They are like food for the soul. So, we were talking about soulmates, loneliness, fear…This week I want you to share your favorite poem. It can be in your language. I’m going to share my favorite poem, one of them of course. And you’re always welcome to return to this blog and share another poem. But if you have to single out one poem, what would it be?
I suggest you to post in English/Portugues/Françai/Espanol. But you can also post in your mother tongue. In this case, it will take more time to be moderated, because we need to translate to avoid spam.
Please feel free to put your favorite poem and share with other readers. I selected one Greek (in English) and one in Portugues. They are in the post # 1
Thank you!
Paulo
UPDATE: I am surprised with the quantity/quality of posts. Today I suggested a good friend in HP Printer Division consider publishing around 200 poems that are pubic domain. An anthology by popular vote! He is considering
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Poema de Olga María Vargas
58 Segundos de amor
Un día inesperado en algunos segundos,
me encontraba divisando a quién nunca toleré,
ajena de mi ser pero no de mi conciencia,
caminé en un minuto hacia el mundo q conmovió mi ser.
Cuando vi su sombra acercándose, temblé;
miré cómo una luz despampanante,
encendió mi alma en segundos de fulgor,
y logré ver transparente su innato corazón.
¿Por qué antes no soportaba a un alma tan radiante?
su sonrisa me instigó y revolucionó mi sentir,
en unos segundos lo empecé a ver con otro mirar,
con los ojos amorosos e ilusionados sin razón del corazón.
Desde aquel día no he vuelto a sentir intolerancia
al tenerlo cerca de mi piel,
ahora sólo pienso que los segundos con él,
son los más significativos habitados en mi ser.
Entiendo que lejos se tiene que ir,
y detenerlo no puedo ya,
sé que esto me causará un intenso sufrir,
pero lo amo tanto que prefiero la luz de su recuerdo.
Sólo intentaré que en un minuto inesperado,
él me pueda mirar…
luego sus brazos me rodearán fuertemente,
y más tarde sus labios guardarán los míos.
En ese mismo instante viviremos en carne propia,
58 segundos de amor;
y entonces los dos segundos que restan,
él se alejará despacio conmigo en su interior.
TRUTH
Find me
Let your WILL be stronger than a storm
Let your impatience be lighter than a feather
Love and kiss foreigners, saturate the instinct,
But in ME your name will only find the final rest
Write me on the sand, paint me
YOU RESIDE IN ME
Take me
With the softness of a breeze
The sunset of the final day has come
Your blood will happily reunite with mine
Like the fish in the deepness of the South SEA
YOU RESIDE IN ME
Love me
Through the eyes of an orphan, through the tears of homeless ones,
But first, Love them all and settle the crown of love
Make the kingdom of compassion and friendship
Only then you can have me whole with all my cells
You will have all my past and present, victorious lover
Settle the chimes of prayer and understanding
Kill all your wishes, Conquer yourself first,
then come to me , in innocence drowned
YOU RESIDE IN ME
Leave me
Go now, go , the final lesson is set
Your purpose is not yet fulfilled, rye is ripped away
Wind is fine,trims are high, ship is ready for sail
Go, my love, go
YOU RESIDE IN ME
THE TRUTH WILL ALWAYS BE
My offering, pure, simple and from my heart:
The Indian summer
of paradise birds
and butterfly wings
too complex for words.
The morning moon
and the stroll in the heat
as the bars close up
in the town centre street.
I long for all this
on insomnia nights
while the tourist sighs
at the beautiful sights.
E. Borges
Before time
You were the beginning of me
before you I was not
You began my life
as I gave you yours
Before time we were one
My heart beat for you
my deepest love and my greatest sorrow
the brightest light in all the heavens
until nothing else I could see
Blinded by the beauty of life
You were all that I feared
and all I ever wanted
the darkest corner of my mind
and the blackest night of my soul
A darkness that filled me with dread
The bond forged before time
before life pulled us apart
now keeps me from living
hides the face of the Sun
An eternity cruelly subjected to time
Alone we lose ourselves
every breath is torture
every thought is death
I plead with Her to take me in Her arms, to end me
to darken my eyes as She does the day
and let me die
But the earth will not swallow me
the sky will not crush me
Mother, let me drown
let Your water fill my lungs and give me peace
The sound of the crashing waves is deafening
inside there is silence
My soul in his eyes shone
and as they closed forever
my spirit lost its fire
So let his death be the death of me
for together we were one
greed and Love
there’s two deeply different way of to feel sick
when your heart is hitted by greed
this grow fast like a bad seed
when your heart is flashed by Love
You bring other’s around on a glove
when one heart is bited by greed
is who whas around that turn to dead
when one heart is touched by Love
around we feel a healing fly of a dove
only Love let You sleep tight
the sleep of the right
Miga Milanese Reply:Your comment is awaiting moderation.
August 10th, 2009 at 7:47 pm
To my father: 1925-2007
Vacío, vacío amargo.
Tan vivo que estabas
tan vivito que estabas.
Tú no te querías ir,
aquí te querías quedar,
Pa´ bailar un poquito más,
pa´bailar un poquito más…
A pesar de la vida dura
sin cuidado, sin ternura
muchas veces,
entre las cañas de azucar
encontraste,
solito,
el arrullo maternal.
El purgatorio del amor
Sean bienvenidos al Purgatorio
De Ánimas desconsoladas por amor,
Por favor antes de empezar el recorrido
Para conocer lo que será su futura estadía
Permítame brindarles las siguientes recomendaciones,
Que les serán útiles para que puedan convertir este sitio
En un lugar acogedor…
Asegúrese de mostrar desdén
A los recuerdos que vagan por las calles
Ofreciendo souvenirs corporales,
Al igual a los vendedores ambulantes
Que tienen por slogan “Recordar es vivir”
Y ofrecen llamadas al pasado,
Sin costo por conexión;
Tenga cuidado, que le cobran el doble
A partir del minuto en que logre la comunicación.
Sugiero no entrar en pánico
Si ve vagando el ánima del desdichado
Que le regaló el boleto en primera clase
A este jardín de rencores y dolor;
Recuerde que usted esta acá
Cumpliendo la pena que él le provocó,
Él esta acá, porque otra lo condenó;
De lo contrario ustedes estarían
Siendo reclutados en el paraíso del amor.
