Morgaine

Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Postscript

In Too lazy to assign a category on August 1, 2007 at 10:37 pm

POSTSCRIPT

I’m not one of those whose bones are kept,
nor am I even one the future will lament
not having saved in time to still be bones.

Moreover I’m not one who’ll be a standard
in contests of blood or even words,
by some hated as much as others may love me.

I’m not even one of those enchanting voices,
whispering to the lonely youth in shadows,
of some vague beauty that perchance is in his dreams.

Nor will I even be a consolation to the sad,
to the humiliated or those who boil with rage
at an entire life bit by bit betrayed.

No, I’ll not be anything of what remains or is useful,
and I’ll die, when I die, with me.

Only very timidly, in the empty hours, will he read me,
in disguise from everyone and from himse1f,
curious, that fellow who dares suspect
how truly poetry is still a disguise for life.

© Translation: 1980, Frederick G. Williams
From: The Poetry of Jorge de Sena
Publisher: Mudborn Press, Santa Barbara, 1980

POST-SCRIPTUM
Não sou daqueles cujos ossos se guardam,
nem sequer sou dos que os vindouros lamentam
não hajam sido guardados a tempo de ser ossos.

Igualmente não sou dos que serão estandartes
em lutas de sangue ou de palavras,
por uns odiados quanto me amem outros.

Não sou sequer dos que são voz de encanto,
ciciando na penumbra ao jovem solitário,
a beleza vaga que em seus sonhos houver.

Nem serei ao menos consolação dos tristes,
dos humilhados, dos que fervem raivas
de uma vida inteira pouco a pouco traída.

Não, não serei nada do que fica ou serve,
e morrerei, quando morrer, comigo.

Só muito a medo, a horas mortas, me lerá,
de todos e de si se disfarçando,
curioso, aquel’ que aceita suspeitar
quanto mesmo a poesia ainda é disfarce da vida.

© 1961, Jorge de Sena
From: Poesia I
Publisher: Edições 70, Lisboa, 1988

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Calculating the odds

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 14, 2007 at 12:04 am

I was going to say: the odds of an internet romance working out must be a gazillion to one. I mean, what are the chances that when you finally meet in person your body chemistry, pheromones, auras, chakras and all that jazz will actually mesh? Not to mention all of the idiosyncracies, the body language and the gestures, we each have that only appear when you're face to face. It's so easy to forge an image of someone based on words alone.

But then I remembered this, courtesy of Rumi:

A lover doesn't figure the odds.

He figures he came clean from God
as a gift without a reason,
so he gives without cause
or calculation or limit.

A conventionally religious person
behaves a certain way
to achieve salvation.

A lover gambles everything, the self,
the circle around the zero! She
cuts and throws it all away.

This is beyond
any religion.

Lovers do not require from God any proof,
or any text, nor do they knock on a door
to make sure this is the right street.

They run,
and they run.

And then I remember that I have no choice, really, but to watch it all happen: the gambling, the cutting loose, the giving and the running. It all happens of its own accord.

Just like this love happens. Just like this desire.

These trembling words.

This kiss.

source

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What you want most

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 12, 2007 at 10:56 pm

What you want more than safety
is to be as you are
so utterly vulnerable
as to be beyond harm.

What you want more than security
is to love and be loved
so unconditionally
as to be beyond fear.

What you want more than anything
is what you already have
so intimately near to you
as to be beyond loss.

For you are the same you
before any meeting or parting
the same you
before time crept in and said "then"
the same you
who spun round and round until she fell
     dizzy and laughing
     and didn't care who saw
the same you
who caught sunlight in her eyelashes
     and sneezed,
     held buttercups up to her chin,
     and married boys with rings made of grass
the same you
who filled a backyard universe
     with untiring investigation
     knowing for certain the secret was there
the same you
who swore she would never do that
     then did
who said I'll be happy when
     a thousand whens ago
the same you
who cried and dreamed and broke promises
who held back, risked everything, and lost
herself,
or thought she had
until she realized (again)
I am still here
and nothing real has changed
except the changeful.

Not a person, place or name.
Only you, love, remain.

Source

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Le Léthé

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 12, 2007 at 8:48 pm

Le Léthé

Viens sur mon coeur, âme cruelle et sourde,
Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents;
Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants
Dans l'épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;

Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum
Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,
Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,
Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

Je veux dormir! dormir plutôt que vivre!
Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,
J'étalerai mes baisers sans remords
Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés
Rien ne me vaut l'abîme de ta couche;
L'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

À mon destin, désormais mon délice,
J'obéirai comme un prédestiné;
Martyr docile, innocent condamné,
Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,

Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur,
Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë
Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë
Qui n'a jamais emprisonné de coeur.

