Sunday, January 28, 2018
IT ALL MAKES SENSE, Alan Watts Inspiration
stolen today but saw it before, Watts..always enlightening
on the quality of memory
it is so hard
to find a path
through memory,
the jungle of pain
this is a law,
we know what hurts
better than joy past,
trying not to get burned
we lose all precious
moments inside
and must work
to find the light
standing at the shore
of emptiness, the
beginning of time,
now, we are the demon
who walks with us
and lets us see monsters,
their grimace a warning,
a signal we carved long
ago, they are not real,
we are as we are not,
sometimes it is a choice,
enter or obey fear
push ahead, burn signs, climb
through this maze,
cut the threads of spiders
and disentangle us
from memory loaded
with torture and tears
weighing us down
until we rise and
the wind will touch us
now. and now.
the mask has fallen
and our naked heart
can take seed again
and sing, fragile,
impermanent. we will
be hurt again, rising,
we will grow new bark
and shoot in greens
out of ashes and coal.
may this be our way.
to find a path
through memory,
the jungle of pain
this is a law,
we know what hurts
better than joy past,
trying not to get burned
we lose all precious
moments inside
and must work
to find the light
standing at the shore
of emptiness, the
beginning of time,
now, we are the demon
who walks with us
and lets us see monsters,
their grimace a warning,
a signal we carved long
ago, they are not real,
we are as we are not,
sometimes it is a choice,
enter or obey fear
push ahead, burn signs, climb
through this maze,
cut the threads of spiders
and disentangle us
from memory loaded
with torture and tears
weighing us down
until we rise and
the wind will touch us
now. and now.
the mask has fallen
and our naked heart
can take seed again
and sing, fragile,
impermanent. we will
be hurt again, rising,
we will grow new bark
and shoot in greens
out of ashes and coal.
may this be our way.
the dark well carries the fragrance of the moon
we let
light in,
open the
shutters,
with
widening
pupils, the
dark
still in
us, we breathe,
jump into
the day
but carry a
fence
to exclude
the hole
in which we
fall
at night,
in dream,
we walk on the
rope
as we were
taught
in the
illusion of
balance,
half our
strength
spent with
the hope
not to die
and slowly
we find
that the
moon and
the sheep
bleating
in the
black fields
where we
lost us
and all
paths,
are a well,
deep
and filled
with power,
not a gap
nor weakness
but past
and wishes
not yet
embraced
and so we
are half
busy
pulling up
the corners
of
our tight
lips
for a false
smile
this and
not wrinkles
causes fear
of mirrors,
they say
too much,
we are
naked
and after we
are sad
instead of
being inspired
to bring up
the water
fill our hands, fill our souls
we feel
ridiculous
for staying in a cage
but could
drop it
and fly and
fall
through
space
stretching
out
in widening
rings
in uncovered flow,
we could
grow,
laugh on clumsiness,
vulnerable
but open,
being rope
and wings
carried by
the river
which is us
and all,
and the
monsters
will turn
into flowers
in the
orchards,
where apple
blossoms
fall in
delicate time,
fragrant
and slow, so slow
and it will
be as a first
time to
come to us,
the wonder
of alchemy,
the secret
life of stars.
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Tigran Hamasyan , The Poet
found this translation:
'Sad night, sorrowful night,
Me and my sorrow are awake alone
Wanting to remember
How we ever found each other
Tell me my sorrow, my black grief
My life's inseparable friend
Since when, from where (Since that event)
You ended up with me
And black memories are still coming...
Sad night, sorrowful night.'
Friday, January 26, 2018
George Harrison , Behind That Locked Door
Why are you still crying?
Your pain is now through
Please forget those teardrops
Let me take them for you
The love you are blessed with
This world's waiting for
So let out your heart please, please
From behind that locked door
Your pain is now through
Please forget those teardrops
Let me take them for you
The love you are blessed with
This world's waiting for
So let out your heart please, please
From behind that locked door
It's time we start smiling
What else should we do?
With only this short time
I'm gonna be here with you
And the tales you have taught me
From the things that you saw
Makes me want out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
What else should we do?
With only this short time
I'm gonna be here with you
And the tales you have taught me
From the things that you saw
Makes me want out your heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
And if ever my love goes
If I'm rich or I'm poor
Come and let out my heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
If I'm rich or I'm poor
Come and let out my heart, please, please
From behind that locked door
dear mr. GOD, a letter
dear mr. GOD
as you can see all : you will read this, and i can keep the money for stamps.
you have given me so much.
you gave me a brain filled with stars which is of no use than to make life complicated.
you gave me a time in nappies, a family, school, then work,women, children, grandchildren, and you will give me nappies again in the nursing home.
your gifts are not always pleasant, sometimes a bit smelly, i am sorry to say.
and in the end you will kill me anyway.
but before you torture me day after day with headaches, dental pain and loads of daily worries.
even with guilt, you like this best, i know.
you are not a fair person,mr. GOD.
even a bit creepy when i know that you´have been the first to start artificial insemination, maybe for the fun of confusing everybody, and then look what you did to your son.
not nice.
i learned on poems and i listened to music, i saw all the beauty you gave and all the ugliness too.
if i could be a poem i would not need to buy toilet paper, and if i was a song i would not
need to pee. if i was a painting i even would not need food.
only i would not be me then.
could you kindly make me a tree when i will be dead?
in the meantime i try to enjoy the not so serious parts of your creation. this i do take very very serious indeed.
i try to forget your bad character a bit and mine too.
we are both as we are, or so they told me wherever i asked.
i don't know if i will ever forgive you.
yours respectfully
me
ps: send money. i know where you are.
ps: send money. i know where you are.
Thursday, January 25, 2018
the past : growing up
all our children did
as we did: fall,
get up, walk, fall,
get up, walk
the pain of falling,
the shame, the spite,
the anger, overcome
with pride and joy
'now i know to walk'.
misfortune is
learning to talk
by imitation
and to smile for
sweets, to stomp
the feet on the ground
and shout for more
again fall, get up,
walk, learn the hard
way that we are not
alone, we don't get
what we want,
in place of aeroplanes
and embrace
we get a new bottle
to suck on, a hat
we hate to wéar,
first nappies, then knickers,
flowers instead of a kiss
a postcard with pink
clouds from a far place
but wanted enjoyable sex,
birthdays are shit
and X-mas is straining
our patience with
humanity: things in place
of love and harmony
we fall, we get up,
we grow up
when we can be still
and say: fuck you,
i do not need all
this, when we sing
under the shower
for no reason at all.
and laugh about
mostly ourselves,
naked, ridiculous,
but happy.
when we know
we must always
learn to walk
and that we can be
seated at the best place,
near the last and purest
joy: humour.
then we can be kind.
note:
humour is not with others but with oneself,first,
in case this has not been clear
as we did: fall,
get up, walk, fall,
get up, walk
the pain of falling,
the shame, the spite,
the anger, overcome
with pride and joy
'now i know to walk'.
misfortune is
learning to talk
by imitation
and to smile for
sweets, to stomp
the feet on the ground
and shout for more
again fall, get up,
walk, learn the hard
way that we are not
alone, we don't get
what we want,
in place of aeroplanes
and embrace
we get a new bottle
to suck on, a hat
we hate to wéar,
first nappies, then knickers,
flowers instead of a kiss
a postcard with pink
clouds from a far place
but wanted enjoyable sex,
birthdays are shit
and X-mas is straining
our patience with
humanity: things in place
of love and harmony
we fall, we get up,
we grow up
when we can be still
and say: fuck you,
i do not need all
this, when we sing
under the shower
for no reason at all.
and laugh about
mostly ourselves,
naked, ridiculous,
but happy.
when we know
we must always
learn to walk
and that we can be
seated at the best place,
near the last and purest
joy: humour.
then we can be kind.
note:
humour is not with others but with oneself,first,
in case this has not been clear
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Broadchurch Soundtrack ,The Journey
each day is my journey, each moment-
forever. why run? why do all i used to do?
i am still and in me and out of me,
let me be wander and wonder
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
there are no saints
there are no saints.
enlightenment does not make anybody holy
but richer, richer of pain and of joy.
pain is a condition for joy,and joy is a condition for pain.
they are as inseparable as life and death.
sometimes poetry or more so music may take us
right into this dance between suffering and near
ecstatic joy, and we 'feel' the connection more deeply
than in many other ways. but there are other ways.
meditation will help with one part of this kind of enlightenment.
unfortunately mere detachment will not allow true growth.
we have to actively work and go deep into the alchemy of
imagination.
we have to go through the recognition and roots of what is called 'transference'
in psychoanalysis.
mainly we have to go through our judgements and reactions on other persons: here we find the parts of us we do not wish to see.
the one we do not want to be.
we react most strongly to persons in which we see from the first moment
somebody repulsing us, something extremely uncomfortable, traits of the demons and devils of our
very own dark experience: it is us, too.
everybody can perceive this, often daily.
saying it another way the work towards the evolvement of a truly adult person must be
gone in humility and with the the task of seeing: you are me, tat tvam asi.
tat tvam asi is not a statement, it is a task, a path to communicate with us and each other,
all living beings.
when we only watch badness as if it has nothing to do with us,
saying 'oo oo this is bad, i cannot even see this', we will remain blind.
there are times when we must transmit us into the heart of concentration camps, gulags,
war crimes,colonial prisons in full. we must be really there and ask us how we would act or react.
we must be at the heart of badness and ask ourselves truly.
and we must doubt us, have bad dreams and shiver.
we must see us in the life of the seduced, the cruel, the indifferent, the slaughterers
and the victims, the hopeless and the courageous and the so immensely alive ones.
we must dive into monsters and into slaves, into the secretaries and into the killers,
the doctors, the spies. we must see our 'Judas'.
we must see how love can turn into hate, and how the longing for love
can turn men and women hard and cruel, how indeed flattery and rewardment
can dominate our life.
we must see what happened in our childhood, in our life.
we must accept the trauma of seeing us.
and we may find the possibilities for choice though
we can never know how we are or will not be and how we will act, not with certainty.
we can be aware.
but we must also meditate and let go and feel
how unimportant we are and all what we think.
and we need to live now and not only in the past.
we need a garden and walls.
even God rested for a day., they say so.
today i said we. i didn't say us. we have to do it alone, each one.
of course we can let it all be and be zombies coming up with the whistle of the master
for a dance in the graveyard.
for sure the master will be no good.
there are no saints.
and i am not important.
and saying what is written above is just as unimportant as saying this.
only a witnessing of signposts.
enlightenment does not make anybody holy
but richer, richer of pain and of joy.
pain is a condition for joy,and joy is a condition for pain.
they are as inseparable as life and death.
sometimes poetry or more so music may take us
right into this dance between suffering and near
ecstatic joy, and we 'feel' the connection more deeply
than in many other ways. but there are other ways.
meditation will help with one part of this kind of enlightenment.
unfortunately mere detachment will not allow true growth.
we have to actively work and go deep into the alchemy of
imagination.
we have to go through the recognition and roots of what is called 'transference'
in psychoanalysis.
mainly we have to go through our judgements and reactions on other persons: here we find the parts of us we do not wish to see.
the one we do not want to be.
we react most strongly to persons in which we see from the first moment
somebody repulsing us, something extremely uncomfortable, traits of the demons and devils of our
very own dark experience: it is us, too.
everybody can perceive this, often daily.
saying it another way the work towards the evolvement of a truly adult person must be
gone in humility and with the the task of seeing: you are me, tat tvam asi.
tat tvam asi is not a statement, it is a task, a path to communicate with us and each other,
all living beings.
when we only watch badness as if it has nothing to do with us,
saying 'oo oo this is bad, i cannot even see this', we will remain blind.
there are times when we must transmit us into the heart of concentration camps, gulags,
war crimes,colonial prisons in full. we must be really there and ask us how we would act or react.
we must be at the heart of badness and ask ourselves truly.
and we must doubt us, have bad dreams and shiver.
we must see us in the life of the seduced, the cruel, the indifferent, the slaughterers
and the victims, the hopeless and the courageous and the so immensely alive ones.
we must dive into monsters and into slaves, into the secretaries and into the killers,
the doctors, the spies. we must see our 'Judas'.
we must see how love can turn into hate, and how the longing for love
can turn men and women hard and cruel, how indeed flattery and rewardment
can dominate our life.
we must see what happened in our childhood, in our life.
we must accept the trauma of seeing us.
and we may find the possibilities for choice though
we can never know how we are or will not be and how we will act, not with certainty.
we can be aware.
but we must also meditate and let go and feel
how unimportant we are and all what we think.
and we need to live now and not only in the past.
we need a garden and walls.
even God rested for a day., they say so.
today i said we. i didn't say us. we have to do it alone, each one.
of course we can let it all be and be zombies coming up with the whistle of the master
for a dance in the graveyard.
for sure the master will be no good.
there are no saints.
and i am not important.
and saying what is written above is just as unimportant as saying this.
only a witnessing of signposts.
Monday, January 22, 2018
To dear Mary, bride of the Holy Spirit
you do not need
to hide your face
under the gloriole
of holiness
nor in the folds
of the flaming sky
nor behind the shields
of the glorious Saints
all you need is
silence, i will
not write letters
into your heaven
nor would i wish
to disturb this alchemy
covered with the lid
of a taciturn smile
nor would i sacrifice
your child to the cross:
i will not want you
to step out of this
statue of marble
nor steal a kiss
which will be cold
nor will i molest you
with prayer. your folks
are too far now, carved
in relentless compassion:
i must pray alone.
note:
i am just a barbarian
to hide your face
under the gloriole
of holiness
nor in the folds
of the flaming sky
nor behind the shields
of the glorious Saints
all you need is
silence, i will
not write letters
into your heaven
nor would i wish
to disturb this alchemy
covered with the lid
of a taciturn smile
nor would i sacrifice
your child to the cross:
i will not want you
to step out of this
statue of marble
nor steal a kiss
which will be cold
nor will i molest you
with prayer. your folks
are too far now, carved
in relentless compassion:
i must pray alone.
note:
i am just a barbarian
Agua sexual, Pablo Neruda
Rodando a goterones solos,
a gotas como dientes,
a espesos goterones de mermelada y sangre,
rodando a goterones,
cae el agua,
como una espada en gotas,
como un desgarrador río de vidrio,
cae mordiendo,
golpeando el eje de la simetría, pegando en las costuras del
alma,
rompiendo cosas abandonadas, empapando lo oscuro.
Solamente es un soplo, más húmedo que el llanto,
un líquido, un sudor, un aceite sin nombre,
un movimiento agudo,
haciéndose, espesándose,
cae el agua,
a goterones lentos,
hacia su mar, hacia su seco océano,
hacia su ola sin agua.
Veo el verano extenso, y un estertor saliendo de un granero,
bodegas, cigarras,
poblaciones, estímulos,
habitaciones, niñas
durmiendo con las manos en el corazón,
soñando con bandidos, con incendios,
veo barcos,
veo árboles de médula
erizados como gatos rabiosos,
veo sangre, puñales y medias de mujer,
y pelos de hombre,
veo camas, veo corredores donde grita una virgen,
veo frazadas y órganos y hoteles.
Veo los sueños sigilosos,
admito los postreros días,
y también los orígenes, y también los recuerdos,
como un párpado atrozmente levantado a la fuerza
estoy mirando.
Y entonces hay este sonido:
un ruido rojo de huesos,
un pegarse de carne,
y piernas amarillas como espigas juntándose.
Yo escucho entre el disparo de los besos,
escucho, sacudido entre respiraciones y sollozos.
Estoy mirando, oyendo,
con la mitad del alma en el mar y la mitad del alma
en la tierra,
y con las dos mitades del alma miro al mundo.
y aunque cierre los ojos y me cubra el corazón enteramente,
veo caer un agua sorda,
a goterones sordos.