No tengo permitido informarles
La fecha del juicio final,
No obstante puedo comunicarles
La dilación de la Gloria que deben cumplir:
1.Deben perdonar de corazón
A quien amaron sin condición.
2.Deben olvidar sin recordar,
Ya que cada regreso,
Alarga el proceso de redención.
Lamentablemente,
Ustedes pecaron en sentimiento
Inconcientes, inocentes…
Será una estadía dolorosa;
Si cumplen al pie de la letra
El sufrimiento será únicamente opcional…
Recuerden que este purgatorio
Se encuentra en la realidad
Y sobrevivirla…
Sobrevivirla será un reto de verdad,
Pues no siempre la sentencia
Será un pase al paraíso donde todo es felicidad.
Mariela Reneé García Vélez
Julio 20, 2009
15:23 horas
“…Y yo he faltado a las reglas,
he recurrido al recordar es vivir,
y me condenaron a cadena perpetua,
cumpliendo mi sentencia en este existir,
escribiendo versos escondidos en poesía,
provocados por los vagos recuerdos,
que me ofrecieron el cielo,
…y hoy… hoy vivo en el infierno…”
Continuará…
COPYRIGHT © 2009 MRGV, TODOS LOS DERECHOS RESERVADOS.
Querido Paulo:
Hasta hoy pude ver tus actualizaciones en la pagina del facebook, y note esta maravillosa oportunidad de compartir mi conjunto de palabras intentando formar un verso contigo…
Te comento que en lo que va del 2007 a este año, llevo escritos 62 poemas, y me sentiría honrada con tu opinión.
Te invito a visitar mi blog
http://benedettapassione.blogspot.com
Deseándote siempre lo mejor,
Mariela Reneé García Vélez
EULOGY FOR MY BEAUTIFUL MOTHER
by Matthew M. Montelione
If nothing gold can stay,
Then I want no gold in my way.
Life steals an ace from you every now and then,
This time it happened to be my ace of hearts,
And now all of the roses lie dead.
The tears of the clouds hover and drop ahead,
And the pall of violet acts as a bed
For the petals that are weeping.
Yet I feel you in the wind, in the trees.
I feel you in the raindrops blown
By the buoyant cloud’s humble sneeze.
And with each grape I eat,
And each time I sleep,
I know you are with me. (I hear your breath.)
Everybody’s Free
(to wear sunscreen)
Mary Schmich
Chicago Tribune
Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’97… wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be IT.
The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.
You are NOT as fat as you imagine.
Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.
Get plenty of calcium.
Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.
Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s. Enjoy your body, use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.
Dance. Even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.
Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.
Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for good.
Be nice to your siblings; they are your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography in lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out.
Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
Often I share my soul in poetry. Often I read the works of other authors and am moved. But sincerely my favorite poem, the one that gives my the most hope and that I return to again and again to replenish my optomism and to maintain my course is the following;
(I wrote this, please forgive the ego, it isnt intended to be self promotional.)
Love in Reality
Love is not so much spoken as shown
Tiny things that make it only your own
Infinite tenderness in a slow glance
Then the smile to only enhance
The eager, tentative pressure of a touch
Each catch in one’s breath that means so much
Such sweet gestures that just come out
That is what knowing love is about
Love by definition is unique in itself
The appreciation of what you see, how you felt
Butterflies in your stomach at each first sight
How their smile makes your chest so tight
The scent of a person belonging to only them
How the plains of their body replay again and again
The taste of their kisses making you weak
The weight of their body making you complete
Love is knowing that person intricately
On a whole different level then intimacy
The sound of their voice making your day
The timber in their throat caressing wrongs away
After their laughter that little sigh
The excitement of brightening that twinkle in their eyes
Sheer purity in feeling their fear
That ach in your heart as they shed a tear
Absolutely knowing every curve of their face
Your sacrifice of giving them their space
Love can be so many things
Even if not the answer to your precious dreams
Mostly it is what you make of it
Standing strong as it takes a hit
The beauty of loving them after a fight
Still wanting them in the morning light
All the honesty in a comforting hug
Being intoxicated by their passions drug
The powerful release of telling the truth
Acceptance in spite of the wrongs you do
Love is the most complex simplicity
Never being complacent or feeling indifferently
To love and be loved in return
Is the pain for which we all yearn
It is the biggest risk with the highest stakes
The cowardly and weak haven’t the courage it takes
To me that is the true image of a hero
Having the nobility to open up and let go
O meu poema preferido é
“X. MAR PORTUGUÊS
Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal
São lágrimas de Portugal!
Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram,
Quantos filhos em vão rezaram!
Quantas noivas ficaram por casar
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!
Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena
Se a alma não é pequena.
Quem quer passar além do Bojador
Tem que passar além da dor.
Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu,
Mas nele é que espelhou o céu.”
Fernando Pessoa.
(“Nurses apparently found this poem after one of their patients died – whatever its origin‚ this poem is certainly thought provoking…”-http://www.ageconcern.org.uk/AgeConcern/52F7D335B0CB479090790A9C92FE3BDD.asp)
Crabby Old Woman
What do you see‚ nurses?
What do you see?
What are you thinking
When you’re looking at me?
A crabby old woman‚
Not very wise‚
Uncertain of habit‚
With faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food
And makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice‚
“I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice
The things that you do‚
And forever is losing
stocking or shoe?
Who‚ resisting or not‚
Lets you do as you will‚
With bathing and feeding‚
The long day to fill?
—-
Is that what you’re thinking?
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes‚ nurse‚
You’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am
As I sit here so still‚
As I do at your bidding‚
As I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten
With a father and mother‚
Brothers and sisters‚
Who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen
With wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now
A lover she’ll meet.
A bride soon at twenty‚
My heart gives a leap‚
Remembering the vows
That I promised to keep
At twenty-five now‚
I have young of my own‚
Who need me to guide
And a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty‚
My young now grown fast‚
Bound to each other
With ties that should last.
At forty‚ my young sons
Have grown and are gone‚
But my man’s beside me
To see I don’t mourn.
At fifty once more‚
Babies play round my knee‚
Again we know children‚
My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me‚
My husband is dead‚
I look at the future‚
I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing
Young of their own‚
And I think of the years
And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old woman
And nature is cruel;
‘Tis jest to make old age
Look like a fool.
