Is english the best language for poems.

<<I'm a racist you say? Hope you dont tell my wife, she is Asian. >>

You only married her because Asian chicks are easy. No white would take you.

And now he is reduced to personal attacks.

"Asian chicks are easy"
Ha ha ha! racism and sexism in one comment. Nice.
Have a nice day fuming over your insecurity.

BTW you spend an awful lot of time in here for someone who thinks English is a waste of time. Why?

<<BTW you spend an awful lot of time in here for someone who thinks English is a waste of time. Why? >>


Well, since I spent all that effort learning it, I may as well at least do something with it, even if it is only arguing with retarded people on the internet. It seems it's better than nothing, it reduces the pain of the recognition of the waste, a defense mechanism. I can boast of that my English allowed me to interact with other races, and insult them hahaha!

"interact with other races and insult them"
Each comment you make further exposes your hypocrisy.
I take it by "retarded" you mean 'people who do not think exactly as you do'.
Sort your life out.

<<"The english are are a load of self-conceited shit"
Thats not a racially divisive statement at all, is it? >>

Or more precisely, I said "Are the English a load of self-conceited shit?"

That was a question, not a statement! Can't you tell the difference between a question and a statement?

Ya. That is so typical of you! You're always trying to twist my words and make me look bad.

This is what you are best at -- twisting facts and figures to rationalize your attempts to demonize other people.

The sad thing is that the one who demonizes is the demon itself!

For your information, yes, I have been to English-speaking countries and I have seen those repugnant racists reveal their true colours. Face it, racism is deeply ingrained in your culture and you are the one who claims the rest of the world is inferior, not me.

So you're not a racist. Do I need to congratulate you or have a celebration with you? What's the big deal when there are still tons of disgusting racists in your country as well as other English-speaking countries!

Actually old son, you did make that very statement. Check again.
There is no need to twist your words. The racial intolerance and xenophobia in them is apparent to all.
Since you admit I am not a racist then why did you call me one to begin with?
Also the majority of English speaking nations have equal rights laws preventing the discrimination you claim is so widespread.
Can you claim the same? Why do so many foreigners seek better lives in these countries if we are all so racist?

Don't you think it would be a good idea to raise the tone of this post.

Be positive rather than negative.

This is a poem (video), with subtitles:


http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/videoitem.html?id=39


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By Wislawa Szymborska
Animated poem read by Flora Coker. 02:00


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i am a tranquillizer
i am effective at home
i work in the office
i can take exams
or the witness stand
i mend broken cups with care
all you have to do is take me
let me melt beneath your tongue
just gulp me
with a glass of water

i know how to handle misfortune
how to take bad news
i can minimize injustice
lighten up god's absence
or pick up the widows veil that suits your face
what are you waiting for -
have faith in my technical compassion

you're still a young man/woman
it's not too late to learn how to unwind
who said
you have to take it on the chin?

let me have your abiss
i'll cushion it with sleep

you'll thanks me for giving you
four paws to fall on

sell me your soul
there are no other takers
there is no devil any more



In English and Polish

http://www.arlindo-correia.com/wislawa_szymborska.html

Prospekt



Jestem pastylka na uspokojenie,
Działam w mieszkaniu,
skutkuję w urzędzie,
siadam do egzaminów,
staje na rozprawie,
starannie sklejam rozbite garnuszki -
tylko mnie zażyj,
rozpuść pod językiem,
tylko mnie połknij,
tylko popij wodą.

Wiem, co robić z nieszczęściem,
jak znieść złą nowinę,
zmniejszyć niesprawiedliwość,
rozjasnić brak Boga,
dobrać do twarzy kapelusz żałobny.
Na co czekasz -
zaufaj chemicznej litości.

Jesteś jeszcze młody (młoda),
powinieneś (powinnaś) urządzić się jakoś.
Kto powiedział, że życie ma być odważnie przeżyte?

Oddaj mi swoją przepaść -
wymoszczę ją snem,
będziesz mi wdzięczny (wdzięczna)
za cztery łapy spadania.

Sprzedaj mi swoją duszę.
Inny się kupiec nie trafi.

Innego diabła już nie ma.

