where even to dream is pain?   
No, Robert, there’s no reason:   
Cherries are out of season,   
Ice grips at branch and root,           25
And singing birds are mute.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 30 Sep, 2011, 14:13:55
Dead Cow Farm

AN ANCIENT saga tells us how   
In the beginning the First Cow   
(For nothing living yet had birth   
But Elemental Cow on earth)   
Began to lick cold stones and mud:           5
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood   
Blossomed, a miracle to believe:   
And so was Adam born, and Eve.   
Here now is chaos once again,   
Primeval mud, cold stones and rain.           10
Here flesh decays and blood drips red,   
And the Cow’s dead, the old Cow’s dead.   

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 05 Oct, 2011, 13:13:20
Goliath and David

(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916)
 
YET once an earlier David took   
Smooth pebbles from the brook:   
Out between the lines he went   
To that one-sided tournament,   
A shepherd boy who stood out fine           5
And young to fight a Philistine   
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears   
That he’s killed lions, he’s killed bears,   
And those that scorn the God of Zion   
Shall perish so like bear or lion.           10
But … the historian of that fight   
Had not the heart to tell it right.   
 
Striding within javelin range,   
Goliath marvels at this strange   
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.           15
David’s clear eye measures the length;   
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,   
Poises a moment thoughtfully,   
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.   
The pebble, humming from the sling           20
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line   
For the forehead of the Philistine;   
Then … but there comes a brazen clink,   
And quicker than a man can think   
Goliath’s shield parries each cast.           25
Clang! clang! and clang! was David’s last.   
Scorn blazes in the Giant’s eye,   
Towering unhurt six cubits high.   
Says foolish David, “Damn your shield!   
And damn my sling! but I’ll not yield.”           30
He takes his staff of Mamre oak,   
A knotted shepherd-staff that’s broke   
The skull of many a wolf and fox   
Come filching lambs from Jesse’s flocks.   
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh           35
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff   
To rout; but David, calm and brave,   
Holds his ground, for God will save.   
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!   
Shame for beauty’s overthrow!           40
(God’s eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)   
One cruel backhand sabre-cut—   
“I’m hit! I’m killed!” young David cries,   
Throws blindly forward, chokes … and dies.   
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,           45
Goliath straddles over him.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 09 Oct, 2011, 13:29:37
Babylon
 
THE CHILD alone a poet is:   
Spring and Fairyland are his.   
Truth and Reason show but dim,   
And all’s poetry with him.   
Rhyme and music flow in plenty           5
For the lad of one-and-twenty,   
But Spring for him is no more now   
Than daisies to a munching cow;   
Just a cheery pleasant season,   
Daisy buds to live at ease on.           10
He’s forgotten how he smiled   
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,   
Or wept one evening secretly   
For April’s glorious misery.   
Wisdom made him old and wary           15
Banishing the Lords of Faery.   
Wisdom made a breach and battered   
Babylon to bits: she scattered   
To the hedges and ditches   
All our nursery gnomes and witches.           20
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,   
Drag their treasures from the shelves.   
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,   
Mother Goose and Oberon,   
Bluebeard and King Solomon.           25
Robin, and Red Riding Hood   
Take together to the wood,   
And Sir Galahad lies hid   
In a cave with Captain Kidd.   
None of all the magic hosts,           30
None remain but a few ghosts   
Of timorous heart, to linger on   
Weeping for lost Babylon.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 10 Oct, 2011, 00:40:30
Mr. Philosopher

OLD Mr. Philosopher   
  Comes for Ben and Claire,   
An ugly man, a tall man,   
  With bright-red hair.   
 
The books that he’s written           5
  No one can read.   
“In fifty years they’ll understand:   
  Now there’s no need.   
 
“All that matters now   
  Is getting the fun.           10
Come along, Ben and Claire;   
  Plenty to be done.”   
 
Then old Philosopher,   
  Wisest man alive,   
Plays at Lions and Tigers           15
  Down along the drive—   
 
Gambolling fiercely   
  Through bushes and grass,   
Making monstrous mouths,   
  Braying like an ass,           20
 
Twisting buttercups   
  In his orange hair,   
Hopping like a kangaroo,   
  Growling like a bear.   
 
Right up to tea-time           25
  They frolic there.   
“My legs are wingle,”   
  Says Ben to Claire.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 10 Oct, 2011, 11:22:55
The Cruel Moon
 
THE CRUEL Moon hangs out of reach   
Up above the shadowy beech.   
Her face is stupid, but her eye   
Is small and sharp and very sly.   
Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad?
No, that’s a silly story, lad!   
Though she be angry, though she would   
Destroy all England if she could,   
Yet think, what damage can she do   
Hanging there so far from you?
Don’t heed what frightened nurses say:   
Moons hang much too far away.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 21 Oct, 2011, 22:58:35
Finland

FEET and faces tingle   
  In that frore land:   
Legs wobble and go wingle,   
  You scarce can stand.   
 