The body‚ it crumbles‚
Grace and vigour depart‚
There is now a stone
Where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass
A young girl still dwells‚
And now and again‚
My battered heart swells.
I remember the joys‚
I remember the pain‚
And I’m loving and living
Life over again.
I think of the years
All too few‚ gone too fast‚
And accept the stark fact
That nothing can last.
So open your eyes‚ people‚
Open and see‚
Not a crabby old woman;
Look closer . . . see ME!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QYDrd1a0M0
The Poems of RUMI are wonderful, as well as Deepak Chopra!
Thank you.
Kirsti
Hello!
Don’t miss the important and
beautiful poetic artworks of
Drew Dellinger
at
http://www.drewdellinger.org
including his poem
love letter to the milky way
Peace,
Laura-May
To my father: 1925-2007
Vacío, vacío amargo.
Tan vivo que estabas
tan vivito que estabas.
Tú no te querías ir,
aquí te querías quedar,
Pa´ bailar un poquito más,
pa´bailar un poquito más…
A pesar de la vida dura
sin cuidado, sin ternura
muchas veces,
entre las cañas de azucar
encontraste,
solito,
el arrullo maternal.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —
alone by edgar allen poe
Ricardo Sena, este não é o primeiro poema seu que conheço, e posso dizer que tudo o quevocê escreve é magnífico.
Só não entendo ainda o porque não te descobriram como poeta que és.
Assim como ninguém me descobriu ainda como modelo fotográfico.
“Nocturno a Rosario” por Manuel Acuña
¡Pues bien! yo necesito
decirte que te adoro
decirte que te quiero
con todo el corazón;
que es mucho lo que sufro,
que es mucho lo que lloro,
que ya no puedo tanto
al grito que te imploro,
te imploro y te hablo en nombre
de mi última ilusión.
II
Yo quiero que tu sepas
que ya hace muchos días
estoy enfermo y pálido
de tanto no dormir;
que ya se han muerto todas
las esperanzas mías,
que están mis noches negras,
tan negras y sombrías,
que ya no se ni dónde
se alzaba el porvenir.
III
De noche, cuando pongo
mis sienes en la almohada
y hacia otro mundo quiero
mi espíritu volver,
camino mucho, mucho,
y al fin de la jornada
las formas de mi madre
se pierden en la nada
y tú de nuevo vuelves
en mi alma a aparecer.
IV
Comprendo que tus besos
jamás han de ser míos,
comprendo que en tus ojos
no me he de ver jamás,
y te amo y en mis locos
y ardientes desvaríos
bendigo tus desdenes,
adoro tus desvíos,
y en vez de amarte menos
te quiero mucho más.
V
A veces pienso en darte
mi eterna despedida,
borrarte en mis recuerdos
y hundirte en mi pasión
mas si es en vano todo
y el alma no te olvida,
¿Que quieres tu que yo haga,
pedazo de mi vida?
¿Que quieres tu que yo haga
con este corazón?
VI
Y luego que ya estaba
concluido tu santuario,
tu lámpara encendida,
tu velo en el altar;
el sol de la mañana
detrás del campanario,
chispeando las antorchas,
humeando el incensario,
y abierta allá a lo lejos
la puerta del hogar…
VII
¡Que hermoso hubiera sido
vivir bajo aquel techo,
los dos unidos siempre
y amándonos los dos;
tú siempre enamorada,
yo siempre satisfecho,
los dos una sola alma,
los dos un solo pecho,
y en medio de nosotros
mi madre como un Dios!
VIII
¡Figúrate que hermosas
las horas de esa vida!
Que dulce y bello el viaje
por una tierra así!
Y yo soñaba en eso,
mi santa prometida;
y al delirar en ello
con alma estremecida,
pensaba yo en ser bueno
por ti, no mas por ti.
IX
!Bien sabe Dios que ese era
mi mas hermoso sueño,
mi afán y mi esperanza,
mi dicha y mi placer;
bien sabe Dios que en nada
cifraba yo mi empeño,
sino en amarte mucho
bajo el hogar risueño
que me envolvió en sus besos
cuando me vio nacer!
X
Esa era mi esperanza…
mas ya que a sus fulgores
se opone el hondo abismo
que existe entre los dos,
¡Adiós por la vez última,
amor de mis amores;
la luz de mis tinieblas,
la esencia de mis flores;
mi lira de poeta,
mi juventud, adiós!
Ah que viva la esperanza :)
it looks like i stumbled upon this a few days. and if i may, i’d like to share some words that i jotted down during the 2008 olympics. mind you, i don’t have the penmanship to write anything close to some of the most beautiful poems collected through so many different languages. this is simply something that means a lot to me. the 2008 olympics was awe inspiring to me because here were all these countries which stand on the great divide when it comes to politics, view of human lifes, and every other measures of belief system there are and yet, their athletes and citizens a like were all gathered together during a momentous instant and under all the banners of our world. it reminded me that there is inherent good in all of us no matter our differences – so i jotted this down on a napkin while watching the opening ceremonies:
beautiful and broken humanity
fighting a revolution of being,
desiring and expecting
a change far richer and beyond
the poverty of our cracked hands,
broken backs and hardened heels
wanting a bigger dream
to dance with all our fellow men
to the beats of a new anthem
under one banner, one creed,
as one country where citizens
are the rainbow breaking
the dark cloud of hatred,
bloodshed and raging war
a beautiful crescendo
of hope and truth
shinning under one burning flame
lighting a compound of souls
and shrouding them in grace and love
Thanks, glad you like it
Tarde de domingo
Minha alma está ao teu lado,
olhe-a,
veja em meus olhos, pela primeira vez,
tua imagem e semelhança,
corra, grite e cante!
A minha voz calou-se,
Fraca, diante tua morte,
E essa maldita insignificância me é tão conjugal!
Teu amor é submisso a mim
E minhas infinitas perguntas,
é o meu maior peso morto.
Esse embalo e essa voz me são eternos como tu foste.
Quero-lhe bem, sem notabilidade alguma.
