Monday, April 30, 2018
A poet's advice to students, E.E.Cummings
"A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.
A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
..
"As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time — and whenever we do it, we’re not poets.
If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed.
And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world — unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.
Does that sound dismal? It isn’t.
It’s the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so I feel."
e.e.cummings, brainpickings.org
Nitin Sawhney , Say Hello
"Another speaker was Mr Enoch Powell who was sacked from the shadow cabinet earlier this year, for his extreme and publicly stated views on immigration."
".. one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character."
I knew you needed a friend
I knew you needed some blue skies
You need some laughter again
Til magic returns to your blue eyes
You're lost in the circle of pain
Where's it all going?
Each day is the same
Where are you going?
Say hello. Say hello
You're never alone
Something inside of yourself
When darkness approaches, your silence
Freedom's forgotten her name
Nothing makes sense you don't complain
Everything started to fall
Where's it all going?
Can't make any sense of it all
Where am I going?
Say hello. Say hello
You're never alone
die worte, die wörter und ich
Als ich mich öffnete,
als ich dich sah,
begann ich zu leuchten,
ich wollte singen.
Meine Seele wanderte
in meine Haut, in meine Hände,
in dich und in dich in mir.
Ich war froh.
Ich traf Schweigen,
Phrasen, Koans, Verzicht.
Deinen Schmerz, den meinen.
Meine älteste Wut, den Zorn
darauf, am Leben zu sei, so,
so wie es scheint.
Ich schickte meine Worte wie ein Lied,
mehr und mehr, sie fielen durch dich
ganz hindurch, kamen zurück als Wörter
in meine wachsende Stille,
in die ich fort bin und weg,
von Mal zu Mal. Ich musste.
Ich denke immer an dich,
ich fühle dich überall,
in allem.
Ich sorge mich um dich.
Ich trage dich wie eine Wunde,
allein ist sie nicht heilbar-
wenn nicht im Dunkel des Gestrüpps,
mit Erde und Spucke bedeckt,
aussätzig bis ich nicht Mann bin
und nicht Kind, mit einem Nagel
durch die Zunge, den Kopf, das Herz,
frohlockend wie der Vogel im Käfig,
frei wie ein Narr, gedankenlos
wie ein Tier, ein Rätsel
das im Licht schwebt wie Staub,
glänzt und sich spiegelt.
Nichts ist wie es scheint,
nicht Liebe noch Leid.
Nichts.
als ich dich sah,
begann ich zu leuchten,
ich wollte singen.
Meine Seele wanderte
in meine Haut, in meine Hände,
in dich und in dich in mir.
Ich war froh.
Ich traf Schweigen,
Phrasen, Koans, Verzicht.
Deinen Schmerz, den meinen.
Meine älteste Wut, den Zorn
darauf, am Leben zu sei, so,
so wie es scheint.
Ich schickte meine Worte wie ein Lied,
mehr und mehr, sie fielen durch dich
ganz hindurch, kamen zurück als Wörter
in meine wachsende Stille,
in die ich fort bin und weg,
von Mal zu Mal. Ich musste.
Ich denke immer an dich,
ich fühle dich überall,
in allem.
Ich sorge mich um dich.
Ich trage dich wie eine Wunde,
allein ist sie nicht heilbar-
wenn nicht im Dunkel des Gestrüpps,
mit Erde und Spucke bedeckt,
aussätzig bis ich nicht Mann bin
und nicht Kind, mit einem Nagel
durch die Zunge, den Kopf, das Herz,
frohlockend wie der Vogel im Käfig,
frei wie ein Narr, gedankenlos
wie ein Tier, ein Rätsel
das im Licht schwebt wie Staub,
glänzt und sich spiegelt.
Nichts ist wie es scheint,
nicht Liebe noch Leid.
Nichts.
A sede do silêncio, antónio ramos rosa
A sede do silêncio é um fruto do silêncio.
A sede da palavra nasce da palavra que nasce do silêncio.
A necessidade do silêncio é uma necessidade da palavra
que (não) se perde na palavra.
Distância, deserto, de árvore em árvore,
a eterna sede, a sede do eterno,
da frugal transparência do efémero.
que (não) se perde na palavra.