The skies are jewelled all around,
The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground,   
The Finn with face like paper   
And eyes like a lighted taper   
Hurls his rough rune   
At the wintry moon   
And stamps to mark the tune.   

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 26 Oct, 2011, 13:34:49
A Pinch of Salt
 
WHEN a dream is born in you   
  With a sudden clamorous pain,   
When you know the dream is true   
  And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,   
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch           5
You’ll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.   
 
Dreams are like a bird that mocks,   
  Flirting the feathers of his tail.   
When you seize at the salt-box   
  Over the hedge you’ll see him sail.           10
Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:   
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.   
 
Poet, never chase the dream.   
  Laugh yourself and turn away.   
Mask your hunger, let it seem           15
Small matter if he come or stay;   
But when he nestles in your hand at last,   
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 28 Oct, 2011, 19:36:30
The Caterpillar
 
UNDER this loop of honeysuckle,   
A creeping, coloured caterpillar,   
I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray,   
I nibble it leaf by leaf away.   
 
Down beneath grow dandelions,           
Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses;   
Rooks flap croaking across the lane.   
I eat and swallow and eat again.   
 
Here come raindrops helter-skelter;   
I munch and nibble unregarding:           
Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm.   
I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.   
 
When I’m old, tired, melancholy,   
I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum   
Close by, here on this lovely spray,           
And die and dream the ages away.   
 
Some say worms win resurrection,   
With white wings beating flitter-flutter,   
But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care?   
Either way I’ll miss my share.           
 
Under this loop of honeysuckle,   
A hungry, hairy caterpillar,   
I crawl on my high and swinging seat,   
And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 29 Oct, 2011, 09:15:50
Sorley’s Weather
 
WHEN outside the icy rain   
  Comes leaping helter-skelter,   
Shall I tie my restive brain   
  Snugly under shelter?   
 
Shall I make a gentle song      
  Here in my firelit study,   
When outside the winds blow strong   
  And the lanes are muddy?   
 
With old wine and drowsy meats   
  Am I to fill my belly?          
Shall I glutton here with Keats?   
  Shall I drink with Shelley?   
 
Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good:   
  Poetry makes both better.   
Clay is wet and so is mud,        
  Winter rains are wetter.   
 
Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill,   
  For though the winds come frorely,   
I’m away to the rain-blown hill   
  And the ghost of Sorley.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 02 Nov, 2011, 09:38:02
The Cottage 
 
HERE in turn succeed and rule   
Carter, smith, and village fool,   
Then again the place is known   
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;   
Now somehow it’s come to me          
To light the fire and hold the key,   
Here in Heaven to reign alone.   
 
All the walls are white with lime,   
Big blue periwinkles climb   
And kiss the crumbling window-sill;          
Snug inside I sit and rhyme,   
Planning, poem, book, or fable,   
At my darling beech-wood table   
Fresh with bluebells from the hill.   
 
Through the window I can see          
Rooks above the cherry-tree,   
Sparrows in the violet bed,   
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee,   
And old red bracken smoulders still   
Among boulders on the hill,          
Far too bright to seem quite dead.   
 
But old Death, who can’t forget,   
Waits his time and watches yet,   
Waits and watches by the door.   
Look, he’s got a great new net,        
And when my fighting starts afresh   
Stouter cord and smaller mesh   
Won’t be cheated as before.   
 
Nor can kindliness of Spring,   
Flowers that smile nor birds that sing,          
Bumble-bee nor butterfly,   
Nor grassy hill nor anything   
Of magic keep me safe to rhyme   
In this Heaven beyond my time.   
No! for Death is waiting by.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 09 Nov, 2011, 09:39:01
The Last Post 
 
THE BUGLER sent a call of high romance—   
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.   
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,   
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France…   
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,   
Dead in a row with the other broken ones   
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,   
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 12 Nov, 2011, 23:21:19
When I’m Killed  
  
WHEN I’m killed, don’t think of me   
Buried there in Cambrin Wood,   
Nor as in Zion think of me   
With the Intolerable Good.   
And there’s one thing that I know well,
I’m damned if I’ll be damned to Hell!   
 
So when I’m killed, don’t wait for me,   
Walking the dim corridor;   
In Heaven or Hell, don’t wait for me,   
Or you must wait for evermore.
You’ll find me buried, living-dead   
In these verses that you’ve read.   
 
So when I’m killed, don’t mourn for me,   
Shot, poor lad, so bold and young,   
Killed and gone—don’t mourn for me.
On your lips my life is hung:   
O friends and lovers, you can save   
Your playfellow from the grave.