Pertinácia torturante, minha e indiscutível: “Onde estivestes de noite”…
Perguntas aflitivas como todo o resto,
Assim, também, como a tal idade própria: dolorosa, inquieta…
Tão insatisfatória em suas virtudes.
A fraqueza te freqüentou,
como naquela tarde de domingo onde ouvia apenas meus pensamentos
e a doçura serena que permanecia na tua pele, tênue, jamais vista.
A marchinha tenebrosa, naquele momento,
afável,
- Meu canto é lírico, e a tua voz?
Apenas ande, meu caro;
ande onde estiveres,
e mais nada.
Paulo,
Posto aqui, humildemente, este pequeno e singelo poema. Na verdade, baseado em um impulso repentino e desnecessário. Ha!
Grande abraço,
Renata M. Keller.
A short poem, by Sir Henry Newbolt, the second stanza of “Clifton Chapel”. I apologize if this has been posted already, I have not taken the time to look through all the contributions thus far.
“To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honor while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And dear the land that gave you birth,
And dearer still the brotherhood-
That binds the brave of all the earth.”
Oh, my God:
Comparison so weak; to a secret I can’t keep: we insist on the helpfulness of wounded hands to lead on like marching bands!
Yet we can’t help ourselves; to right our crooked shelves. Every time we’re being seen, like the hypocrites, we’ll keep clean!
“Well, we just think it’s fun to shoot off our loaded guns. You see, I can’t be blamed for my problems were never tamed!”
But soon one day you’ll learn, someday before the urn; that it’ll be your choice to abandon and rejoice.
‘Cause I knew you once before, and it’s a fact I can’t ignore.. That your effect on me was as quiet as the sea.
And since then I’ve let go, ’cause my lips have sank so low. Been picked up by the One, as He said “It’s just begun.”
“Sir, I don’t understand! Please tell me Your command!’
“Well it’s simple see, my dear, to all you’ll be sincere.”
And with that He left me, with a love that is so free.
Please tell the boys and girls to leave their jewels and pearls..
To follow their own God; they’ll be free from this facade..
And lead a life of worth that’s never been seen on Earth.
-Schay
The Haunt In Warren’s Eyes
Tell them to rotate your spot!
Me?
Yes, you rotate the spot!
What is your name?
The intense look held mine,
Rheumy eyes, pale,
Red around the rims -
Surprisingly,for someone so young,
The man about my age,
Insisting to know me.
What’s your name, he asked again
My name is Warren. Tell me how long?
How long since what?
It was his dialysis lifeline
His bulging access that intrigued me.
You have no lumps on your arm,
At least not yet,
But me, I have been one year going on two
And my lumps are as big as my knee
But you? How come?
I touched my scar etched arm,
No lumps yet, I restated.
Tell them, I said, to rotate your site
You gotto tell them rotate the spot!
Tell my nurses and my techs??
Can I really tell them that?
Red rheumy eyes, in pools of defeat
But they know their work
And once I take a seat
And place my life within their hands —
How can I tell them that?
You know your body and your arm
So tell them, I insisted,
Looking at my own scars I will not show
Though quite lumpless yet I know . . .
Tell them to rotate your spot.
Warren held the bulges beneath the gauze,
Both knee sized spots above his wrists
To stop the bleeding.
“These damn lumps?”
Aneyurisms I named them for him
Weakened vessels from overuse
Just tell them to stop –
Just stop hitting that same spot.
But it is less painful at the same spot
Though God knows, afterwards
Hhmm, it really bleeds a lot.
If your iron or h/h is low?
My what? “H/H?” Eyebrows arched quizzically.
Rheumy eyes blinked intently at me.
Your blood count – build up your iron, nourish yourself
Strawberries, Blueberries are things you must eat a lot
And for goodness sake, your damn spot?
Red rimmed eyes, haunted, a question in defeat
Can I really tell them that about my spot?
Yes, whatever you do, tell them.
Please, just tell them to rotate the spot.
(c) 2w009. Magdalene Elaine Robinson. All Rights reserved.
For “Warren,” with the sad, red eyes, and our “funny” conversation, on body image disturbance, power and control versus passivity in caring. Dear Warren, some hills you never really think of until they loom large in life’s journey. Peace and blessings of the Most High.
A Lonely RoadWritten about 2 weeks ago · Comment · LikeUnlikeYou and Elaine M. Campbell like this.Elaine M. Campbell likes
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Dil-e- Nadaan tujhe hua kya hai?
Aakhir is marz ki dawa kya hai?
humko unse wafa ki hai ummeed
Jo nahi jaante wafa kya hai?
Jala hai jism jahan dil bhi jal gaya hoga
kuredte ho khaak kyon? justujoo kya hai?
~ GHALIB~
Translation: ( forgive me for my poverty of apt words)
O stupid heart ! What has become of you?
What afterall is the treatment for you?
You expect commitment and response
where they don’t know of commitment
My heart must have turned to ashes in my pyre itself
Now what you probe ? what you intend?
Aah ko chahiye ek umr asar hone tak
Kaun jeeta hai teri zulf ke sar hone tak
Humne maana ke taghaful na karoge lekin,
Khaak ho jaayenge hum tumko khabar hone tak
Aashiqi sabr Talab, aur tamanna betaab,
Dil ka kya rang karoon khoon-e- Jigar hone tak
Daam har mauj-e-Darya pe hai sad gaam nehang
Dekhiye qatre pe kya guzre hai aaj sahar hone tak.
~ MIRZA ASADULLAH KHAN ” GHALIB”~
Translation: ( must be shamefully poor because translating Ghalib is like trying to translate a TOUCH)
Anyway here it goes…
An age is required before my sigh makes on you any effect ,
by the time I conquered your Beautiful hair, I won’t last!
I concede you won’t ignore my wish but
To ashes I’ll turn by the moment you knew
Love demands patience, and my expectation is impulsive,
What colour I paint my heart with ? Till it bleeds and drips
Hundreds of crocodile with crushing jaws aim at life
Let us see what becomes of this drop( my life) till dawn?
The Road Not Taken
By: Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Se um dia o mundo quiser me engolir, farei com que ele tenhas uma big indigestao.
my dearest paulo, i would like to share this poem i make base on my personall account and experience….
Silently…and Alone
he was there..
and shes here
silently and alone
nothing can stop them
to enjoy…what a nice feeling
i though
ahhhh… what a moment
conneting each other
to become closer
in a far away land
they seem infected each other
sticking as glue
just one click away
he is there…
and shes here
feeling each other
touching
exploring
exploding
he is there
and shes here
facing eeach other
what a wonderful moment
i see…
and i sight…
if only i could speak
but how can i?
i will remain silent… and alone
for im just a wonderful
creation of science
that make them one…
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;–then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats
:o)
Dear Paulo,
I don’t have the poetic talents of a lot of people who presented their work here and I come from a small in the Balkans which you’ve probably not heard of, but I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful hours I passed while reading one of your hors-d’oeuvres.
I could have posted here some worldly-known poem, why not Rimbaud? Or Shakespeare? Even John Donne! But I choose not to because I want to give you the opportunity to read a poem which you never read before. All in the remote hope of giving you a fragment of the pleasure I experienced while reading your work.
This poem is written by Ismail Kadare, translated by Anthony Weir:
CRYSTAL
It’s a long time since we saw each other and I feel
I am forgetting you. The memory of you
Dies in me day by day,
The memory of your hair
And everything about you.
Now I’m looking everywhere
For a place to drop you
A line, a verse, or crystal kiss -
And so depart.
If no grave will receive you,
No marble nor crystal sepulchre -
Will I have to keep you always with me
Half-dead and half-alive ?
If I can’t find a chasm to drop you into
I’ll look for a lawn or field
Where I will scatter you softly
Like pollen.
Perhaps I’ll trick you into an embrace -
And go away irrevocably
And neither of us will know the other.
This is forgetting isn’t it?
I contemplate.
Regretting some of the past
Our crude feelings always shaking
We miss what we befriend
And hope only for the best
As life passes by we never see, think, hear
But when they leave, emotions gather and feelings scatter
And life becomes how it is described
Do emotions only show by weeping or crying?
Or can we express them by a way
Of looking, talking, being
When your heart stops are we described only as ‘died’
Or do they remember you days, your ways
Do they see you live on within them?
Or are you forever forgotten
Pain grows within every soul
But is it worth not living
Should we die inside when pain over comes us
Or do we fight
Fight to breath, live and remember.
——-
This is an old poem I wrote a long time ago, it just popped into my brain when I read this post. Not sure if it makes sense, not sure if it’s good enough and kind of feel stupid as putting it under my fav poem but it all is well.
Enjoy.
Sou Água
Um dia acordei com um sentimento triste
quase parecendo uma tragédia.
.
.
Uma dor que rasga,
perfura
transforma
e altera.
Onde o Amor não a anula,
deixando-a maior do que ja era.
.
.
Essa dor, de fato perdura
e modifica meu ser.
Assim como a água que bate na pedra,
Um dia ela entende, eu sei,
Que apesar de estar diferente,
Ainda sim é uma pedra!
.
.
Um dia acordei
Percebi que tudo estava diferente
Voce finalmente se abrira comigo…
E que não estava contente.
.
.
Meu pulso entao parou
nao podia acreditar
meu mundo desabou
que vontade de gritar.
.
.
O que será de mim…
.
pensei…
.
.
.
NADA.
É como eu imaginava…
Agora não sou mais pedra
Sou Água.
Holy Ground….
Earth’s crammed with heaven
And every common bush afire with God
And only he/she who sees, takes of his/her shoe;
The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
My Jerusalem
I arrived with your goodbye
Into Jerusalem today
Your tears and mine and this city’s
My heart as yours, as it weeps, broken
As Jerusalem’s destiny,
Broken and rebuilt,
As us and my lonely heart without you
As the sad music in this sunny city square
As time standing still,
With its torture, it consumes me
In this city that crushes my heart
With tears we never should have shed
If with the tongues of men and of messengers I speak, and have not love, I have become brass sounding, or a cymbal tinkling;
and if I have prophecy, and know all the secrets, and all the knowledge, and if I have all the faith, so as to remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing; and if I give away to feed others all my goods, and if I give up my body that I may be burned, and have not love, I am profited nothing.
The love is long-suffering, it is kind, the love doth not envy, the love doth not vaunt itself, is not puffed up,
doth not act unseemly, doth not seek its own things, is not provoked, doth not impute evil,
rejoiceth not over the unrighteousness, and rejoiceth with the truth;
all things it beareth, all it believeth, all it hopeth, all it endureth.
The love doth never fail; and whether [there be] prophecies, they shall become useless; whether tongues, they shall cease; whether knowledge, it shall become useless;
for in part we know, and in part we prophecy;
and when that which is perfect may come, then that which [is] in part shall become useless.
When I was a babe, as a babe I was speaking, as a babe I was thinking, as a babe I was reasoning, and when I have become a man, I have made useless the things of the babe;
for we see now through a mirror obscurely, and then face to face; now I know in part, and then I shall fully know, as also I was known;
and now there doth remain faith, hope, love — these three; and the greatest of these [is] love.
Poem CXXXIV by Petrarch
Sorry it is in Dutch:
Ik vind geen vrede en ik kan niet strijden,
ik hoop en vrees, ik brand en ben van ijs,
ik zweef omhoog en ik lig verstijfd te lijden,
ik bemin de wereld, die ik misprijs.
Ik ben verlost en kan me niet bevrijden,
ik heb een houvast en raak toch van de wijs,
ik voel me levend en gestorven beide:
ach, liefde is zowel hel als paradijs!
Ik zie verblind, ik schreeuw en kan niet praten.
ik haat mezelf en houd van iedereen,
ik roep om hulp en wil het leven laten,
ik huil van vreugde, ik lach terwijl ik ween,
leven en dood, wat kan het mij baten:
en dit, lieveling, komt door jou alleen.
I think it’s translated like this
Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;
e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio;
et volo sopra ‘l cielo, et giaccio in terra;
et nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio.
Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra,
né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio;
et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra,
né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio.
Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido;
et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita;
et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.
Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;
egualmente mi spiace morte et vita:
in questo stato son, donna, per voi.
sensation d’arthur rimbaud
par les soirs bleus d’été,j’irai dans les sentiers,
picoté par les blés,fouler l’herbe menue:
rêveur,j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
je ne parlerai pas,je ne penserai rien:
mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme,
et j’irai loin,bien loin,comme un bohémien,
par la nature,-heureux comme avec une femme.
Η διαφανής ενδυμασία των μυστικών – Περικλής Χειλάς (1982)
Κάθε φορά που η ταύτιση
μας ετοιμάζει λαίμαργα
για τον ιερό της δείπνο
και καθώς μυστικές ελεγείες
συμφωνούν απόλυτα
σ’αυτό το εθιμοτυπικό πλέον για μένα
παραλήρημα μοναδικότητας,
κάποια κακόβουλη αράχνη
ιστώνεται στα αγγεία της σκέψης μου
κατηγορώντας με
για τη βέβηλη στάση που τηρώ
έναντι των νόμων
της υποχρεωτικής συνδιαλλαγής,
(κάτι εντελώς ανάρμοστο
για την ευγενικά μακρόθυμη σου συνύπαρξη),
αποκλείοντας μου ωστόσο την εκδοχή
να σε μοιραστώ με κάποιον τρίτο.
Η διαφανής ενδυμασία των μυστικών – Περικλής Χειλάς (1982)
Κάθε φορά που η ταύτιση
μας ετοιμάζει λαίμαργα
για τον ιερό της δείπνο
και καθώς μυστικές ελεγείες
συμφωνούν απόλυτα
σ’αυτό το εθυμοτυπικό πλέον για μένα
παραλήρημα μοναδικότητας,
κάποια κακόβουλη αράχνη
ιστώνεται στα αγγεία της σκέψης μου
κατηγορώντας με
για τη βέβηλη στάση που τηρώ
έναντι των νόμων
της υποχρεωτικής συνδιαλλαγής,
(κάτι εντελώς ανάρμοστο
για την ευγενικά μακρόθυμη σου συνύπαρξη),
αποκλείοντας μου ωστόσο την εκδοχή
να σε μοιραστώ με κάποιον τρίτο.
If
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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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!
–Rudyard Kipling
E TENHO ESTE POEMA TB QUE AMO.
Amigo Aprendiz
Quero ser teu amigo, nem demais e nem de menos…
Nem tão longe e nem tão perto.
Na medida mais precisa que eu puder.
Mas amar-te como próximo, sem medida…
E ficar sempre em tua vida
Da maneira mais discreta que eu souber.
Sem tirar-te a liberdade,
Sem jamais te sufocar,
Sem forçar tua vontade.
Sem falar quando for a hora de calar
E sem calar quando for a hora de falar.
Nem ausente, nem presente por demais…
Simplesmente, calmamente, ser-te paz.
É bonito ser amigo,
Mas confesso:
É tão difícil aprender…
Por isso, eu te peço paciência.
Vou encher este teu rosto
De alegrias, lembranças…
Dê-me tempo
De acertar nossas distâncias!
( Fernando Pessoa )
Ilusões DO AMANHÃ
“Por que eu vivo procurando
Um motivo de viver,
Se a vida às vezes parece de mim
esquecer?
Procuro em todas, mas todas não são você
Eu quero apenas viver
Se não for para mim que seja pra você.
Mas às vezes você parece me ignorar
Sem nem ao menos me olhar
Me machucando pra valer.
Atrás dos meus sonhos eu vou correr
Eu vou me achar, pra mais tarde em você me perder.
Se a vida dá presente pra cada um
O meu, cadê?
Será que esse mundo tem jeito?
Esse mundo cheio de preconceito.
Quando estou só, preso na minha solidão
Juntando pedaços de mim que caíam ao chão
Juro que às vezes nem ao menos sei, quem sou.
Talvez eu seja um tolo,
Que acredita num sonho
Na procura de te esquecer
Eu fiz brotar a flor
Para carregar junto ao peito
E crer que esse mundo ainda tem jeito
E como príncipe sonhador
Sou um tolo que acredita ainda no amor.”
PRÍNCIPE POETA (Alexandre Lemos – APAE)
No te salves
No te quedes inmóvil al borde del camino
no congeles el júbilo
no quieras con desgana
no te salves ahora
ni nunca.
No te salves
no te llenes de calma
no reserves del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
no dejes caer lo párpados
pesados como juicios
no te quedes sin labios
no te duermas sin sueño
no te pienses sin sangre
no te juzgues sin tiempo.
Pero si
pese a todo
no puedes evitarlo
y congelas el jubilo
y quieres con desgana
y te salvas ahora
y te llenas de calma
y reservas del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
y dejas caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
y te secas sin labios
y te duermes sin sueño
y te piensas sin sangre
y te juzgas sin tiempo
y te quedas inmóvil
al borde del camino
y te salvas
entonces
no te quedes conmigo
mario benedetti
My favourite short poem I’ve written.
Warped by insipid vanity,
A mirror always nearby,
He never doubted his sanity,
And admired the knife in his eye.
This has been a fantastic question of the week, it is a symphony, truly magical. Thank you.
This is not a poem, but something I found in a book recently, which is from an ancient Christian text:
You must give me the sun as a garment
the moon with which I cover myself as a cloak.
You must give me the boat of the sun,
that it may diminish for me all evil.
You must give me the 7 stars,
you must give me the stuff of the stars
and I shall be worthy of beholding your face, God.
You must give me your glory of the sun,
you of the great number,
that it may keep me from all evil.
Eu ha pouco quero dizer quanto aprecio eu todos os poemas eum portuguese.Me da um entendindo meolhor de cultura – uma jamela na alma das pessoas -
Obrigada
Marie-Christine
Carrefour
Je rentre d’un pas tambour,
L’esprit tout guilleret
D’une première nuit d’amour
Je garde bien le secret
Cette nuit qui m’entoure
De cette faune sans faciès
Sera mon carrefour
Le tombeau de ma jeunesse
Tu m’as prises
Emmenée dans ce trou noir
Et tu me brises,
Sous tes coups de butoir
Je n’ai su que hurler
Hurler au monde entier
Pour que tu cesses de me faire mal
Hurler au monde entier
Je chantais ce récital
La mort de mes 20 ans
La mort en quatre –temps.
Tu m’as tué
Tué en moi toute l’innocence,
Tué en moi toute l’impudence
De la jeune femme que j’étais
Mes yeux tournés vers toi
Ne voyaient que les étoiles
Mon esprit s’est échappé
De loin, il nous observait
Tu t’es arrêté,
Tu t’es échappé,
Car mes cris n’avaient cessé
De percer ce silence.
Je suis rentrée chez moi
Le visage ensanglanté
Me demandant comment
Comment, j’allais le camoufler.
Comment allais je cacher
que plus jamais je ne pourrais
Marcher seule dans la nuit,
Le cœur guilleret.
The Strangest Creature in the World (by Nazim Hikmet)
You’re like a scorpion, my brother,
you live in cowardly darkness
like a scorpion.
You’re like a sparrow, my brother,
always in a sparrow’s flutter.
You’re like a clam, my brother,
closed like a clam, content,
And you’re frightening, my brother,
like the mouth of an extinct volcano.
Not one,
not five–
unfortunately, you number millions.
You’re like a sheep, my brother:
when the cloaked drover raises his stick,
you quickly join the flock
and run, almost proudly, to the slaughterhouse.
I mean you’re strangest creature on earth–
even stranger than the fish
that couldn’t see the ocean for the water.
And the oppression in this world
is thanks to you.
And if we’re hungry, tired, covered with blood,
and still being crushed like grapes for our wine,
the fault is yours–
I can hardly bring myself to say it,
but most of the fault, my dear brother, is yours.
You’re like a scorpion, my brother,
you live in cowardly darkness
like a scorpion.
You’re like a sparrow, my brother,
always in a sparrow’s flutter.
You’re like a clam, my brother,
closed like a clam, content,
And you’re frightening, my brother,
like the mouth of an extinct volcano.
Not one,
not five–
unfortunately, you number millions.
You’re like a sheep, my brother:
when the cloaked drover raises his stick,
you quickly join the flock
and run, almost proudly, to the slaughterhouse.
I mean you’re strangest creature on earth–
even stranger than the fish
that couldn’t see the ocean for the water.
And the oppression in this world
is thanks to you.
And if we’re hungry, tired, covered with blood,
and still being crushed like grapes for our wine,
the fault is yours–
I can hardly bring myself to say it,
but most of the fault, my dear brother, is yours.
sorry, something went wrong. i cant delete it to rewrite or better: to re copy and paste ;)
Some quotes from Albert
“A person who never made a mistake, never tried anything new.”
“A question that sometimes drives me hazy:) : Am I or are the others crazy?”
“Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.”
“Before God, we are equally wise – and equally foolish.”
“I am a deeply religious non believer – this is a somewhat new kind of religion.”
“If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?”
“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.”
“It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education.”
“It was the experience of mystery – even if mixed with fear – that engendered religion.”
“Once we accept our limits, we go beyond.”
“The only source of knowledge is experience.”
“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.”
“The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.
When I examine myself and my methods of thoughts, I come to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than any talent for abstract positive thinking.”
“You ask me if I keep a notebook to record my great ideas. I’ve only ever had one.”
“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. The mediocre mind is incapable of understanding the man who refuses to blow blindly to conventional prejudices and chooses instead to express his opinions courageously and honestly.”
“The gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge.”
“A photograph never grows old. You and I change, people change all through the months and years but a photograph always remains the same. How nice to look at a photograph of mother or father taken many years ago. You see them as you remember them. But as people live on, they change completely. That is why I think a photograph is kind.”
“Each of us visits this Earth involuntarily and without an invitation. For me it is enough to wonder at the secrets.”
“If A equals success., then the formula is :A=X+Y+Z.
X is work, Y is play , Z is keep your mouth shut.”
“It is in fact short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curious of enquiry. It is a grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion and a sense of duty.”
“It is the supreme art in the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.”
“Logic will take you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”
“The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.”
“The pioneers of a warless world are the young men and women who refuse military service.”
“The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a little child entering a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings with books in many different tongues.
The child knows that someone must have written these books. It does not know who or how . It does not understand the languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order; it does not comprehend , but only dimly suspects.”
Albert Einstein
you rock! :)
Thanks for posting these precious pearls Marie
Βρυκόλακες.
Ήσουν μια ησυχία,
που βρέθηκε στην άγρια πλευρά από λάθος
μου ‘λειπες,
και βρήκα το κομμάτι σου ήμερο,
απαλλαγμένο,
από τα βάρη της ανάγκης
τα βάρη,
που σε κρατούσαν σε πικρή ασφάλεια.
Χάρηκες πως με γνώριζες,
καθώς με είδες να στέκομαι μαχαίρι
και να χωρίζω το δρόμο,
αμέσως είπα ψέματα
δε σε θυμόμουν,
σε δάγκωσα δίχως μια σκέψη.
Έμπηξα τα δόντια βαθιά γερά
απάνω στο βυζί,
που πέρσι χειμώνα με τάισε στη ξέρα
κοφτά ψυχρά, σου πήρα τα χρόνια
τα χρόνια,
που γράφανε ζήτω.
Μάτια κλειστά,
κατάπια το αίμα, ζεστό ζουμί φρέσκο,
τίναξα από πάνω μου την αρρώστια σκόνη,
τα χείλη μου γύρισα από την ώχρα
βαριά τριαντάφυλλα κόκκινα
όσο πέθαινες,
άνθιζα
είπα, να μη σου κλάψω δάκρυ
σε ξέχασα,
όπως ξεχνά η ζωή το θάνατο.
This is one of my favourites, from those, which I’ve written so far
Untitled
Sounds of music fill the air
And a sunray cracks the night.
Stars disappear in pairs
And the moon also is out of site.
Winds push clouds somewhere
And morning spreads its light.
Pope begins its prayer
And the newborn child just cried.
That’s life, fair or unfair,
Natural, bold or wild
People hate it, love or swear
Every day with the life they fight
They are trying to reach somewhere
Where the life will be innocent and white
And they are hoping to stay there
Until the return of the night…
it all wanes.
I burn,
the necessity of your shame
slits my throat
and every word,
comes out broken
it’s bad,
your time of sacrifice
and your blood
wasted it runs
upon my cheek
I yield,
just one drop of it
to seek,
your pride
just to give in
but it’s there,
your shame like I said
so it all wanes
and I fail
over and over
I don’t,
know for sure
what I’ve missed through
this all,
at first I thought
that your magic leaves
like a ghost,
scraping on and on
a moonlit sky
and ever since then
nothing has changed my mind.
I SEE WHAT I WANT TO SEE
by Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Saadi Simawe and Ellen Doré Watson from the Arabic
I see what I want in the farm … right now I see
braids of wheat combed by the wind, and I close my eyes
This mirage leads to Nihawand,
and this calm leads to lapis lazuli
I see what I want in the sea … right now I see
a rush of swans at sunset, and I close my eyes
This wandering leads to an Andalusia,
and this sail is a dove’s prayer over me
I see what I want in the night … right now I see
the endings of this long life at one of the cities’ gates
I will toss the pages of my log into the cafes at the dock and find a seat
for my absence aboard one of the ships
I see what I want in the soul: the face of a stone
scratched by lightning–green, oh land, green is the land of my soul–
haven’t I been a child playing at the edge of a well?
I’m still playing … this space is my playground and the stone is my wind
I see what I want in peace … right now I see
a deer and grass and a stream of water … and I close my eyes:
this deer is asleep on my arm
and the hunter asleep, too, near its sons, in a faraway place
I see what I want in war … right now I see
the arms of our ancestors squeezing a wellspring into green stone
And our fathers inherited the water, but did not bequeath it, and I close
my eyes:
The land in my hands is the work of my hands
I see what I want in prison: days of a flowering
that led from here to two strangers in me
seated in a garden–I close my eyes:
How spacious is the earth! How beautiful the earth from the eye
of a needle
I see what I want in lightning … right now I see
farms bursting from their chains with vegetation–bravo!
The song of the walnut floats down, white above the villages’ smoke
like doves … doves we feed alongside our children
I see what I want in love … right now I see
horses making the plain dance, fifty guitars sighing
and a swarm of bees sucking wild mulberry, and I close my eyes
to see our shadow behind this homeless place
I see what I want in death: I fall in love, and my chest opens
and a white unicorn jumps out and gallops over the clouds
soaring on endless gauze, swirling with eternal blue
So please do not stop my death, do not return me to a star of soil
I see what I want in blood: right now I see the murdered,
his heart lit by the bullet, say to his murderer: from now on
you remember
no one but me. I killed you without meaning to but from now on
you remember no one but me, nor can you endure spring flowers
I see what I want in the theatre of the absurd: fiends in judges’ robes,
the emperor’s hat, the masks of our time, the colour of old sky,
women who dance for the palace, the chaos of armies
Then I choose to forget everything, remember only the noise behind
the curtain
I see what I want in poetry: when poets died, we attended their funerals,
buried them with flowers, returned safely to their poetry …
now in the age of magazines, movies, and droning, we laugh—sprinkle
a handful of soil on their poems, come home to find them at our door
I see at dawn what I want in the dawn … right now I see
nations looking for bread in other nations’ bread
Bread is what unravels us from the silk of drowsiness, from the cotton
of our dreams
Is it from a grain of wheat that the dawn of life shines … and the
dawn of war?
I see what I want in people: their desire
for yearning, their reluctance to go to work,
their urgency to come home …
and their need for greetings in the morning.
When I posted this poem it deleted the space between the verses, which renders the poem incorrect for reading.
I SEE WHAT I WANT TO SEE
Author: Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Saadi Simawe and Ellen Doré Watson from the Arabic
I see what I want in the farm … right now I see
braids of wheat combed by the wind, and I close my eyes
This mirage leads to Nihawand,
and this calm leads to lapis lazuli
I see what I want in the sea … right now I see
a rush of swans at sunset, and I close my eyes
This wandering leads to an Andalusia,
and this sail is a dove’s prayer over me
I see what I want in the night … right now I see
the endings of this long life at one of the cities’ gates
I will toss the pages of my log into the cafes at the dock and find a seat
for my absence aboard one of the ships
I see what I want in the soul: the face of a stone
scratched by lightning–green, oh land, green is the land of my soul–
haven’t I been a child playing at the edge of a well?
I’m still playing … this space is my playground and the stone is my wind
I see what I want in peace … right now I see
a deer and grass and a stream of water … and I close my eyes:
this deer is asleep on my arm
and the hunter asleep, too, near its sons, in a faraway place
I see what I want in war … right now I see
the arms of our ancestors squeezing a wellspring into green stone
And our fathers inherited the water, but did not bequeath it, and I close
my eyes:
The land in my hands is the work of my hands
I see what I want in prison: days of a flowering
that led from here to two strangers in me
seated in a garden–I close my eyes:
How spacious is the earth! How beautiful the earth from the eye
of a needle
I see what I want in lightning … right now I see
farms bursting from their chains with vegetation–bravo!
The song of the walnut floats down, white above the villages’ smoke
like doves … doves we feed alongside our children
I see what I want in love … right now I see
horses making the plain dance, fifty guitars sighing
and a swarm of bees sucking wild mulberry, and I close my eyes
to see our shadow behind this homeless place
I see what I want in death: I fall in love, and my chest opens
and a white unicorn jumps out and gallops over the clouds
soaring on endless gauze, swirling with eternal blue
So please do not stop my death, do not return me to a star of soil
I see what I want in blood: right now I see the murdered,
his heart lit by the bullet, say to his murderer: from now on
you remember
no one but me. I killed you without meaning to but from now on
you remember no one but me, nor can you endure spring flowers
I see what I want in the theatre of the absurd: fiends in judges’ robes,
the emperor’s hat, the masks of our time, the colour of old sky,
women who dance for the palace, the chaos of armies
Then I choose to forget everything, remember only the noise behind
the curtain
I see what I want in poetry: when poets died, we attended their funerals,
buried them with flowers, returned safely to their poetry …
now in the age of magazines, movies, and droning, we laugh—sprinkle
a handful of soil on their poems, come home to find them at our door
I see at dawn what I want in the dawn … right now I see
nations looking for bread in other nations’ bread
Bread is what unravels us from the silk of drowsiness, from the cotton
of our dreams
Is it from a grain of wheat that the dawn of life shines … and the
dawn of war?
I see what I want in people: their desire
for yearning, their reluctance to go to work,
their urgency to come home …
and their need for greetings in the morning.
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