Distância, deserto, de árvore em árvore,
a eterna sede, a sede do eterno,
da frugal transparência do efémero.
Terra, toda a distância da terra em cada sílaba, em cada vocábulo sem água.
A página é deserto e caminho errante, obstinado.
O horizonte do deserto anula a miragem,
nega o imaginário.
nega o imaginário.
A sede da página é sede da ausência
e sede da palavra do horizonte.
e sede da palavra do horizonte.
A ausência é a segunda dimensão do dia,
o outro lábio da terra,
o outro lábio da terra,
a verdadeira voz do vocábulo.
antónio ramos rosa
vagabundagem na poesia de antónio ramos rosa
seguido de uma antologia
casimiro de brito
quasi
2001
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Hymn to Time, Ursula Le Guin
HYMN TO TIME
by Ursula K. Le Guin
by Ursula K. Le Guin
Time says “Let there be”
every moment and instantly
there is space and the radiance
of each bright galaxy.
every moment and instantly
there is space and the radiance
of each bright galaxy.
And eyes beholding radiance.
And the gnats’ flickering dance.
And the seas’ expanse.
And death, and chance.
And the gnats’ flickering dance.
And the seas’ expanse.
And death, and chance.
Time makes room
for going and coming home
and in time’s womb
begins all ending.
for going and coming home
and in time’s womb
begins all ending.
Time is being and being
time, it is all one thing,
the shining, the seeing,
the dark abounding.
time, it is all one thing,
the shining, the seeing,
the dark abounding.
Saturday, April 28, 2018
O Velho e a Flor, O amor é o carinho, Vinícius de Moraes
Por céus e mares eu andei,
Vi um poeta e vi um rei
Na esperança de saber
O que é o amor.
Ninguém sabia me dizer,
Eu já queria até morrer
Quando um velhinho
Com uma flor assim falou:
O amor é o carinho,
É o espinho que não se vê em cada flor.
É a vida quando
Chega sangrando aberta
em pétalas de amor.
Vi um poeta e vi um rei
Na esperança de saber
O que é o amor.
Ninguém sabia me dizer,
Eu já queria até morrer
Quando um velhinho
Com uma flor assim falou:
O amor é o carinho,
É o espinho que não se vê em cada flor.
É a vida quando
Chega sangrando aberta
em pétalas de amor.
Vinícius de Moraes
Friday, April 27, 2018
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
The Arrow and the Song, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Monday, April 23, 2018
i am an onion
I am an onion, a donkey, a song,
the moon explodes in my head,
the stars move in my fingers,
i cannot divide the waters
nor can i control tears,
not mine, not the dead children‘s,
not yours,
i cannot tell the sun to rise
nor the birds to sing,
i cannot teach happiness
nor can i save my love,
love does not want me,
life spits me out,
i fly and fall, the tides took
me, the water is deep,
and fog came when my
wings burning touched the sea, i am nothing and all
and moon and tears
and stars and soul
meet and speak and my ears stand out, i try to listen
but fill with emptiness from afar, i err and i float and i float. only the wind comes to touch me.
i am thirsty, the desert is immense and it is as if it grows from day to day.
still. why be too sad.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
is there a choice in everything
nobody can ride the wind
with a tinned sardine
nor can she-
please free her, free her, free her.
it is bad magic, bad poison,
bad sleep in this prison.
Holy Mary, let her forget,
wake her, bring her
the water of life, give her
courage and hope and let her
be the princess and flower she is.
Touch her with mercy and grace,
please.
me, i can ride the wind on a straw,
i could do all kinds of things,
nothing i do will be enough,
and i will die,
Holy Mary, i beg you,
in you i nearly believe,
i hear you breathing.
with a tinned sardine
nor can she-
please free her, free her, free her.
it is bad magic, bad poison,
bad sleep in this prison.
Holy Mary, let her forget,
wake her, bring her
the water of life, give her
courage and hope and let her
be the princess and flower she is.
