Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Dear Mrs. Houdini
To escape
is an option,
to houdinize
out of closed cages.
to jump off
bridges and clouds,
to walk on the head
across the ocean.
to want the im-possible
and do it,
because who knows
what is possible.
it must be good
to grow
under the snow
and to breathe inside vacuums.
to fly like a sparrow
in the morning sky.
to swallow an arrow
and to pass metal and sorrow.
it all will be shown
towards the end
as a trick,
magical technique.
my vision is clear,
i shall not be transformed
but in another's mind.
later to ashes of a kind
but only when i die.
until then i try,
Mrs. Houdini,
now it is me
who sits on the dock,
still fumbling the lock,
the heart rising
to greet freedom.
and a grin and a smile
will go round and round
because even together
how can two escapists be bound.
Magician Among the Spirits
well, it is not my best poem, but it was fun.
Mrs. Houdini knows who she is.
is an option,
to houdinize
out of closed cages.
to jump off
bridges and clouds,
to walk on the head
across the ocean.
to want the im-possible
and do it,
because who knows
what is possible.
it must be good
to grow
under the snow
and to breathe inside vacuums.
to fly like a sparrow
in the morning sky.
to swallow an arrow
and to pass metal and sorrow.
it all will be shown
towards the end
as a trick,
magical technique.
my vision is clear,
i shall not be transformed
but in another's mind.
later to ashes of a kind
but only when i die.
until then i try,
Mrs. Houdini,
now it is me
who sits on the dock,
still fumbling the lock,
the heart rising
to greet freedom.
and a grin and a smile
will go round and round
because even together
how can two escapists be bound.
Magician Among the Spirits
well, it is not my best poem, but it was fun.
Mrs. Houdini knows who she is.
"Journey to the end of the night", Pier Makanda
Pier Makanda, Merrivale, Kwazulu-Natal, South Africa, facebook page
https://www.facebook.com/blakk.spott?fref=photo
"Waving not drowning", by: Pier Makanda
Pier Makanda,facebook page, Merrivale, Kwazulu-Natal, South Africa
https://www.facebook.com/blakk.spott?fref=photo
Time, Pablo Neruda ,from:Winter Garden
Time
The day is made from many days, an hour
keeps slow minutes that found their way, and the day
grows and grows with extravagant forgottens, with metals,
crystals, clothes still flung in the corners,
predictions, messages that never arrived.
The day is a pool in the future forest,
waiting, filling with leaves, with warnings,
with dark sounds that entered the water
like celestial stones.
On the bank
remain the golden footprints of the evening fox
who like a small impetuous king wants war:
the day collects in threads of light, in murmurs:
it all suddenly springs up like a vestment
that belongs to us, it is the collective shine
that waited and dies on the orders of the night
splashing in the shadows.
El Tiempo
De muchos días se hace al día, una hora
tiene minutos atrasados que llegaron y el día
se forma con extravagantes olvidos, con metales,
cristales, ropa que siguió en los rincones,
predicciones, mensajes que no llegaron nunca.
El día es un estanque en el bosque futuro,
esperando, poblándose de hojas, de advertencias,
de sonidos opacos que entraron en el agua
como piedras celestes.
A la orilla
quedan las huellas doradas del zorro vespertino
que como un pequeño rey rápido quiere la guerra:
el día acumula en su luz briznas,murmullos:
todo surge de pronto como una vestidura
que es nuestra, es el fulgor acumulado
que aguadarba y que muere por orden de la noche
volcándose en la sombra
The day is made from many days, an hour
keeps slow minutes that found their way, and the day
grows and grows with extravagant forgottens, with metals,
crystals, clothes still flung in the corners,
predictions, messages that never arrived.
The day is a pool in the future forest,
waiting, filling with leaves, with warnings,
with dark sounds that entered the water
like celestial stones.
On the bank
remain the golden footprints of the evening fox
who like a small impetuous king wants war:
the day collects in threads of light, in murmurs:
it all suddenly springs up like a vestment
that belongs to us, it is the collective shine
that waited and dies on the orders of the night
splashing in the shadows.
El Tiempo
De muchos días se hace al día, una hora
tiene minutos atrasados que llegaron y el día
se forma con extravagantes olvidos, con metales,
cristales, ropa que siguió en los rincones,
predicciones, mensajes que no llegaron nunca.
El día es un estanque en el bosque futuro,
esperando, poblándose de hojas, de advertencias,
de sonidos opacos que entraron en el agua
como piedras celestes.
A la orilla
quedan las huellas doradas del zorro vespertino
que como un pequeño rey rápido quiere la guerra:
el día acumula en su luz briznas,murmullos:
todo surge de pronto como una vestidura
que es nuestra, es el fulgor acumulado
que aguadarba y que muere por orden de la noche
volcándose en la sombra
A tale by Khalil Gibran, Here at least i can be myself
I was walking on the gardens of an insane asylum when I met a young man reading a philosophy book.
For his manners and the health he portrayed, he didn’t quite match with the patients there. I sat beside him and asked: “What are you doing here?” He looked at me surprised. But as he saw that I wasn’t one of the doctors, he answered: “That’s very simple. My father, a brilliant lawyer, wanted me to be like him.
“My uncle, owner of a large commercial warehouse, wanted me to follow his example. My mother wanted me to become the image of her beloved father. My sister always cited her husband as the example of a well succeeded man. My brother tried to train me to become an excellent athlete like him.”
“And the same happened with my teachers at school, the piano teacher, the English tutor: all of them were convinced and resolute; they were the best examples to be followed. No one looked at me like someone should look to a man — but as if they looked into a mirror.”
“That way, I decided to admit myself in this asylum. Here at least, I can be myself.”
Every word, J.P.Sartre
Every word has consequences. Every silence, too.
JEAN PAUL SARTRE, FROM THE SELECTED ESSAYS
again a stolen quote-
home is where the heart is
home is where the heart is...
i listened, i waited,
you were too far
in another light
and time.
i talked to the wind,
and you let your breath go.
birds took it out to the sea.
i listened, i waited,
you were too far
in another light
and time.
i talked to the wind,
and you let your breath go.
birds took it out to the sea.
heart, give me a home
and listen to my time,
meet me , not my image,
not more, not less.
touch me, feel,
be simply there,
here in my arms.
you kissed my mind,
don't forget your lips.
they smiled into my soul.
don't forget your hands
which i held for hours.
don't forget your eyes,
in which i love the clouds
and the stars and the moon.
don't forget yourself
nor me,
come with your voice
and the silence
you carry inside
this is all,
until then
i will talk to cats
and trees
and stones.
.
touch me, feel,
be simply there,
here in my arms.
you kissed my mind,
don't forget your lips.
they smiled into my soul.
don't forget your hands
which i held for hours.
don't forget your eyes,
in which i love the clouds
and the stars and the moon.
don't forget yourself
nor me,
come with your voice
and the silence
you carry inside
this is all,
until then
i will talk to cats
and trees
and stones.
.
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