Preposition

Sally Van Doren

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/videoitem.html?id=149

preposition:


>>In English, the most used prepositions are "of", "to", "in", "for", "with" and "on". Simply put, a preposition indicates a relation between things mentioned in a sentence.<<

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Preposition

Poem on Prepositions -

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/videoitem.html?id=149


English Prepositions List


* aboard
* about
* above
* across
* after
* against
* along
* amid
* among
* anti
* around
* as
* at

* before
* behind
* below
* beneath
* beside
* besides
* between
* beyond
* but
* by

* concerning
* considering

* despite
* down
* during

* except
* excepting
* excluding

* following
* for
* from

* in
* inside
* into

* like

* minus

* near

* of
* off
* on
* onto
* opposite
* outside
* over

* past
* per
* plus

* regarding
* round

* save
* since

* than
* through
* to
* toward
* towards

* under
* underneath
* unlike
* until



http://www.englishclub.com/grammar/prepositions-list.htm
* up
* upon

* versus
* via

* with
* within
* without

Here is the first stanza of Ashbery's Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror

You can read the rest here: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/self-portrait-in-a-convex-mirror/

As Parmigianino did it, the right hand
Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
And swerving easily away, as though to protect
What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,
Fur, pleated muslin, a coral ring run together
In a movement supporting the face, which swims
Toward and away like the hand
Except that it is in repose. It is what is
Sequestered. Vasari says, "Francesco one day set himself
To take his own portrait, looking at himself from that purpose
In a convex mirror, such as is used by barbers . . .
He accordingly caused a ball of wood to be made
By a turner, and having divided it in half and
Brought it to the size of the mirror, he set himself
With great art to copy all that he saw in the glass,"
Chiefly his reflection, of which the portrait
Is the reflection, of which the portrait
Is the reflection once removed.
The glass chose to reflect only what he saw
Which was enough for his purpose: his image
Glazed, embalmed, projected at a 180-degree angle.
The time of day or the density of the light
Adhering to the face keeps it
Lively and intact in a recurring wave
Of arrival. The soul establishes itself.
But how far can it swim out through the eyes
And still return safely to its nest? The surface
Of the mirror being convex, the distance increases
Significantly; that is, enough to make the point
That the soul is a captive, treated humanely, kept
In suspension, unable to advance much farther
Than your look as it intercepts the picture.
Pope Clement and his court were "stupefied"
By it, according to Vasari, and promised a commission
That never materialized. The soul has to stay where it is,
Even though restless, hearing raindrops at the pane,
The sighing of autumn leaves thrashed by the wind,
Longing to be free, outside, but it must stay
Posing in this place. It must move
As little as possible. This is what the portrait says.
But there is in that gaze a combination
Of tenderness, amusement and regret, so powerful
In its restraint that one cannot look for long.
The secret is too plain. The pity of it smarts,
Makes hot tears spurt: that the soul is not a soul,
Has no secret, is small, and it fits
Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.
That is the tune but there are no words.
The words are only speculation
(From the Latin speculum, mirror):
They seek and cannot find the meaning of the music.
We see only postures of the dream,
Riders of the motion that swings the face
Into view under evening skies, with no
False disarray as proof of authenticity.
But it is life englobed.
One would like to stick one's hand
Out of the globe, but its dimension,
What carries it, will not allow it.
No doubt it is this, not the reflex
To hide something, which makes the hand loom large
As it retreats slightly. There is no way
To build it flat like a section of wall:
It must join the segment of a circle,
Roving back to the body of which it seems
So unlikely a part, to fence in and shore up the face
On which the effort of this condition reads
Like a pinpoint of a smile, a spark
Or star one is not sure of having seen
As darkness resumes. A perverse light whose
Imperative of subtlety dooms in advance its
Conceit to light up: unimportant but meant.
Francesco, your hand is big enough
To wreck the sphere, and too big,
One would think, to weave delicate meshes
That only argue its further detention.
(Big, but not coarse, merely on another scale,
Like a dozing whale on the sea bottom
In relation to the tiny, self-important ship
On the surface.) But your eyes proclaim
That everything is surface. The surface is what's there
And nothing can exist except what's there.
There are no recesses in the room, only alcoves,
And the window doesn't matter much, or that
Sliver of window or mirror on the right, even
As a gauge of the weather, which in French is
Le temps, the word for time, and which
Follows a course wherein changes are merely
Features of the whole. The whole is stable within
Instability, a globe like ours, resting
On a pedestal of vacuum, a ping-pong ball
Secure on its jet of water.
And just as there are no words for the surface, that is,
No words to say what it really is, that it is not
Superficial but a visible core, then there is
No way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience.
You will stay on, restive, serene in
Your gesture which is neither embrace nor warning
But which holds something of both in pure
Affirmation that doesn't affirm anything.

From:The Bridge by Hart Crane, 1930

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
Till elevators drop us from our day

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took step of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,--
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon . . . Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover's cry—

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path--condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited;
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City's fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year . . .


O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

English is a world language because it works as a simple auxiliary language for basic communication, but it's quite ugly and nothing to write poems with.

<<English is a world language because it works as a simple auxiliary language for basic communication, but it's quite ugly and nothing to write poems with.>>


"Nothing is beautiful, only man: on this piece of naivete rests all aesthetics, it is the first truth of aesthetics. Let us immediately add its second: nothing is ugly but degenerate man - the domain of aesthetic judgment is therewith defined.”

Friedrich Nietzsche quotes