Touch her with mercy and grace,
please.
me, i can ride the wind on a straw,
i could do all kinds of things,
nothing i do will be enough,
and i will die,
Holy Mary, i beg you,
in you i nearly believe,
i hear you breathing.
vulnerability
i have been and still am vulnerable.
it is love who made and makes me so.
it is walking out of me.
i cannot always walk out of me,
i am neither cosmonaut nor ghost,
i want to be a song in harmony,
i want to flow and cannot hold
back this river,me, forever.
please, please, release.
or give sacrifice a sense, Lord
in whom i cannot believe-
and let me sing with you.
i write against the wind.
it is love who made and makes me so.
it is walking out of me.
i cannot always walk out of me,
i am neither cosmonaut nor ghost,
i want to be a song in harmony,
i want to flow and cannot hold
back this river,me, forever.
please, please, release.
or give sacrifice a sense, Lord
in whom i cannot believe-
and let me sing with you.
i write against the wind.
Saturday, April 21, 2018
states between yes and no: catharsis?
catharsis is release, release of tension, of blocks, it is to find a way
out of traps, taking a long shower in tears, then laugh, purification.
alone and together are two kinds of ways.
alone it is nakedness with oneself,
together it is nakedness to each other and to oneself,
it means to let tears flow and let go and embrace in re-birth.
another re-birth into a new between yes and no i will not suffer.
i've done it again and again.
i am here. i feel. i am. i am naked to me.
i'll do what i am used to do:
i'll walk out some day, in relief, burdens leaving
my shoulders, and i see, re-opening,
how i am part of all.
i wish for another way.
i have not been allowed to find this now.
out of traps, taking a long shower in tears, then laugh, purification.
alone and together are two kinds of ways.
alone it is nakedness with oneself,
together it is nakedness to each other and to oneself,
it means to let tears flow and let go and embrace in re-birth.
another re-birth into a new between yes and no i will not suffer.
i've done it again and again.
i am here. i feel. i am. i am naked to me.
i'll do what i am used to do:
i'll walk out some day, in relief, burdens leaving
my shoulders, and i see, re-opening,
how i am part of all.
i wish for another way.
i have not been allowed to find this now.
Quotes, O amor
O amor pode morrer na verdade, a amizade na mentira.
Abel Bonnard
O amor é o estado no qual os homens têm mais probabilidades de ver as coisas tal como elas não são.
Friedrich Nietzsche
subterranean
the ocean stretched quiet and dark.
what happened underwater nobody
could see.i saw a woman walking
in a straight line, she went right inside
and i didn’t see her come out.
it could have been a man, maybe the man
in whose soul she lived like a nail.
wounds scar, heal, i can see, touch, feel.
the sea took her unmovingly, and her
disappearance was complete.
i felt no God present but an unforgiving universe
and night.
and the tides, waves coming in and going out,
again and again and again.
does the river return to its source, does the water
have a choice, pushed from behind, flowing forwards
until it joins the ocean.
i am a river, you are.
at the same time the rats and moles and worms
kept busy underground, shovelling the same piece
of earth over and over, building tunnels
later to be taken by snakes and insects.
there was no immediate sense to be seen,
it was just what they did. i think the enlightenment
of rats and moles must be minimal, it is just in doing
what they do. are we different in our subterranean
efforts and struggles?
we keep busy even in not doing anything but
we imagine that to bring dirt into light
will transform us. but it brings only dirt into
the light. maybe what we do with it is meaningful,
we can do pottery work, make little voodoo dolls
and stick needles into them or dress them up
in white and kiss them. then-what?
one wrong move, they fall and break and
nobody is any wiser or happier.
past is past and night is night and voodoo is not
necessary.
what happened underwater nobody
could see.i saw a woman walking
in a straight line, she went right inside
and i didn’t see her come out.
it could have been a man, maybe the man
in whose soul she lived like a nail.
wounds scar, heal, i can see, touch, feel.
the sea took her unmovingly, and her
disappearance was complete.
i felt no God present but an unforgiving universe
and night.
and the tides, waves coming in and going out,
again and again and again.
does the river return to its source, does the water
have a choice, pushed from behind, flowing forwards
until it joins the ocean.
i am a river, you are.
at the same time the rats and moles and worms
kept busy underground, shovelling the same piece
of earth over and over, building tunnels
later to be taken by snakes and insects.
there was no immediate sense to be seen,
it was just what they did. i think the enlightenment
of rats and moles must be minimal, it is just in doing
what they do. are we different in our subterranean
efforts and struggles?
