Is there any good poetry about >tfw no gf?

Is there any good poetry about >tfw no gf?

Petrarca (Petrarch for anglos) was probably the most widely known and influential poet until Baudelaire came around. I've read a couple of his sonnets and I could barely hold myself back from crying like a little bitch while doing it.

I'm reading/studying the Canzoniere right now and it's crazy good. The guy basically invented all the tropes and metaphors about love.

But please suggest English poets too. Some people believe it makes no sense to read poetry in translation.

my

diary

Poetry in translation is always the poetry of the translator inspired by the original. This is fine, though one must be aware of this.

The Italians did it big. They even made my favorite form to write in, the ottava rima (of course I'm loose with the rhyming)

Dickinson and Plath if you don't mind it being written by men trapped in women's bodies.

Do you have a recommended english translation of Il Canzoniere?
I've heard that it's actually a bit boring if taken as a whole, quite repetitive and that a selection is good enough for most readers. What do you think?

>The Iliad is repetitive: masterpiece
>Il Canzoniere is repetitive: boring
explain this

>doesn't understand the value of repetition
>mfw

Sorry, I should have been clearer: I'm reading it in Italian and I agree with the other poster that you can't read poetry in translation.

What keeps my attention up are the endless linguistic creations with which he keeps talking about the same thing, but I think they rely on the precise shade of meaning of the words used, their sound, the rhythm etc.

I don't know how that works in translation, but as someone else said, even in the best case you would be reading the translator's poem. If he isn't as good as Petrarca, this kind of "plot" can become boring pretty fast.

Thomas Wyatt

>I die! I die! and you regard it not.

On the contrary, I do. You didn't get my post.

...

kek

Are there any good translations of Petrarch?

My man.
I've read it in Italian 3 years ago (I'm French), and it's nothing short of a miracle.

>tfw Petrarch wrote it in his free time, as a hobby
>tfw you won't ever be as smart, lyrical and human as Petrarch

>What do you think?
The Canzoniere is ultimately biographical, and it should be read as a whole, even only for the craft that lies behind every single line.
When experienced in its entirety it becomes one of the most intense works of art available to us.

>laura dies
>oimè

Fuck, I'm already getting teary.

The walls have been shrinking since you left.

Not that this room was ever particularly big

Because it wasn't, but gradually I've noticed

Inch by inch they've moved inwards.
Maybe it's a good thing, I never needed the space.

Even when you were here you didn't ask for much,

And I gave what I could for a quiet smile,

A simple thank you, and that was enough for me.
Isn't it funny how so little can mean so much?

I wish you could be here to watch the walls shrink,

With those soft, grey eyes of yours.

I'd stroke your fingers, and remind you of that summer.
I know you'd find it fascinating,

How so seemingly small a person can leave a hole

So large that even the walls feel

Ashamed about leaving it unoccupied.
Because if the walls don't fill the space,

Then I have nothing to stop you filling the air

With memories that I buried in the corners of my room

Of events too joyous and too painful to surface.
Of how your quiet smile

Would break out into a deafening beam

Of endlessly reverberating light

At one of my poorly-constructed puns.
Of your warm hands in the rain

On my cheeks, as you balanced tiptoed

gazing into my eyes, your golden wet hair

Wrapping around my shoulders as you lean in to me.
And yet, I lie here, the walls

Gradually closing you out of my life,

Still unable to clasp your hand in mine

And tell you everything my silence never could.

Ah me, the beautiful face, ah me, the gentle look,
ah me, the graceful noble manner of her:
ah me, the speech that made every harsh
and bitter mind humble, and every coward brave!

And, ah me, the sweet smile, from which the arrow
of death, the only good I hope for now, issued:
regal soul, worthiest to reign,
if only you had not descended so late among us!

It is fitting that I burn for you, and breathe for you,
since I am yours: and if I am parted from you,
I suffer less from all my other grief.

You filled me with hope and with desire,
when I departed, living, from the highest delight:
but the wind did not carry my words to you.

Giacomo Leopardi

Why are Italian poets so lonely and well-read?

"To the Moon" by Percy Shelley

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
"Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce."

Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

>oimè
Is that Italian for oy vey?

yes

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock