Monday, April 17, 2017
Ascension , Dead Can Dance
music can give us rivers and clouds, light and shadow, all always moving.
i remember how very deeply frustrated, sad and even angry i had been as a child
seeing the first cinema films dealing with books i had read for myself.
my own inner films had been so different...and ..much better, immensely alive
in comparison to the shadows on the wall, Hollywood constructions..it felt
like a betrayal.
in the aftermath i think a lot of analytic views are wrong and right together.
when being romantic means to have one's own film and narration of life
and to feel it should be neither diluted nor cheated on, then i will stay
a romantic.
romanticism is completely different and has a historical
and sociological context.
if being romantic means to keep eyes open
and to keep on playing inside like a child then i am romantic.
if to be adult means to learn to deal with frustration
then i am probably adult but only so far as I wish to be
and can be.
It doesn't appear so terribly important.
More important to me is to recognize the root of frustration
whenever it is truly important to keep integrity and openness. both.
if you can't go to sleep , Rumi
if you can't go to sleep
Rumi
if you can't go to sleepmy dear soul
for tonight
what do you think will happen
if you pass your night
and merge it with dawn
for the sake of heart
what do you think will happen
if the entire world
is covered with the blossoms
you have labored to plant
what do you think will happen
if the elixir of life
that has been hidden in the dark
fills the desert and towns
what do you think will happen
if because of
your generosity and love
a few humans find their lives
what do you think will happen
if you pour an entire jar
filled with joyous wine
on the head of those already drunk
what do you think will happen
go my friend
bestow your love
even on your enemies
if you touch their hearts
what do you think will happen
there is a dark place
there is a dark place
in me, filled with not
cried tears,
there is a hole
in which all sores burn,
there are ashes
whirling in my mind.
i have to blow them
so hard to see light,
and my skin burns
with missing
the touch of your skin
bringing warmth
and let me be safe
so i can sleep as if
forever above
the abyss
of unknown dreams,
beyond past,
near to the earth
and the root of life
which is now so green
coming out of the soil,
where i
am
listening,
aware,
now.
Wisława Szymborska, Possibilities
POSSIBILITIES
I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
reading, soundcloud, brainpickings
Eivør Pálsdóttir ,Do Not Weep
Do not weep about the night
Though your wings are broken
Do not weep about the dark
Though your songs are unspoken
Do not weep about the sun
Though it blinded your weary eyes
‘Cause it showed you to a different path
With beams from paradise
Though your wings are broken
Do not weep about the dark
Though your songs are unspoken
Do not weep about the sun
Though it blinded your weary eyes
‘Cause it showed you to a different path
With beams from paradise
Do not weep my beautiful
Your candle is still burning
And I will make my loyal horse
Take your heavy burden
Do not weep my beautiful
'Cause darkness is but fleeting
And you will wake up to a sunlit day
Where sunlight is ever greeting
Your candle is still burning
And I will make my loyal horse
Take your heavy burden
Do not weep my beautiful
'Cause darkness is but fleeting
And you will wake up to a sunlit day
Where sunlight is ever greeting
Each hum, each breath, each heartfelt sigh
Can smooth your melancholy
Deep inside I do believe
You'll find a peace so holy
Do not weep my beautiful
'Cause darkness is but fleeting
And you will wake up to a sunlit day
Where sunlight is ever greeting
Can smooth your melancholy
Deep inside I do believe
You'll find a peace so holy
Do not weep my beautiful
'Cause darkness is but fleeting
And you will wake up to a sunlit day
Where sunlight is ever greeting
Sometimes when it rains, Secret Garden
A veces cuando llueve,
desde mi ventana,
veo a la nostalgia mojarse
junto a la melancolía,
veo como se empapa
la mañana y te recuerdo...
Recuerdo tu voz diciendo
que a veces cuando llueve eres feliz,
que eres triste,
que tu mente vaga por las calles
empapadas de misterio.
A veces cuando llueve,
siento el beso de la lluvia
que me hace recordar tu sonrisa.
Oigo el sonido de la tormenta
que me hace recordar tu corazón.
A veces cuando llueve,
desde mi ventana veo las gotas caer
logrando sonrojar a la rosa tímida,
veo como se empapa la mañana
y te recuerdo...
Poema de Yosiel Córdova
when i listened to the morning rain
when i woke
this morning
slowly,
my first wish
was to go back
into sleep
where all is forgotten
and i do not exist.
then i said,
touching my chest,
heart, fill with
warmth, with blood.
my eyes still closed,
i took a breath
and opened them.
it was grey outside
and i listened
to the rain
drumming at
the windows
and then i said
touching my chest,
this is outside,
heart, your weather
is inside,
beat, flow,
and i took
a longer breath
and rose
into the day, exhaling
into my day,
and i saw i was late
but never too late
to arrive
at this moment
of the heart opening
to another day
until the time
when we have to close
and let go.
this morning
slowly,
my first wish
was to go back
into sleep
where all is forgotten
and i do not exist.
then i said,
touching my chest,
heart, fill with
warmth, with blood.
my eyes still closed,
i took a breath
and opened them.
it was grey outside
and i listened
to the rain
drumming at
the windows
and then i said
touching my chest,
this is outside,
heart, your weather
is inside,
beat, flow,
and i took
a longer breath
and rose
into the day, exhaling
into my day,
and i saw i was late
but never too late
to arrive
at this moment
of the heart opening
to another day
until the time
when we have to close
and let go.
April....,Easter Monday
"April, April,
tut was er will"
today 3 degrees Celsius, stormy, rain and fog...
spring is a bit afraid :-)
Last Night as I was sleeping, Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
Passageways ,Antonio Machado
Passageways , Antonio Machado
Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!
Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!
Has my heart gone to sleep?, Antonio Machado
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
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