Rather unknown to most is how Napoleon went through a goth phase. Napoleon, highly influenced by Goethe and the romantic movement, wrote an essay at the age of sixteen. I will admit this isn't fully poetry but since I am not given the original and this is super super angsty, I wish to tell you.

From Napoleon, A Life by Andrew Roberts:

In early May 1786, aged sixteen, Napoleon wrote a two page essay entities 'On Napoleon' which mixed the anguished cry of a romantic nationalist with an exercise in classical oratory. "Always alone and in the midst of men, I come back to my rooms to dream with myself, and to surrender myself to all the vivacity of my melancholy,' he wrote. 'In which direction are my thoughts turned today? Toward death.'... 'Since I must die, should I not just kill myself?'... 'How far from Nature men have strayed!'... 'My fellow-countrymen are weighed down with chains, while they kiss with fear the hand that oppresses them! They are no longer those brave Corsicans who a hero animated with his virtues; enemies of tyrants, of luxury, and vile courtesans. You Frenchmen, not content with having robbed us of everything we held dear, have also corrupted our character to exist... Life is a burden to me, because I enjoy no pleasure and because everything is painful to me.'

For anyone interested in Cuban nationalist patriot José Martí or poetry as a source for historical study, this post should make you happy. The best biography that has been written about Martí, Jose Marti. El Apostol. (1932), by Jorge Mañach, uses his poems extensively in combination with Martí's letters and other sources, to discover not just what happened to Martí but also what he thought. Fernando Pérez' excellent biopic about Martí, El Ojo del Canario, is also heavily dependent on Mañach and Martí's poetry.

One example of interesting tidbits which are implied in poems but not in letters are when Marti writes in Versos Sencillos that

Amo la tierra florida,

Musulmana o española,

Donde rompió su corola

La poca flor de mi vida.

The poem itself is about his time in Spain. He writes that he "loves the flowered land, Muslim or Spanish, where the corolla of the little flower of my life was broken", which together with other poetic references to a dancing Spanish girl and some passing references in letters had caused many to interpret this as him stating that he lost his virginity in Spain during his brief sojourn there.

His other poetic writings are also excellent windows not just into what happened but how he understood and interpreted the events and major crises of his life.

I've always assumed this poem was about the violence between the Turkish Army (into which all male Turkish citizens are conscripted) and the PKK during the 1990's, but I've never been exactly sure (I've never been able to identify the couple mentioned in the dedication--Zeynep is a woman's name, Derviş a man's). Here's my own translation.

The Dead Soldier

by Sunay Akın

for Zeynep and Derviş

How dearly I wanted,

before going off to war,

to marry my sweetheart

but how could I have known

that the thing hitting the iron

of the gun

and revealing my hiding place

was going to be the ring on my finger...

Turkish sentences are differently ordered than English ones, so that tries to preserve the Turkish sentence structure as nearly as possible. Here's a translation by someone else (Fatih Akgül)

How much did I want

to marry my darling

before I went to war

but how could I know

that the ring on my finger

would reveal the place I was hiding

by touching the metal

of the gun...

I think it's a poor translation because in the Turkish, the poem so clearly and soundly ends on "the ring on my finger..." and landing on the gun changes the whole suspense of the poem. It also gets the tense wrong (bilebilirdim is unambiguously in the past tense, therefore, I think could have known is the better translation). Also çarpmak is to hit or strike. A car crash is an araba çarpması, I don't know how he ended up with the gentle "touch" in his translation.

Slightly freer second translation that I think more closely approximates the Turkish rhythm while abandoning the Turkish sentence structure (and moving reveal from the active to the passive voice to keep the rhythm of ideas, and changing "iron", which the other poem translates as "metal", to "steel", which is a different word, but acts as sort of the "default specific metal" in a way that demir/iron does in Turkish--iron draws attention to itself in translation in a way I don't feel like it does in Turkish).

Oh, how dearly I wanted

to get married to my sweetheart

before heading off to war

but how could I have known

my hiding place would be revealed

by the gun's

steel hitting against

the ring on my finger...

(This last, condensed one is my preferred translation).

It's just a devastating poem. A war poem about death which barely even implies the presence of the enemy.

My most favoured historical poem is Pangur Bán. It's reckoned to have been written by a 9th century Irish monk, and is in the margins of a manuscript now in Austria.

Messe [ocus] Pangur bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindán;
bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im saincheirdd

Caraim-se fós, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;
ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,
caraid cesin a maccdán.

