Arvo Pärt , Da Pacem [Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir/Paul Hillier] ...

OSHO response to J Krishnamurti (ENG SUBTITLE)

what a...shit stuff...somehow nice to see....:-)
Osho gets quite worked up..must have a reason....~
and i always saw it

The Song of Wandering Aengus, W.B.Yeats

The Song of Wandering Aengus
By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

The Varying Landscapes of Ireland

Jump into Ireland

Jose Marti, I dream awake (Cuba)

Day and night
I always dream with open eyes
And on top of the foaming waves
Of the wide turbulent sea,
And on the rolling
Desert sands,
And merrily riding on the gentle neck
Of a mighty lion,
Monarch of my heart,
I always see a floating child
Who is calling me! 

Eliseo Diego, Only This (Cuba)

Only This

.

Poetry is nothing more

Than conversation in the shadows

Cast by an ancient stove

When all have gone,

And beyond the door

Murmur the impenetrable woods.

.

A poem is only a few words

One has loved,

And whose order time has changed,

So that now

Only a suggestion,

An inexpressible hope,

Remains.

.

Poetry is nothing more

Than happiness, a conversation

In the shadows

After everything else has gone

And there is only silence.

Luis Suardiaz, The Seed (Cuba)

The Seed

.

They told us,

“This is beauty.”

So that we

Might not see her for ourselves

Or create her for ourselves.

.

So now it is hard to say,

“This is beauty.”

And we refrain,

Since we would make a fatal mistake.

Legna Rodriguez Iglesias ,The Man Who Looked After Suicidal Penguins on the Abandoned Beaches of the World (Cuba)

The Man Who Looked After Suicidal Penguins on the Abandoned Beaches of the World

Melancholy and alone, with a penguin
that’s melancholy and alone on a beach
that’s melancholy and alone. Not rotten.
Not tired. Not ugly. Not mean.

Melancholy, yes. On a trail
of Sargasso weed and death and nets.
The happy bottle. This never fails.
The bottle, the night and a penguin.

Melancholy and alone. A sea of feathers.
Where are your friends, your family?
Drink a little, smile, cry, smoke.

Don’t stroke penguins. That’s Zoophilia.
Don’t confuse sand with surf.
Be grateful. Remember. Reconcile.

Heberto Padilla, Anne Frank (Cuba)

In front of Cologne Cathedral
—divided by two black columns—
once more the children
are taking up their songs.

I have watched them playing:
mostly, I have noticed,
they jump from one song to the next,
from one tune
to another.

And today I was given the photo
of your thin fading face,
child, now arrived in your high Hebrew heaven.
And how odd
that I am now sitting on this bench
(a few steps from the Rhine)
watching the water go by,
for I had long thought
that blood would have flowed . . .

Nancy Morejón, Analysis of Melancholy (Cuba)

Hours passing
                         like a breeze.
Shadows of a living world,
passing like a breeze,
they bring me to speak with you.

Stepping into a river. Skipping
over puddles. Jumping
over a wall. Reading
the day’s news. Discovering
rain. Walking under the leaves
of the silk-cotton tree. Singing
in the afternoon.

                           Beating
with its erotic pulse: quiet and pure melancholy.

SS

Rafael Pérez Estrada, Chronicle of the Rain

One of her nipples was red, tepid, carnal; the other, blue, looked
made for death’s caress. They also brought to mind the luxuri-
ous faucets of a porcelain tub.

There’s a story of a woman who was devoured by the moon. It’s
said that her cries were made of silver.

Never write the words “tiger” and “dove” in the same line, for
the first may devour the second.

I was fascinated by the cloud the farmer kept anchored to the 
door of his shack: “It’s very docile," he explained, “and we milk
it three times a week. That’s all the land needs.”

I knew that he had assassinated the sea, for his hands were
stained blue.

“That swan is a rapist!” the frightened girl shouted at me, point-
ing at the erect neck of a ferocious swan. And I, who through
some strange interference shared her dreams, proposed at that 
instant that we exchange nightmares.

The girls came running: “The sea, the sea!” they shouted.
“There’s a wave made of gold!”

I asked her to, I asked her like a child asking for the impossible: she
took off her shoes and clothes and walked all night long on the sea.

It was a forest of infinite trees, and each tree had a swing, and
in each swing was a dead child waiting to be resurrected.

A boy whose eyes were darkening asked me, “When I die, will
the sea cease to exist?” I chose not to disillusion him.