Charles Baudelaire

[ for a translation, follow the link ]

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In fantasy

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 11, 2007 at 9:25 am

 i borrowed you
 when night came into the room.
 you and dark and intimacy
 lay over me,
 
 like air, tangled
 by rotation of thoughts,
 blades and hips.
 
 they belonged,
 but you were stolen
 into that moment.
 
 should i have begged to use you?
 
 while you slept far from me,
 i brought you to my bed,
 slid comfort beneath–
 
 pillows talk.
 they whisper with need
 that lingers in small whimpers,
 pressed there by lips,
 by mouth gasping the language
 we understand.
 
 i should have begged to use you.

donna dixon

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My first affair

In Too lazy to assign a category on July 3, 2007 at 10:33 pm

My First Affair With That Older Woman


when I look back now
at the abuse I took from
her
I feel shame that I was so
innocent,
but I must say
she did match me drink for
drink,

and I realized that her life
her feelings for things
had been ruined
along the way

and that I was no more than a
temporary
companion;

she was ten years older
and mortally hurt by the past
and the present;

she treated me badly:
desertion, other
men;

she brought me immense
pain,
continually;

she lied, stole;
there was desertion,
other men,

yet we had our moments; and
our little soap opera ended
with her in a coma
in the hospital,

and I sat at her bed
for hours
talking to her,

and then she opened her eyes
and saw me:
"I knew it would be you,"
she said.

then she closed her
eyes.

the next day she was
dead.

I drank alone for two years after that.

Charles Bukowski

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Lucía Estrada

In Too lazy to assign a category on June 29, 2007 at 8:18 pm

XXI

I enter the fever. From my window I see the birth of the seas, hills covered by foam, dead,
submerged brides. I am afraid of being found with this vision, that they discover my desire
to run after a legion of drowned ones. The body plunges down, it sparkles. I am one with
all; my feet liberate me from the way. The sword, the gold of the pond, convulsed. The
flame goes up, it cuts the thread of resistance. There is a hand lost for writing, another that
rescues it, that supports the needles of being. It does not weave it, it only takes care of the
verticality of the dream. No, I don't stop falling. Look at this mauve rain: it has found 
another lineage, a mystical foretaste, an animal of the depths that remembers itself and
remembers us.
It is the cold, the exaltation, the volcanic hand that opens you, and pleasure.
Do not let go the flower.

Lucia Estrada, Maiastra XXI

[ source ]

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Mystery and Paradox

In Too lazy to assign a category on April 10, 2007 at 8:58 pm

Mystery and Paradox

 

She is a mystery to all

        Secrets kept hidden

Even to those closest

       Confounding even the keenest.

 

She is a paradox with

       Seemingly contradictory

Qualities which draw you

       And send you screaming.

 

She is a mystery both

Bold and frightened

        Adventurous and timid

Believes and curses…

 

She is paradox of

Convictions struggling in

The face of her passions

A woman, a little girl.

 

          She is a mystery to men

Both dark haired and gray

           Laughing one moment

Crying  the next.

 

She is this mystery

She is this paradox,

The one who wants to do it all

All on her own, and yet be rescued.

 

She is the mystery

The never ending paradox

to all but one man

– the man who who knows her very soul.

Michael Palmer

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Forgetfulness

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 24, 2007 at 9:52 pm

US Poet Laureate Billy Collins reads his poem "Forgetfulness" with animation by Julian Grey of Headgear.

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The Life of Borodin

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 24, 2007 at 10:25 am

The life of Borodin

the next time you listen to Borodin
remember he was just a chemist
who wrote music to relax;
his house was jammed with people:
students, artists, drunkards, bums,
and he never knew how to say: no.
the next time you listen to Borodin
remember his wife used his compositions
to line the cat boxes with
or to cover jars of sour milk;
she had asthma and insomnia
and fed him soft-boiled eggs
and when he wanted to cover his head
to shut out the sounds of the house
she only allowed him to use the sheet;
besides there was usually somebody
in his bed
(they slept separately when they slept
at all)
and since all the chairs
were usually taken
he often slept on the stairway
wrapped in an old shawl;
she told him when to cut his nails,
not to sing or whistle
or put too much lemon in his tea
or press it with a spoon;
Symphony #2, in B Minor
Prince Igor
On the Steppes of Central Asia
he could sleep only by putting a piece
of dark cloth over his eyes
in 1887 he attended a dance
at the Medical Academy
dressed in a merrymaking national costume;
at last he seemed exceptionally gay
and when he fell to the floor,
they thought he was clowning.
the next time you listen to Borodin,
remember…

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