i invoke
you
and you ,
spirit of my forest,
your green and golden
tenderness, the crystal
dew in your foliage,
your fragile growth
and the strength of your trees.
i invoke the hungry wolves
gnawing at my heart
to drink sunlight,
to transmute into warm
and caring shepherds,
to synchronize their pulse
with the rhythms of my blood
i invoke
you
to wake to my morning
and into my night
i invoke
your dreams , your hair,
your eyes , your breath
to be near
at the time
of our suffering
and at the time
of my death
i invoke
the ocean, the rivers,
the waves and the wind
and the flight of birds
across these strange skies,
through fear and pride
and longing:
i invoke the song
i invoke the dance,
all the joy
and ease of laughs:
i invoke the child
i invoke you,
sleep,
to solve riddles
and to bring peace.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Between going and staying, Octavio Paz
Between going and staying
the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can’t be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
PS: i guess this is not the best translation.
But i copied it anyway.
I appreciate the poem, the pause, and i know this state of being very well.
the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can’t be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
PS: i guess this is not the best translation.
But i copied it anyway.
I appreciate the poem, the pause, and i know this state of being very well.
armand amar, liberté
Only He can see All is one Their voices rose up And He heard The loss the hunger the crying The animals cried Mother save us The trees cried Mother save us The insects cried Mother save us And the earth cried Mother save us.
Text from John Boswell
As One Listens to the Rain, Octavio Paz
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
Water Night - Octavio Paz
Water Night - Octavio Paz
Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night,
night with eyes of water in the field asleep
is in your eyes, a horse that trembles,
is in your eyes of a secret water.
Eyes of shadow-water,
eyes of well-water,
eyes of dream-water.
Silence and solitude,
two little animals moon-led,
drink in your eyes,
drink in those waters.
If you open your eyes,
night opens, doors of musk,
the secret kingdom of the water opens
flowing from the center of night.
And if you close your eyes,
a river fills you from within,
flows forward, darkens you:
night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.
Night with the eyes of a horse that trembles in the night,
night with eyes of water in the field asleep
is in your eyes, a horse that trembles,
is in your eyes of a secret water.
Eyes of shadow-water,
eyes of well-water,
eyes of dream-water.
Silence and solitude,
two little animals moon-led,
drink in your eyes,
drink in those waters.
If you open your eyes,
night opens, doors of musk,
the secret kingdom of the water opens
flowing from the center of night.
And if you close your eyes,
a river fills you from within,
flows forward, darkens you:
night brings its wetness to beaches in your soul.
although death can be a relief: diary notes
although death can be a relief, and although i am living with my dying:
there is the rain outside and a low grey sky, the light is not enough, pain inside,
in the body and in the soul.
This pain does not exist this way at all,
we cannot separate body and soul, we are one, and i accept the truth of being one.
It is just pain.
Thought does not help, it merely analyses the past, it cannot give the healing and
comfort of touch and love. Thought assists to find through the Bardo: it tells me that i went through many stages of them, interim states, and that i will persist through now and today even if unhappy.
This is all thought can do.
The rain keeps coming, and still i feel like a dry twig cracking at the sound of my name,
splintering when written words reach me, and words addressed to me come like strange puppets on strings moving sullenly through a thick and woolly heaviness.
this dense dark surrounds me like a cloud.
I look at myself , and at this moment i feel helpless. I have to accept.
And there comes the memory of this cloud, and i have been walking
with it since childhood, sometimes more aware of it, sometimes less.
it is filled with violation, with a dreaming child woken by screams,
the experiences of being filled with early bitterness and fear and pain, the frightened moments in the shadow of chairs and tables, the near to unbearable lack of love and tenderness, the history of alienation and self-doubt, the genesis of individuation and growing into a maimed adult.
It is a tale of books and people encountered and of a life in shreds, passing by, as if it was not mine.
And all the badness i had to see and all the kindness i could find move me nearly the same way, just now, from afar. i let it pass and still, i remain enclosed like in a shell.
There is a vision of having found back into my soul filling it with light, but it is also a knowing and a feeling that my light may not be enough for the span of my life and for days like this.
Now i listen to the birds, i can hear them sing as the noise of the rain is duller now.
i let my heart grow out of me and open my eyes and ears.
I cannot escape my cloud, i have to leave it be. but i don't have to feed it darkness.
Bonjour.
there is the rain outside and a low grey sky, the light is not enough, pain inside,
in the body and in the soul.
This pain does not exist this way at all,
we cannot separate body and soul, we are one, and i accept the truth of being one.
It is just pain.
Thought does not help, it merely analyses the past, it cannot give the healing and
comfort of touch and love. Thought assists to find through the Bardo: it tells me that i went through many stages of them, interim states, and that i will persist through now and today even if unhappy.
This is all thought can do.
The rain keeps coming, and still i feel like a dry twig cracking at the sound of my name,
splintering when written words reach me, and words addressed to me come like strange puppets on strings moving sullenly through a thick and woolly heaviness.
this dense dark surrounds me like a cloud.
I look at myself , and at this moment i feel helpless. I have to accept.
And there comes the memory of this cloud, and i have been walking
with it since childhood, sometimes more aware of it, sometimes less.
it is filled with violation, with a dreaming child woken by screams,
the experiences of being filled with early bitterness and fear and pain, the frightened moments in the shadow of chairs and tables, the near to unbearable lack of love and tenderness, the history of alienation and self-doubt, the genesis of individuation and growing into a maimed adult.
It is a tale of books and people encountered and of a life in shreds, passing by, as if it was not mine.
And all the badness i had to see and all the kindness i could find move me nearly the same way, just now, from afar. i let it pass and still, i remain enclosed like in a shell.
There is a vision of having found back into my soul filling it with light, but it is also a knowing and a feeling that my light may not be enough for the span of my life and for days like this.
Now i listen to the birds, i can hear them sing as the noise of the rain is duller now.
i let my heart grow out of me and open my eyes and ears.
I cannot escape my cloud, i have to leave it be. but i don't have to feed it darkness.
Bonjour.
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