we keep busy even in not doing anything but
we imagine that to bring dirt into light
will transform us. but it brings only dirt into
the light. maybe what we do with it is meaningful,
we can do pottery work, make little voodoo dolls
and stick needles into them or dress them up
in white and kiss them. then-what?
one wrong move, they fall and break and
nobody is any wiser or happier.
past is past and night is night and voodoo is not
necessary.
and then the tongue
and then the tongue fell
out of the heart and his fingers
froze, and after all release,
the old fir stirred and rustled
up in the garden, and in the sky
coalescent lines of light crossed
only to meet in infinity, wherever
this may be he didn't know,
a tiny whisper of thought
and doubt kept him standing
for a moment, a second, then he went
inside where he belonged, always
had to stay, out of grace, fallen
out of all ways of yes and no, free,
going home, back to root and
into the fire which could do no harm
anymore, it was warm and promised
sleep and shelter, nothing burned
and the ashes had gone cold,
the wind took all, ashes, him,
and without weight he moved
in his dreams, floating on clouds,
white and grey and soft-
and after all he agreed to be rain,
for April, for spring, for the roses
and the green and the grass.
out of the heart and his fingers
froze, and after all release,
the old fir stirred and rustled
up in the garden, and in the sky
coalescent lines of light crossed
only to meet in infinity, wherever
this may be he didn't know,
a tiny whisper of thought
and doubt kept him standing
for a moment, a second, then he went
inside where he belonged, always
had to stay, out of grace, fallen
out of all ways of yes and no, free,
going home, back to root and
into the fire which could do no harm
anymore, it was warm and promised
sleep and shelter, nothing burned
and the ashes had gone cold,
the wind took all, ashes, him,
and without weight he moved
in his dreams, floating on clouds,
white and grey and soft-
and after all he agreed to be rain,
for April, for spring, for the roses
and the green and the grass.
Friday, April 20, 2018
a brief review of holiness, health and love
wherever i look health is defined, and it is always silly,
something to compare to illness.
nobody is healthy in any of these ways, we must all be ill.
everybody wants the complete package, and a lot of people
pay a lot of money for it.
there is no such thing as health.
we will all die, we are fragile and perishable,
and deep down we know this.
Gurus, religious teachers, they feast on our weakness,
on our struggles, they promise perfection by self control and
bait us with hope. all a trap, and many fall.they promise peace on earth
peace inside for those advanced in their analysis of the workings of this world.
Never one should get stuck with such impossible burdens.
health, to me, is balance, a balance we have to fight for inside and
outside day for day and night for night,. Inside it is the alchemy of perception reset,
to see light in a dark day, outside it is to leave circumstances which are not agreeable
with our character and will never bring out the best in us but rather the worst, if fear or violence or both, better to seek a stone on which we can sit easily without having to fight for it.
it means to learn letting go inside and outside.
it means to find a way to live and to die at the same time, in inner balance.
when we enter a relationship we may find however much we hope, persist,
transform, that the other is not good for us. Even when we are ever so much in love and even when we love and care to our best ability. Other persons' past, problems and moods are infectious just the same as laugh and tears. and we may not have acquired a protective shield to deal with this, with them as persons, them quite specifically, with their burdens and failings, not when we get close up.
love not reaching the other does not truly exist, it is only a feeling or just in one's head.
and hope can be a prison. we let go when we expect no change for better. and it is ok.
love indeed is a four letter word and it does much harm.
also here we want the full package as promised. and everybody has another recipe.
i don't say this is per se bad, and i can even easily state that when approaches do not meet
sufficiently for both and the process of love becomes torture and our feeling starts
to be distorted we will do injustice to the other and to us.
love should not be sacrifice but open space.it cannot be a prison.
and love does not stick people with labels.
better to leave. to give up, to let go.
it is a kind of sad freedom but we learn again to breathe anyway,
life lets us breathe.
i have nothing to add.
only that not all is inside, we live in a cosmos who tells us each moment
how unimportant we are and how beautiful life works through all without us.
just to let it happen and see.
and see that we are not the rulers nor do we have any right for requests
and plans and models and construction in opposition.
no right to live eternally, no right for health, happiness, love coming to us.
no right at all. nobody.
no right to be whole, holy. no right at all.
a flower is more more more holy.
o holy flowers, holy fishes,
holy trees, holy earth, holy water.
o holy fire, holy wind. o holy soil.
o churches , o people, with their concepts of guilt and sin.
where do they lead if not to an eye for an eye
or to self destruction and crucifixion, to sacrifice, to suffering on purpose and in the best of intention,
to control and self control, to eternal potty training under the eyes of sad Christ, smiling Buddha, psychiatrists, priests, Popes and others.