Es como un huracán de gelatina,
como una catarata de espermas y medusas.
Veo correr un arco iris turbio.
Veo pasar sus aguas a través de los huesos.
note:
i allow myself this as a personal luxury to stand next to the stink
of close fight and conjugal submission, ugliness
sticking in the clothes,a pungent glue, a penetrating precision :
a poem by
Tailor, Bell
The Old Dance
In twilight days of half meals
We gathered weapons in, anger
Long stilled into vaporous ether
Whisked away unseen, a constant
Blown clear off these curled brows
For it had finally been enough
This unfathomable loss of us
The fighting of flesh, the torn minds
Ripping and flailing about of limbs, acts
Against greater odds, desperate thoughts
Lingering for eternity between hot breaths
Sweat of common and high ranking
Mingled with battle fluids crushed
Beneath wild gaze and maiden strengths
Slipping about every heart, our fallen
Purged to the surface in anguish
Unblemeshed ghost fathers
Nagging the mete of our worth
Dispatched at ever more familiar foe
Pressing fate amid this clumsy waltz
Of true victory none, then weary home
a gotas como dientes,
a espesos goterones de mermelada y sangre,
rodando a goterones,
cae el agua,
como una espada en gotas,
como un desgarrador río de vidrio,
cae mordiendo,
golpeando el eje de la simetría, pegando en las costuras del
alma,
rompiendo cosas abandonadas, empapando lo oscuro.
Solamente es un soplo, más húmedo que el llanto,
un líquido, un sudor, un aceite sin nombre,
un movimiento agudo,
haciéndose, espesándose,
cae el agua,
a goterones lentos,
hacia su mar, hacia su seco océano,
hacia su ola sin agua.
Veo el verano extenso, y un estertor saliendo de un granero,
bodegas, cigarras,
poblaciones, estímulos,
habitaciones, niñas
durmiendo con las manos en el corazón,
soñando con bandidos, con incendios,
veo barcos,
veo árboles de médula
erizados como gatos rabiosos,
veo sangre, puñales y medias de mujer,
y pelos de hombre,
veo camas, veo corredores donde grita una virgen,
veo frazadas y órganos y hoteles.
Veo los sueños sigilosos,
admito los postreros días,
y también los orígenes, y también los recuerdos,
como un párpado atrozmente levantado a la fuerza
estoy mirando.
Y entonces hay este sonido:
un ruido rojo de huesos,
un pegarse de carne,
y piernas amarillas como espigas juntándose.
Yo escucho entre el disparo de los besos,
escucho, sacudido entre respiraciones y sollozos.
Estoy mirando, oyendo,
con la mitad del alma en el mar y la mitad del alma
en la tierra,
y con las dos mitades del alma miro al mundo.
y aunque cierre los ojos y me cubra el corazón enteramente,
veo caer un agua sorda,
a goterones sordos.
Es como un huracán de gelatina,
como una catarata de espermas y medusas.
Veo correr un arco iris turbio.
Veo pasar sus aguas a través de los huesos.
note:
i allow myself this as a personal luxury to stand next to the stink
of close fight and conjugal submission, ugliness
sticking in the clothes,a pungent glue, a penetrating precision :
a poem by
Tailor, Bell
The Old Dance
In twilight days of half meals
We gathered weapons in, anger
Long stilled into vaporous ether
Whisked away unseen, a constant
Blown clear off these curled brows
For it had finally been enough
This unfathomable loss of us
The fighting of flesh, the torn minds
Ripping and flailing about of limbs, acts
Against greater odds, desperate thoughts
Lingering for eternity between hot breaths
Sweat of common and high ranking
Mingled with battle fluids crushed
Beneath wild gaze and maiden strengths
Slipping about every heart, our fallen
Purged to the surface in anguish
Unblemeshed ghost fathers
Nagging the mete of our worth
Dispatched at ever more familiar foe
Pressing fate amid this clumsy waltz
Of true victory none, then weary home
Sunday, January 21, 2018
It's good to feel you are close to me, Pablo Neruda
It's good to feel you are close to me in the night, love,
invisible in your sleep, intently nocturnal,
while I untangle my worries
as if they were twisted nets.