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 14 Nov, 2011, 10:19:12
Letter to S. S. from Mametz Wood  
 
I NEVER dreamed we’d meet that day   
In our old haunts down Fricourt way,   
Plotting such marvellous journeys there   
For jolly old “Après-la-guerre.”   
 
Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet
At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat   
In Wales, a curious little shop   
With two rooms and a roof on top,   
A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet   
That never needs a crowd to fill it.   
But oh, the country round about!   
The sort of view that makes you shout   
For want of any better way   
Of praising God: there’s a blue bay   
Shining in front, and on the right
Snowden and Hebog capped with white,   
And lots of other jolly peaks   
That you could wonder at for weeks,   
With jag and spur and hump and cleft.   
There’s a grey castle on the left,
And back in the high Hinterland   
You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand,   
Who slew the savage Buffaloon   
By the Nant-col one night in June,   
And won his surname from the horn
Of this prodigious unicorn.   
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower,   
Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr,   
Close there after a four years’ chase   
From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace,
The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay   
And growled and fought and passed away.   
You’ll see where mountain conies grapple   
With prayer and creed in their rock chapel   
Which Ben and Claire once built for them;
They call it Söar Bethlehem.   
You’ll see where in old Roman days,   
Before Revivals changed our ways,   
The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab,   
Printing her foot on a stone slab
With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find   
The fiendish thumbprint close behind.   
You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son,   
Spoke with the wizard Gwydion   
And bad him from South Wales set out
To steal that creature with the snout,   
That new-discovered grunting beast   
Divinely flavoured for the feast.   
No traveller yet has hit upon   
A wilder land than Meirion,
For desolate hills and tumbling stones,   
Bogland and melody and old bones.   
Fairies and ghosts are here galore,   
And poetry most splendid, more   
Than can be written with the pen
Or understood by common men.   
 
In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile,   
We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile   
With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs,   
And live on bilberry tart and eggs,
And store up solar energy,   
Basking in sunshine by the sea,   
Until we feel a match once more   
For anything but another war.   
 
So then we’ll kiss our families,
And sail across the seas   
(The God of Song protecting us)   
To the great hills of Caucasus.   
Robert will learn the local bat   
For billeting and things like that,
If Siegfried learns the piccolo   
To charm the people as we go.   
 
The jolly peasants clad in furs   
Will greet the Welch-ski officers   
With open arms, and ere we pass
Will make us vocal with Kavasse.   
In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt   
At the Sâshuns’ ancestral vault;   
We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent,   
And understand what Omar meant.
Bitlis and Mush will know our faces,   
Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places.   
Perhaps eventually we’ll get   
Among the Tartars of Thibet.   
Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings,
And doing wild, tremendous things   
In free adventure, quest and fight,   
And God! what poetry we’ll write!

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 16 Nov, 2011, 18:19:05
A Dead Boche   
 
TO you who’d read my songs of War   
  And only hear of blood and fame,   
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)   
  ”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,   
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:   
 
Where, propped against a shattered trunk,   
  In a great mess of things unclean,   
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk   
  With clothes and face a sodden green,        
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,   
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.   

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 07 Dec, 2011, 10:37:18
Faun   
 
HERE down this very way,   
Here only yesterday   
  King Faun went leaping.   
He sang, with careless shout   
Hurling his name about;          
He sang, with oaken stock   
His steps from rock to rock   
  In safety keeping,   
    “Here Faun is free,   
    Here Faun is free!”          
 
Today against yon pine,   
Forlorn yet still divine,   
  King Faun leant weeping.   
“They drank my holy brook,   
My strawberries they took,
My private path they trod.”   
Loud wept the desolate God,   
Scorn on scorn heaping,   
  “Faun, what is he?   
  Faun, what is he?”

Robert Graves (1895–1985) from the collection Fairies and Fusiliers,  1918.
Title: Re: Robert Ranke Graves → Ρόμπερτ Ράνκε Γκρέιβς
Post by: spiros on 01 Dec, 2016, 21:08:01
The Straw
Robert Graves

Peace, the wild valley streaked with torrents,
A hoopoe perched on the warm rock. Then why
This tremor of the straw between my fingers?

What should I fear? Have I not testimony
In her own hand, signed with her own name
That my love fell as lightning on her heart?

These questions, bird, are not rhetorical.
Watch how the straw twitches and leaps
As though the earth quaked at a distance.

Requited love; but better unrequited
If this chance instrument gives warning
Of cataclysmic anguish far away.

Were she at ease, warmed by the thought of me,
Would not my hand stay steady as this rock?
Have I undone her by my vehemence?