Here i opt out. completely.
i try to breathe now. Just to sit on my stone will be peace.
peace without passion and desire is colourless, stale, smells of drugstore,
of used socks and old people and piss. I am old.
But i find peace and joy in my days to come and now, even now.
Let everybody suffer their own way. It is not my business.
I only feel. and i know i will die. maybe it can make somebody happier.
something to compare to illness.
nobody is healthy in any of these ways, we must all be ill.
everybody wants the complete package, and a lot of people
pay a lot of money for it.
there is no such thing as health.
we will all die, we are fragile and perishable,
and deep down we know this.
Gurus, religious teachers, they feast on our weakness,
on our struggles, they promise perfection by self control and
bait us with hope. all a trap, and many fall.they promise peace on earth
peace inside for those advanced in their analysis of the workings of this world.
Never one should get stuck with such impossible burdens.
health, to me, is balance, a balance we have to fight for inside and
outside day for day and night for night,. Inside it is the alchemy of perception reset,
to see light in a dark day, outside it is to leave circumstances which are not agreeable
with our character and will never bring out the best in us but rather the worst, if fear or violence or both, better to seek a stone on which we can sit easily without having to fight for it.
it means to learn letting go inside and outside.
it means to find a way to live and to die at the same time, in inner balance.
when we enter a relationship we may find however much we hope, persist,
transform, that the other is not good for us. Even when we are ever so much in love and even when we love and care to our best ability. Other persons' past, problems and moods are infectious just the same as laugh and tears. and we may not have acquired a protective shield to deal with this, with them as persons, them quite specifically, with their burdens and failings, not when we get close up.
love not reaching the other does not truly exist, it is only a feeling or just in one's head.
and hope can be a prison. we let go when we expect no change for better. and it is ok.
love indeed is a four letter word and it does much harm.
also here we want the full package as promised. and everybody has another recipe.
i don't say this is per se bad, and i can even easily state that when approaches do not meet
sufficiently for both and the process of love becomes torture and our feeling starts
to be distorted we will do injustice to the other and to us.
love should not be sacrifice but open space.it cannot be a prison.
and love does not stick people with labels.
better to leave. to give up, to let go.
it is a kind of sad freedom but we learn again to breathe anyway,
life lets us breathe.
i have nothing to add.
only that not all is inside, we live in a cosmos who tells us each moment
how unimportant we are and how beautiful life works through all without us.
just to let it happen and see.
and see that we are not the rulers nor do we have any right for requests
and plans and models and construction in opposition.
no right to live eternally, no right for health, happiness, love coming to us.
no right at all. nobody.
no right to be whole, holy. no right at all.
a flower is more more more holy.
o holy flowers, holy fishes,
holy trees, holy earth, holy water.
o holy fire, holy wind. o holy soil.
o churches , o people, with their concepts of guilt and sin.
where do they lead if not to an eye for an eye
or to self destruction and crucifixion, to sacrifice, to suffering on purpose and in the best of intention,
to control and self control, to eternal potty training under the eyes of sad Christ, smiling Buddha, psychiatrists, priests, Popes and others.
Here i opt out. completely.
i try to breathe now. Just to sit on my stone will be peace.
peace without passion and desire is colourless, stale, smells of drugstore,
of used socks and old people and piss. I am old.
But i find peace and joy in my days to come and now, even now.
Let everybody suffer their own way. It is not my business.
I only feel. and i know i will die. maybe it can make somebody happier.
A Palavra, António Ramos Rosa
A Palavra
Eleva-se entre a espuma, verde e cristalina
e a alegria aviva-se em redonda ressonância.
O seu olhar é um sonho porque é um sopro indivisível
que reconhece e inventa a pluralidade delicada.
Ao longe e ao perto o horizonte treme entre os seus cílios.
Ela encanta-se. Adere, coincide com o ser mesmo
da coisa nomeada. O rosto da terra se renova.