Withdrawn, your heart sails through dream,
but your body, relinquished so, breathes
seeking me without seeing me perfecting my dream
like a plant that seeds itself in the dark.
Rising, you will be that other, alive in the dawn,
but from the frontiers lost in the night,
from the presence and the absence where we meet ourselves,
something remains, drawing us into the light of life
as if the sign of the shadows had sealed
its secret creatures with flame.
invisible in your sleep, intently nocturnal,
while I untangle my worries
as if they were twisted nets.
Withdrawn, your heart sails through dream,
but your body, relinquished so, breathes
seeking me without seeing me perfecting my dream
like a plant that seeds itself in the dark.
Rising, you will be that other, alive in the dawn,
but from the frontiers lost in the night,
from the presence and the absence where we meet ourselves,
something remains, drawing us into the light of life
as if the sign of the shadows had sealed
its secret creatures with flame.
Water, Pablo Neruda
Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
note:
don't like translation much
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
note:
don't like translation much
Again, Tailor Bell
Every night I must give up to
the next day
Grow tired, retreat and fade away
My heart calling out for more time
My thoughts drifting off among
the sublime
So I pray in the spare
of lucidness
My hopes, my dreams,
my willingness
Yet into sleep I dive
full forward hurl
This other world might weigh
my mortal soil
To steal along the rich
and heady clay then
Slain by rising violins
So I must fall
And thus...I just fall...
Again
the next day
Grow tired, retreat and fade away
My heart calling out for more time
My thoughts drifting off among
the sublime
So I pray in the spare
of lucidness
My hopes, my dreams,
my willingness
Yet into sleep I dive
full forward hurl
This other world might weigh
my mortal soil
To steal along the rich
and heady clay then
Slain by rising violins
So I must fall
And thus...I just fall...
Again
skiing across
skiing across
sinking and gliding
in deep pure snow,
breathing hard,
sweat in the cold,
slowly find rhythm,
discover strength,
leave the mind
which fills with mirrors
of the evening sky.
a cock crows
and the black birds
fall into the sound
circling above trees
and snow turning
from blue to this
delicate pink
in which i swim
and find peace
not without pain
at the point of return.
sinking and gliding
in deep pure snow,
breathing hard,
sweat in the cold,
slowly find rhythm,
discover strength,
leave the mind
which fills with mirrors
of the evening sky.
a cock crows
and the black birds
fall into the sound
circling above trees
and snow turning
from blue to this
delicate pink
in which i swim
and find peace
not without pain
at the point of return.
I'm Nobody. And Who are You?, Emily Dickinson
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
notes:
true, Mrs.Dickinson, nobody in many ways.
but you wrote.
you talked.
admiration is boring indeed.
and a lot of people admire the wrong stuff,the wrong nobody.
humans came out of the fog-but not all of them did.
as the basic starting point of meditation we are nobody,
in a way. in another way: not. neither one nor the other.
for the constant flow of consciousness, for the work of
the mind: narration is indispensable. we are somebody.
even when we talk only to ourselves and do not try out our
story on others.
to learn humility it is good to see oneself
as a frog in a bog.
the bog does in fact not admire the frog,
frog and bog are in synchronization,
they live.
and both are not thinking about this nor about
themselves.
and this is wonderful.
Liillian R. LIeber, Human Values and Science, Art and Mathematics, quote
"Now what about
the postulates themselves?
How can THEY be “proved”?
Obviously they
CANNOT be PROVED at all —
since there is nothing preceding them
from which to derive them!
This may seem disappointing to those who
thought that in
Mathematics
EVERYTHING is proved!
But you can see that
this is IMPOSSIBLE,
even in mathematics,
since EVERY SYSTEM must necessarily
START with POSTULATES,
and these are NOT provable,
since there is nothing preceding them
from which to derive them."
Lieber,Mathematics
the postulates themselves?