Ó ru-biam ­ scél cén scis ­
innar tegdias ar n-oéndis,
táithiunn ­ dichríchide clius ­
ní fris 'tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth-huaraib ar greassaib gal
glenaid luch ina lín-sam;
os me, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu n-dronchéill.

Fúachaid-sem fri freaga fál
a rosc a nglése comlán;
fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis
mu rosc réil, cesu imdis.

Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul,
hi nglen luch ina gérchrub;
hi-tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,
os mé chene am fáelid.

Cia beimini amin nach ré
ní derban cách a chéle;
mait le cechtar nár a dán
subaigthiud a óenurán.

Hé fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du-n-gní cach óenláu;
do thabairt doraid du glé
for mumud céin am messe.

And because I'm difficult about these things, I'm going to provide two translations to English from the Old Irish there. First, in a gorgeous translation by Eavan Boland, which is closer to a word for word version:

Myself and Pangur, cat and sage
Go each about our business;
I harass my beloved page,
He his mouse.

Fame comes second to the peace
Of study, a still day
Unenvying, Pangur's choice
Is child's play.

Neither bored, both hone
At home a separate skill
Moving after hours alone
To the kill

When at last his net wraps
After a sly fight
Around a mouse; mine traps
Sudden insight.

On my cell wall here,
His sight fixes, burning,
Searching; my old eyes peer
At new learning,

And his delight when his claws
Close on his prey
Equals mine when sudden clues
Light my way.

So we find by degrees
Peace in solitude,
Both of us, solitaries,
Have each the trade

He loves: Pangur, never idle
Day or night
Hunts mice; I hunt each riddle
From dark to light.

And then one by Robin Flower, which is a little looser, but rhymes and preserves the metre of the original:

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

Poetry was discovered among the large number of papers and tapes left behind after the Jonestown deaths. There's a poem about the Six-Day Siege that I really like by Barbara Walker, but for today, I plan to share two poems by two different school-aged children in Jonestown: Jimmy Cordell and Christopher Campbell. The first poem, by Cordell, is a poetic tribute to Jim Jones. The second, by Campbell, is about Jonestown itself.

I'll just quote the short biographical blurb on the two authors:

Only one of the two poets below is known. Jimmy Cordell was the youngest member of his family to emigrate, first from his hometown of Indianapolis to California, and then to Guyana, where he died along with 20 relatives. The undated tribute to Jim Jones was likely written when Jimmy was 13.

The other poet, Christopher Campbell, is unknown – no one by that name died in Guyana – but the language and setting of the piece suggest that the author, using a nom de plume, was Jimmy Cordell’s contemporary who, like Jimmy, lived and likely died in Jonestown.

Poems can be read here (2 page PDF).

I'll also reproduce both poems below, in case you can't read the PDF. Both of these textual reproductions can be found here (not a PDF).

“Jim”
By Jimmy Cordell

As the twilights dim, I see him,
his name is Jim
He has looked and he has found,
it’s so great to step on our communist ground.

He’s brought us here to build this land,
working together with cutlass in hand.

Working, striving day by day,
he is blessing us in every way.

Our land is beautiful, from beans to the banana,
at last we have made it to a land called Guyana.

“Our Home To Stay”

Where we live and work today
Vines and huge trees were in the way
Now on this fertile land
Our home and farmland stand
Against the trees and soil we fought a battle
And now we produce poultry, pigs and cattle
Hard work both by day and night
Is our way to make production bright.
Through the sun and rain we work fearlessly
To occupy the fertile land productively.

There is so much that can be done
We find no time to idle around
We do provide time for play and fun
Cause these are things that should be done
However we will never forget
There are still room for improvement yet
With [three illegible words] the days go by
We’ll achieve the goals before our eye
Our home would be a great community
Cause we work co-operatively in unity
And without the taughts [thoughts?] of going away
This happy place will be our home to stay.

By Christopher Campbell

This wisdom comes to you from the late 14th century Middle English poem Piers Plowman that we attribute to William Langland (with some slightly modernized spelling):

"Thou [dumb dolt]!' quod she, 'dulle are thy wittes.

Too litel Latin thou lernedest, [good sir], in thy youthe'

And that's the Gospel truth.

I'd like to share poem by the 17th-century Venetian rabbi and author Leon Modena (aka Judah Areyeh ben Yitzhak mi-Modena).

In 1584, at the age of 13, he composed the macaronic poem "Kinah Shemor" as an elegy upon the death of one of this favorite teachers, Rabbi Moses della Rocca.

Here's a image that shows how the poem can be read phonetically in both Hebrew and Italian, if depending on the direction you read the lines in: http://www.library.upenn.edu/images/exhibits/cajs/jastrow/Jastrow_32_02.jpg

A little late, but why not.