Ela aflui em círculos desagregando, construindo.
Um ouvido desperta no ouvido, uma língua na língua.
Sobre si enrola o anel nupcial do universo.
O gérmen amadurece no seu corpo nascente.
Nas palavras que diz pulsa o desejo do mundo.
Move-se aqui e agora entre contornos vivos.
Ignora, esquece, sabe, vive ao nível do universo.
Na sua simplicidade terrestre há um ardor soberano.
António Ramos Rosa, in "Volante Verde"
e a alegria aviva-se em redonda ressonância.
O seu olhar é um sonho porque é um sopro indivisível
que reconhece e inventa a pluralidade delicada.
Ao longe e ao perto o horizonte treme entre os seus cílios.
Ela encanta-se. Adere, coincide com o ser mesmo
da coisa nomeada. O rosto da terra se renova.
Ela aflui em círculos desagregando, construindo.
Um ouvido desperta no ouvido, uma língua na língua.
Sobre si enrola o anel nupcial do universo.
O gérmen amadurece no seu corpo nascente.
Nas palavras que diz pulsa o desejo do mundo.
Move-se aqui e agora entre contornos vivos.
Ignora, esquece, sabe, vive ao nível do universo.
Na sua simplicidade terrestre há um ardor soberano.
António Ramos Rosa, in "Volante Verde"
A Festa do Silêncio, António Ramos Rosa
A Festa do Silêncio
Escuto na palavra a festa do silêncio.
Tudo está no seu sítio. As aparências apagaram-se.
As coisas vacilam tão próximas de si mesmas.
Concentram-se, dilatam-se as ondas silenciosas.
É o vazio ou o cimo? É um pomar de espuma.
Uma criança brinca nas dunas, o tempo acaricia,
o ar prolonga. A brancura é o caminho.
Surpresa e não surpresa: a simples respiração.
Relações, variações, nada mais. Nada se cria.
Vamos e vimos. Algo inunda, incendeia, recomeça.
Nada é inacessível no silêncio ou no poema.
É aqui a abóbada transparente, o vento principia.
No centro do dia há uma fonte de água clara.
Se digo árvore a árvore em mim respira.
Vivo na delícia nua da inocência aberta.
António Ramos Rosa, in "Volante Verde"
Tudo está no seu sítio. As aparências apagaram-se.
As coisas vacilam tão próximas de si mesmas.
Concentram-se, dilatam-se as ondas silenciosas.
É o vazio ou o cimo? É um pomar de espuma.
Uma criança brinca nas dunas, o tempo acaricia,
o ar prolonga. A brancura é o caminho.
Surpresa e não surpresa: a simples respiração.
Relações, variações, nada mais. Nada se cria.
Vamos e vimos. Algo inunda, incendeia, recomeça.
Nada é inacessível no silêncio ou no poema.
É aqui a abóbada transparente, o vento principia.
No centro do dia há uma fonte de água clara.
Se digo árvore a árvore em mim respira.
Vivo na delícia nua da inocência aberta.
António Ramos Rosa, in "Volante Verde"
En ti la tierra, Pablo Neruda
PEQUEÑA
rosa,
rosa pequeña,
a veces,
diminuta y desnuda,
parece
que en una mano mía
cabes,
que así voy a cerrarte
y a llevarte a mi boca,
pero
de pronto
mis pies tocan tus pies y mi boca tus labios,
has crecido,
suben tus hombros como dos colinas,
tus pechos se pasean por mi pecho,
mi brazo alcanza apenas a rodear la delgada
línea de luna nueva que tiene tu cintura:
en el amor como agua de mar te has desatado:
mido apenas los ojos más extensos del cielo
y me inclino a tu boca para besar la tierra.
rosa,
rosa pequeña,
a veces,
diminuta y desnuda,
parece
que en una mano mía
cabes,
que así voy a cerrarte
y a llevarte a mi boca,
pero
de pronto
mis pies tocan tus pies y mi boca tus labios,
has crecido,
suben tus hombros como dos colinas,
tus pechos se pasean por mi pecho,
mi brazo alcanza apenas a rodear la delgada
línea de luna nueva que tiene tu cintura:
en el amor como agua de mar te has desatado:
mido apenas los ojos más extensos del cielo
y me inclino a tu boca para besar la tierra.
