I am still trying to figure out the system of the university web page. As promised, I announced your homework, however I was not able to attach the material to the message.
So here is the deal, pls scroll down the blog for the material or in this case just print out the poems from this link:
Laila bint Lukaiz (Arabic: لَيْلَى بنت لُكَيْز died 483), otherwise known as "Layla the Chaste" (Arabic: ليلى العفيفة), was a legendary Arabian woman poet. She wrote a romantic epic of the knight in shining armor rescues damsel-in-distress motif.
The Tale of al-Barraq Son of Rawhan is an anonymously-authored heroic epic and song cycle set in the fifth century, CE, about a knight-in-shining-armour who rescues his beloved Layla, a young Arab woman who has been kidnapped and threatened with forced marriage to a Persian king. It seems to have emerged as a fictional narrative by the beginning of the 18th century and was misconstrued as history by scholars in the 19th century, who extracted the poems recited by Layla in the epic as some of the earliest examples of Arabic women's verse. While the original tale of al-Barraq is now somewhat obscure, Layla's persona and her poems live on in various guises in popular Arabic culture.
IF ONLY AL-BARRAQ COULD SEE (ENGLISH) Laila bint Lukaiz
If only al-Barrāq had an eye to see
the agony and distress I endure
My brothers, Kulayb, ˁUqayl
Junayd, help me weep
Woe upon you, your sister has been tortured
by disavowal morning and night
They fettered me, shackled me, and beat
my chaste [sensitive area] with a stick.
The Persian deceives whenever he approaches me
and I’m on my last breaths of life
Fetter me, shackle me, do
whatever agony you [all] will to me
For I abhor your infringement
and the certainty of death is something to desire
O men of stature, Banū Kahlān,
do you lead us to the beast?
O Iyādīs, your hands are tied
blindness confounds Burd’s[i] view
O Banū al-Aˁyāṣ, are you not cutting
the cords of hope for the Banū ˁAdnān?
Be patient, stand good stead
every victory is hoped for after hardship
Laylā’s palms have become shackled
like the shackling of great kings
Collared and fettered in the open
asked to do base things
Say to the ˁAdnān, ‘You’ve been shown the way, tuck up
for retribution from the detested clan
Tie banners in their lands,
unsheathe your swords, and press on in the forenoon’
O Banū Taghlib, press on until victory
leave off the inertia and slumber
Beware: shame is at your heels, upon you
as long as you linger in lowliness.
for more pls check: https://martha-hammond-msds.squarespace.com/ other poems that we have covered at the last lecture are: Kubla Khan BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Inspiration recorded while enjoying the ascent to SpringMountain By Kubla Khan I ascended on Fragrant Hill in the friendly season of spring Not discouraged I climbed to the peak and met the Golden Face Flowers shone bright rays and auspicious colors gleamed like a rainbow Incense smoke wafted like mist and a blessed light emanated Raindrops were like bubbles on jade bamboos at the edge of the big rock The blowing wind played a song among the green pines at the mountain pass In front of the Buddha in the temple I conducted the incense ceremony And on the way back I rode a Blue Dragon in the royal carriage.
Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY The Poet wandering on, through Arabie And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, And o'er the aërial mountains which pour down Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, In joy and exultation held his way; Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veilèd maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought; its music long, Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held His inmost sense suspended in its web Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues. Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme, And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire: wild numbers then She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos: her fair hands Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in their branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fits Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, As if her heart impatiently endured Its bursting burthen: at the sound he turned, And saw by the warm light of their own life Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare, Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs and quelled His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet Her panting bosom:...she drew back a while, Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, With frantic gesture and short breathless cry Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night Involved and swallowed up the vision; sleep, Like a dark flood suspended in its course Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain.
Happy Birthday to James Joyce who is considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century.
His greatest work, Ulysses was published in Paris in 1922 but on its release, sharply divided critics because of its innovative style. Thankfully, this only made the book more successful, although the controversy over the obscenity of some of the events lead to it being banned in several countries.
Every year the events of his best known novel, Ulysses, are recreated in their exact locations and lots of literary events are held around the country. Plenty of people walk around Dublin in period costume for the day too, which really brings the whole day to life… and often confuses the locals! for more pls visit: https://www.claddaghdesign.com/ireland/bloomsday-whats-it-all-about/
Shiota, THE CROSSING, 2018, represented by Anna Schwartz Gallery, photos by Wimberley As I Grew Older
by Langston Hughes
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun—
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky—
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
Born today Langston Hughes (1.2.1902-1967) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright and whose African-American themes made him a primary contributor to the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. for further details pls visit: https://www.biography.com/people/langston-hughes-9346313