I love nonsense, and I really like figuring out bygone jokes, so Edward Lear has a strong appeal for me.

He's best known today for the nonsensical children's verse story, "The Owl and the Pussycat," but his real claim to fame might be his championing of the limerick form - we probably all grow up learning limericks because of Lear's influence.

(In his limericks, the first rhyming word is usually repeated at the end of the last line - a little different from the ones we recite today.)

Here's one of his more historical ones:

There was an old man of Thermopylæ,

Who never did anything properly;

But they said, "If you choose,

To boil eggs in your shoes,

You shall never remain in Thermopylæ."

Hmm. Yes.

More profound, perhaps, are the sentiments expressed in "Cold are the Crabs."

Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills,

Colder the cucumbers that grow beneath,

And colder still the brazen chops that wreathe

    The tedious gloom of philosophic pills!

For when the tardy film of nectar fills

The simple bowls of demons and of men,

There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen,

   And there the porcupine with all her quills.

Yet much remains - to weave a solemn strain

 That lingering sadly - slowly dies away,

Daily departing with departing day

A pea-green gamut on a distant plain

When wily walrusses in congresses meet --

    Such such is life -- 

That's how it ends. No terminal punctuation, just the dash. Waiting, waiting for the resolution that never comes.

I always liked Ezra Pound's take on WWI in Hugh Selwyn Mauberly

These fought, in any case, and some believing, pro domo, in any case ...

Some quick to arm, some for adventure, some from fear of weakness, some from fear of censure, some for love of slaughter, in imagination, learning later ...

some in fear, learning love of slaughter; Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor” ...

walked eye-deep in hell believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving came home, home to a lie, home to many deceits, home to old lies and new infamy;

usury age-old and age-thick and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before. Young blood and high blood, Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before, disillusions as never told in the old days, hysterias, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies.

V There died a myriad, And of the best, among them, For an old bitch gone in the teeth, For a botched civilization.

Charm, smiling at the good mouth, Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,

For two gross of broken statues, For a few thousand battered books.

The following lines are some of my favorite lines in German poetry, they are also a /r/badhistory-esque ridicule of the Deutschtümelei (the overly idealising and romantizing image of the Germans in the past, which was a great part of the Nationalism in the 19th century in Germany).

The verses are part of the poem Deutschland, ein Wintermärchen (all from Caput XI), written by Heinrich Heine. And they are quite a mean satire on the romantic image of Germany. It was written in 1844. He travels through the Teutoburger Wald, from Hagen to Paderborn in the chapter.

Das ist der Teutoburger Wald, Den Tacitus beschrieben, Das ist der klassische Morast, Wo Varus steckengeblieben,

This is the Teutoburger Wald, which was described by Tacitus, this is the classic mire, in which Varus got stuck

Hier schlug ihn der Cheruskerfürst, Der Hermann, der edle Recke; Die deutsche Nationalität, Die siegte in diesem Drecke.

Here the prince of the Cherusci defeated him, Herman, the noble knight, the German nationality triumphed in this muck

Wenn Hermann nicht die Schlacht gewann, Mit seinen blonden Horden, So gäb es deutsche Freiheit nicht mehr, Wir wären römisch geworden!

If Hermann hadn't won the battle, with his blonde hordes, the German Liberty wouldn't exist, we would have become Roman!

In unserem Vaterland herrschten jetzt Nur römische Sprache und Sitten, Vestalen gäb es in München sogar, Die Schwaben hießen Quiriten!

In our Fatherland, only Roman language and morals would rule, there would be Vestals in Munich and the Swabians would be called Quirintes!

[Now comes a passage where Heine ridicules some theologicans, writers and painters, which I leave out]

Wir hätten einen Nero jetzt, Statt Landesväter drei Dutzend. Wir schnitten uns die Adern auf, Den Schergen der Knechtschaft trutzend.

We would have one Nero, instead of three dozen potentates, we would cut our veins, to spite the lackeys of slavery

Der Schelling wär ganz ein Seneca, Und käme in solchem Konflikt um. Zu unsrem Cornelius sagten wir: »Cacatum non est pictum.«

Schelling (the "nature"philosoph Friedrich Schelling, the successor of Hegel holding the chair of philosophy of the University of Berlin) would be a whole Seneca, and would die in that conflict, to our Cornelius (Peter von Cornelius, a painter of horrible historicizing romantic pictures) we would say "Cacatum non est pictum." ["Shitted is not painted."]

[The caput goes on to praise Herman that it didn't come like that].