at night the frogs
at night the frogs croaked,
first time for a year, after
long and frozen sleep.
the garden moves, the cat
hunts, the mice hide, the moles,
and birds nest in the bushes,
their small hearts flutter,
i listen, i hear them beat,
there is a pulse of spring
in all growing, coming out
of the earth, filling all bitter
and sweet and unconscious,
and the frogs call the females,
then will sit on their bums,
tadpoles will fill the pond,
swim in silence, eat and be eaten,
moon and sun will watch, i feel
all here in all and the wind
will move the water, flowers
rise towards the stars and roots
breathe underground, gnaw the earth,
there is nothing out there to
regret, to resist, to think, all
is relentlessly innocent, and
now i must sleep.
at night the frogs,
birds on waking to light.
first time for a year, after
long and frozen sleep.
the garden moves, the cat
hunts, the mice hide, the moles,
and birds nest in the bushes,
their small hearts flutter,
i listen, i hear them beat,
there is a pulse of spring
in all growing, coming out
of the earth, filling all bitter
and sweet and unconscious,
and the frogs call the females,
then will sit on their bums,
tadpoles will fill the pond,
swim in silence, eat and be eaten,
moon and sun will watch, i feel
all here in all and the wind
will move the water, flowers
rise towards the stars and roots
breathe underground, gnaw the earth,
there is nothing out there to
regret, to resist, to think, all
is relentlessly innocent, and
now i must sleep.
at night the frogs,
birds on waking to light.
Thursday, April 19, 2018
and after, a scent
he stood near the ring. stones,
a crow, and when the drum and
the flute were mute, they turned
into a song in the sky.
the woman shook off her jewels,
her rings, she tossed her hair
and her breasts, took off her girdle,
naked she walked a circle,
her eyes with a fierce glow,
she let the light in, the fire,
she turned faster and faster,
she shook her arms and
then they were wings,
lifting her higher and higher
towards the stars, the invisible
voice of night, apple blossoms
and butterflies came down as they
softly met grass and soul and soil.
the rain started.
and after, a scent.
a crow, and when the drum and
the flute were mute, they turned
into a song in the sky.
the woman shook off her jewels,
her rings, she tossed her hair
and her breasts, took off her girdle,
naked she walked a circle,
her eyes with a fierce glow,
she let the light in, the fire,
she turned faster and faster,
she shook her arms and
then they were wings,
lifting her higher and higher
towards the stars, the invisible
voice of night, apple blossoms
and butterflies came down as they
softly met grass and soul and soil.
the rain started.
and after, a scent.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
and then
and then the heart beats
a cat runs up a pole
cars pass, small flowers
at the roadside and dust
on the road, it itches
in your nose, you sneeze,
the cat dislikes it, haughty
and high, you walk into
town, mother toads push
their prams, young bankers
try to make a fortune
swinging their notebooks,
blown up emptiness sails
through the street corners
very much like shit balloons,
and when somebody smiles
at you you run frightened that
they may burst all, a sick smell
comes from the gutters, shop keepers
grumble, newborns cry, no
place is safer than the road,
the desert, solitude,
and noise knows variations
but not one moment of silence,
you are happy when you hear a bird
calling for the night, you greet rats
prowling the sidewalks, and all
you want to be is out, a stranger
to life in the city, you crawl under
a bench and pull grass over your ears,
leaves across your eyes, you cover
your nakedness with moss and herbs,
and then before falling asleep
you see this large black moon
and the thin sickle glittering beneath,
you can be happy, after all there
are cycles not only lines,
forged into the earth, into this night
and the next, the earth turns,
the sun turns, you turn.
the big wheel turns, and your blood
breathes into the wind, darkness
and all there is. there is no
meaning, only now
where you have been.