How can THEY be “proved”?
Obviously they
CANNOT be PROVED at all —
since there is nothing preceding them
from which to derive them!
This may seem disappointing to those who
thought that in
Mathematics
EVERYTHING is proved!
But you can see that
this is IMPOSSIBLE,
even in mathematics,
since EVERY SYSTEM must necessarily
START with POSTULATES,
and these are NOT provable,
since there is nothing preceding them
from which to derive them."
Lieber,Mathematics
Beirut , La LLorona
Se pierde en un beso, una verdad,
se acaba con mentiras,
se ahogan las penas,
se rompe la piel y salen las alas,
se cae desde el cielo al suelo,
se hace raíz o se
hacen figuras de papel.
No llores mas, no grites
no te esfuerces en pensar
que lo que paso, en el pasado quedara
Que lo que sera,
un futuro que en tus manos ya no esta
¿Que podrás hacer ahora?
Lo que no hiciste algún día,
lo que no harás jamas.
(Poeta Mexicano, Rikardo Guerrero Fb
El Vals de las palabras: Fb)
Mercedes Sosa ,Canción De Las Simples Cosas
Uno se despide, insensiblemente
de pequellas cosas
lo mismo que un arbol
que en tiempo de otoño
se queda sin hojas
al fin la tristeza es la muerte lenta
de las simples cosas
y esas cosas simples
que quedan doliendo
en el corazón
Uno vuelve siempre
a los viejos sitios
donde amo la vida
y entonces comprende
como estan de ausentes
las cosas queridas
por eso muchacho no partas ahora
soñando el regreso
que el amor es simple
y a las cosas simples las devora el tiempo
Enamorate aqui
en la luz mayor
de este medio dia
donde encontraras
con el panal sol
la mesa tendida
por eso muchacho no partas ahora
soñando el regreso
que el amor es simple
y a las cosas simples las devora en tiempo
diary note
i want to get out, disappear, don't know how to decently and at least gradually leave some
stuff which has built up as obligation coming from another place in me.
i feel so much revulsion and i wish to be free from an influence which makes me ill.
don't know at all how it could happen for so long.
i went through hell hoping for something good.
instinct told me no. always. instinct is experience refined.
i didn't want to know.
no.now i just meet emptiness. again and again. i say no.
as i am not empty i won't use the above kind of thing. although it would be my preference for suicide.
there is a life after death, green sprouts and shoots after fires, coming through the ashes and though i am exhausted, sad and burnt out, i am alive, isn't it.
i got old now, i lost years...
i will for myself look for joy , for other occupations, for long walks and steep paths above the sea,
for beauty.
i cannot listen anymore to the one i called you.
i go. and i don't want a girlfriend at all.
the images of human relationships and with them the division in parts with real knives
cause me disgust and make me feel sick to my bones.
i send the monsters away, but they can sleep next to me.
i leave longing, desire, hope and faith. i found nothing to reach there, with them i have been a boat out at sea, walked on water and got wet.
saying no is rising out of the role of victim, breaking prison walls.
i want to be my own breath and voice and will never separate from me anymore,
never get lost in translation and cynical intellectual games for all future from now.
no rash idiot judgements. no comparisons. no esoteric love. no gratefulness. no detached kindness. no nice words. i hate them. no emojis. i dislike them deeply. no conversations, the word says all.
please no 'models', no requests to change my perspective. it will change each day, each moment-for me.
and if i like to share something of that i will- or not.
no more truths, they are unbearably ugly.
love, it seems, is impossible - i didn't know until coming through the last years.
a survivor, not more. and this is a polite wording.
in between i cook, eat, enjoy life and complete laziness. even laugh. now rarely.
when i cannot do that anymore-see top of the page.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Wohin, Gottfried Benn
Wohin kannst du mich noch führen,
dem längst die Sterne entfacht,
die Weiten atmen und spüren
die ganze Tiefe der Nacht?
Wovon kannst du mich noch lösen,
dem alles gleitet und rinnt,
die Stimmen, die guten, die bösen,
ihre Schilfe rauschen im Wind?
