Poems I keep coming back to

Here is some poetry and lyrics I like. Actual poetry connoisseurs will say that my taste is basic; but I think Good things are Good and Beautiful things are Beautiful, and we can appreciate popular things if they are good.

If— by Rudyard Kipling

This is my favorite poem. If there’s a “coherent extrapolated volition of Daniel” then this is a good approximation.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
 If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;   
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And--which is more--you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Clod and the Pebble by William Blake

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.

1 Corinthians 13

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels,
but do not have love,
I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

If I have the gift of prophecy
and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have a faith that can move mountains,
but do not have love, I am nothing.

If I give all I possess to the poor
and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,
but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others,
it is not self-seeking,
it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.
But where there are prophecies, they will cease;
where there are tongues, they will be stilled;
where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part,
but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.

When I was a child, I talked like a child,
I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror;
then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully,
even as I am fully known.

Diamonds and Rust (originally by Joan Baez, but I prefer Judas Priest)

...
Now I see you standing with brown leaves all around and snow in your hair
Now we're smiling out the window of the crummy hotel over Washington Square
Our breath comes in white clouds, mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me we both could've died then and there

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
'Cause I need some of that vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly
Yes, I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid

Sound of Silence (originally by Simon and Garfunkel, but everyone prefers Disturbed)

...

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming

And the sign said
The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound
Of silence

Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits

These mist-covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is in lowlands
And always will be

Someday, you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged higher

And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun's gone to hell, and
The moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die

But it's written in the starlight
And every line in your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

Poetry in my native language

I grew up on a musical diet disproportionately heavy on Djordje Balasevic. Think of him as a Serbian Leonard Cohen.

I genuinely believe his love poetry to be the best of all poets in my native language. More broadly, in my opinion, ex-Yu pop music achieved a lyrical sophistication on personal themes that often surpassed what was taught in Serbian or Croatian literature classes–and rivals popular Western music in this regard, despite serving a market of about 20 million people.

When I ask an LLM for the best love lyrics in mainstream Western music, it returns songs with clearly superior music but inferior lyrics. The first recommendation is Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”–I appreciate Clapton as much as anyone who learned guitar as a teenager, but from a poetry perspective, this is… not particularly memorable.

It's late in the evening
She's wondering what clothes to wear
She puts on her make up
And brushes her long blonde hair
And then she asks me, "Do I look alright?"
And I say, "Yes, you look wonderful tonight"

Of course, plenty of Western artists write sophisticated lyrics–Nick Cave, Leonard Cohen, and even my guilty pleasure Iron Maiden all have excellent poetry.

But I find it striking that the songs I played on guitar at parties in my teenage years seem more lyrically complex than what gets sung at Berkeley sing-alongs, where we’re limited to songs everyone knows.

Back to Balasevic–it’s difficult to pick favorites, but here are some excerpts:

Jednom su sadili lipu

Jednom sam voleo zbilja,
Mislim na ljubav pravu, šašavu i silnu, 
Vozio hiljadu milja 
K'o onaj ružni Francuz u prelepom filmu. 
Vukle me šine pod točak mašine, 
Al' ona me spasila, 
Sve je druge ugasila

...

Jednom je prošla kraj mene 
Sa tipom kog sam znao, taman da se javim
Skrila je pogled na vreme
Al sasvim dovoljno za žur u mojoj glavi
Bezvezno "Zdravo" i klimanje glavom
I sve što već sleduje
Neka, lutko, u redu je
Hej, sve to dođe na svoje
Odavno pravila znam
Samo tuge se broje…

Starim

Jutro me zatiče opet u smišljanju bekstva.
Čim malo usporim stignu me davna prokletstva.
To su samo momenti lošim vetrom doneti,
To su samo male večnosti…
To su samo godine kad se čovek otkine,
K’o od one gorke tečnosti.

Zaboravljam imena, samo lica ostaju,
U prolazu ljude otkrivam kroz šifre.
Dovraga, sve mi to govori da starim,
Zaboravljam dosadne cifre.

Zaboravljam adrese malih bircuza uz put,
I curice što su uvek dobre bile.
Neke bistrine se nepovratno mute,
Ali nikada dodir svile…

Svirajte mi jesen stiže dunjo moja

Svadba beše k’o svadba
I šta da se priča
Parada, pijanstva i kiča
I poznata cura u belom

Već po redu poželeh im
Zdravlja i sreće
Iz ruku mi otela cveće
I sakrila pogled pod velom…
 

...

Retko odlazim kući, a pišem još ređe
I slike su bleđe i bleđe
Pa lepe potiskuju ružne…

Regruteska

Sine moj…
Ti se majke sećaš nejasno
Dobre senke iznad kolevke
Poč’o si da pamtiš prekasno
Osluškujem lepet anđela
Znaću valjda da je nađem ja?

Eh, mani me…
Naš sam dom k’o čergu selio
Tepanja na vino mirišu
Njene stvari sam razdelio
Svaki praznik minu ćuteći
Sebi nisam mog’o uteći…

Stade sve… samo život prođe…
Sine moj, oči njene plave…
Stiže dan da u vojsku pođeš
Čudni se ovde sveci slave

Ej! Sine moj, kako da te pustim?
Ti si sve što mi od nje osta’
Di ćeš s tim trepuškama gustim?
Život baš ne zna šta je dosta…

As my native language is not something people learn for fun or a hobby, I eagerly anticipate the day when AI tools will be able to translate the feel of the entire corpus into English.