a cat runs up a pole
cars pass, small flowers
at the roadside and dust
on the road, it itches
in your nose, you sneeze,
the cat dislikes it, haughty
and high, you walk into
town, mother toads push
their prams, young bankers
try to make a fortune
swinging their notebooks,
blown up emptiness sails
through the street corners
very much like shit balloons,
and when somebody smiles
at you you run frightened that
they may burst all, a sick smell
comes from the gutters, shop keepers
grumble, newborns cry, no
place is safer than the road,
the desert, solitude,
and noise knows variations
but not one moment of silence,
you are happy when you hear a bird
calling for the night, you greet rats
prowling the sidewalks, and all
you want to be is out, a stranger
to life in the city, you crawl under
a bench and pull grass over your ears,
leaves across your eyes, you cover
your nakedness with moss and herbs,
and then before falling asleep
you see this large black moon
and the thin sickle glittering beneath,
you can be happy, after all there
are cycles not only lines,
forged into the earth, into this night
and the next, the earth turns,
the sun turns, you turn.
the big wheel turns, and your blood
breathes into the wind, darkness
and all there is. there is no
meaning, only now
where you have been.
frozen moment
it is the hum of beehives,
the crackle in powerlines,
noise filling caves deep down,
the hiss of snakes
amplified in echoes,
touching raw nerve and
my mind between opening
and closing, frozen and empty,
all happens without a pause,
all air trapped, a long and breathless motion
when all stops and drowns,
a heartbeat missed, another,
an eternal dive, pressure in my ears
under tons of water, impenetrably dark
until at last a last release
of breath and air and life-
let go noise and pain,
let go life and death,
drift up as a corpse,
face down, eyes unseeing,
all stops until the wheel
pulls you out, shakes you,
makes you walk the earth
again, unwillingly you go.
you don’t know who you
are nor where you go.
ships and men and worms meet
and somebody lifts his hat,
another says hello, baring
his teeth, her teeth, they
want to eat you, ignore them
and they will go.
rub your head, all is but
a dream in a dream.
only noise and silence.
the crackle in powerlines,
noise filling caves deep down,
the hiss of snakes
amplified in echoes,
touching raw nerve and
my mind between opening
and closing, frozen and empty,
all happens without a pause,
all air trapped, a long and breathless motion
when all stops and drowns,
a heartbeat missed, another,
an eternal dive, pressure in my ears
under tons of water, impenetrably dark
until at last a last release
of breath and air and life-
let go noise and pain,
let go life and death,
drift up as a corpse,
face down, eyes unseeing,
all stops until the wheel
pulls you out, shakes you,
makes you walk the earth
again, unwillingly you go.
you don’t know who you
are nor where you go.
ships and men and worms meet
and somebody lifts his hat,
another says hello, baring
his teeth, her teeth, they
want to eat you, ignore them
and they will go.
rub your head, all is but
a dream in a dream.
only noise and silence.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Monday, April 16, 2018
David Bowie , Wild Is The Wind
stolen..as i listen with longing and pain and grief..
so where is it, not wild, not tame, but freely kissing me alive ?
where am I ?
wind inside? after death? here.. it is here...always here..i listen..i know.
me not setting anybody free...
just letting go..
a moment this night
who’d be astonished when an arshole dies who finds it difficult to bear himself?
i wouldn’t.
i have not done so much bad in life nor have i had all in all a bad life.
i posted pre-views on my next travel plans but feel no such immense need to travel alone nor so much joy.
nor do i feel i must stay alive forever.
all is good as it comes.
i am old enough to go.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
Hako Yamasaki, Wandering
see comments in youtube, english translation(thanks!)
Without a hometown, I am
Just merely walk on this path now
The town that I loved
is my new hometown
Those mountains
That should be lovely at the first place
Since when it changed its color
And faded away even before I know?
The whiteness of fog that pierce my body
was just frightening
Without someone I love
I'm wandering all alone
What I sing in the sunset, red-colored singing voice
It is, it is consolation
Even I can't
Show my heart to a gentle man
I met on the unknown town
Yes, it's just how myself is right now
If it's something we can't share mutual understanding of
Let's everyone, just come up together
I don't want to see the far tomorrow
I also don't want to turn around back
Now, I'm alive
It's just it, nothing else
Because I am all alone, so
Whatever tomorrow will turn out be, I'm not afraid
Whatever tomorrow will turn out be, I'm not afraid
No Leaders Please , Charles Bukowski (read by Tom O'Bedlam)
"accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented."
Saturday, April 14, 2018
the forest is a church
the forest like a church
beeches standing tall
budding still half naked,
a scent of hyancinths,sweet,
and bells from far, silence,
birds and pauses
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