Wovon gibst du noch Kunde,
wozu, von wem erwählt,
dem in Fäden der Spinne die Stunde,
nur sie, die fallende, zählt?
dem längst die Sterne entfacht,
die Weiten atmen und spüren
die ganze Tiefe der Nacht?
Wovon kannst du mich noch lösen,
dem alles gleitet und rinnt,
die Stimmen, die guten, die bösen,
ihre Schilfe rauschen im Wind?
Wovon gibst du noch Kunde,
wozu, von wem erwählt,
dem in Fäden der Spinne die Stunde,
nur sie, die fallende, zählt?
Letzter Frühling, Gottfried Benn
Nimm die Forsythien tief in dich hinein
und wenn der Flieder kommt, vermisch auch diesen
mit deinem Blut und Glück und Elendsein,
dem dunklen Grund, auf den du angewiesen.
Langsame Tage. Alles überwunden.
Und fragst du nicht, ob Ende, ob Beginn,
dann tragen dich vielleicht die Stunden
noch bis zum Juni mit den Rosen hin.
und wenn der Flieder kommt, vermisch auch diesen
mit deinem Blut und Glück und Elendsein,
dem dunklen Grund, auf den du angewiesen.
Langsame Tage. Alles überwunden.
Und fragst du nicht, ob Ende, ob Beginn,
dann tragen dich vielleicht die Stunden
noch bis zum Juni mit den Rosen hin.
Wer allein ist, Gottfried Benn
Wer allein ist, ist auch im Geheimnis,
immer steht er in der Bilder Flut,
ihrer Zeugung, ihrer Keimnis,
selbst die Schatten tragen ihre Glut.
immer steht er in der Bilder Flut,
ihrer Zeugung, ihrer Keimnis,
selbst die Schatten tragen ihre Glut.
Trächtig ist er jeder Schichtung
denkerisch erfüllt und aufgespart,
mächtig ist er der Vernichtung
allem Menschlichen, das nährt und paart.
denkerisch erfüllt und aufgespart,
mächtig ist er der Vernichtung
allem Menschlichen, das nährt und paart.
Ohne Rührung sieht er, wie die Erde
eine andere ward, als ihm begann,
nicht mehr Stirb und nicht mehr Werde:
formstill sieht ihn die Vollendung an.
eine andere ward, als ihm begann,
nicht mehr Stirb und nicht mehr Werde:
formstill sieht ihn die Vollendung an.
Statische Gedichte, Gottfried Benn
STATISCHE GEDICHTE
Entwicklungsfremdheit
ist die Tiefe des Weisen,
Kinder und Kindeskinder
beunruhigen ihn nicht,
dringen nicht in ihn ein.
ist die Tiefe des Weisen,
Kinder und Kindeskinder
beunruhigen ihn nicht,
dringen nicht in ihn ein.
Richtungen vertreten,
Handeln,
Zu- und Abreisen
ist das Zeichen einer Welt,
die nicht klar sieht.
Vor meinem Fenster,
− sagt der Weise −
liegt ein Tal,
darin sammeln sich die Schatten,
zwei Pappeln säumen einen Weg,
du weißt – wohin.
Handeln,
Zu- und Abreisen
ist das Zeichen einer Welt,
die nicht klar sieht.
Vor meinem Fenster,
− sagt der Weise −
liegt ein Tal,
darin sammeln sich die Schatten,
zwei Pappeln säumen einen Weg,
du weißt – wohin.
Perspektivismus
ist ein anderes Wort für seine Statik:
Linien anlegen,
sie weiterführen
nach Rankengesetz −
Ranken sprühen −,
auch Schwärme, Krähen,
auswerfen in Winterrot von Frühhimmeln,
ist ein anderes Wort für seine Statik:
Linien anlegen,
sie weiterführen
nach Rankengesetz −
Ranken sprühen −,
auch Schwärme, Krähen,
auswerfen in Winterrot von Frühhimmeln,
dann sinken lassen −
du weißt – für wen.
Friday, January 19, 2018
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