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    September 21

    Motion

    Motion By Octavio Paz

    If you are the amber mare
                  I am the road of blood
    If you are the first snow
                  I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
    If you are the tower of night
                  I am the spike burning in your mind
    If you are the morning tide
                  I am the first bird's cry
    If you are the basket of oranges
                  I am the knife of the sun
    If you are the stone altar
                  I am the sacrilegious hand
    If you are the sleeping land
                  I am the green cane
    If you are the wind's leap
                  I am the buried fire
    If you are the water's mouth
                  I am the mouth of moss
    If you are the forest of the clouds
                  I am the axe that parts it
    If you are the profaned city
                  I am the rain of consecration
    If you are the yellow mountain
                  I am the red arms of lichen
    If you are the rising sun
                  I am the road of blood

     

    "Motion/Movimiento" By Octavio Paz, Translated by Eliot Weinberger, from COLLECTED POEMS 1957-1987, copyright ©1986 by Octavio Paz and Eliot Weinberger.

    Afternoon on a Hill

     

    I will be the gladdest thing
       Under the sun!
    I will touch a hundred flowers
       And not pick one.

    I will look at cliffs and clouds
       With quiet eyes,
    Watch the wind bow down the grass,
       And the grass rise.

    And when lights begin to show
       Up from the town,
    I will mark which must be mine,
       And then start down!

    Edna St.Vincent Millay

    August 16

    Alentejo Seen From The Train

    Nothing with nothing around it
    And a few trees in between
    None of wich very clearly green,
    Where no river or flower pays a visit.
    If there be a hell, I've found it,
    For if ain't here, where the Devil it is?

    Fernando Pessoa  (1907)

    August 15

    Alentejo Seen From The Train



    Nothing with nothing around it
    And a few trees in between
    None of wich very clearly green,
    Where no river or flower pays a visit.
    If there be a hell, I've found it,
    For if ain't here, where the Devil it is?

    Fernando Pessoa  (1907)
    August 12

    world prayers

    Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
    there is a field. I'll meet you there.

    When the soul lies down in that grass,
    the world is too full to talk about.
    Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.

     

    mevlana jelaluddin rumi - 13th century

    From Worldprayers site 

    July 31

    Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Ode

    We are the music-makers
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;
    World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams....

    --Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Ode
    July 18

    ישראלים

    ישראלים - אירווינג לייטון

    A poetry by Irving Layton

    (couldn't find an English translation so far)

     

    הֵם סוֹמְכִים עַל עַצְמָם וְלֹא עַל אַחֵר;

    מְטוֹסֵי הַקְּרָב שֶׁלָּהֶם הַצּוֹוְחִים בָּרָקִיעַ,

    אֲמִתִּיִּים, נִרְאִים לָעַיִן כַּשֶּׁמֶשׁ בַּהֲדָרוֹ;

    עֲשַׁן-רוֹבִים, נִצְנוּצֵי-תּוֹתָחִים וּשְׁאוֹן הַטַּנְקִים.

    הָאָדָם הוּא זְאֵב בַּעַל-נִיבִים, חֲסַר חֶמְלָה

    אוֹ רַחֲמִים: אָשׁוּרִים, מִדְיָנִים, יְוָנִים, רוֹמָאִים,

    וְעוֹבְדֵי-אֱלִילִים אֲדוּקִים בִּסְפָרַד וּבְרוּסְיָה

    -         יְלָדָיו שֶׁל אַלְלָה, הָרַחְמָנִים מִכָּל.

    אַיֵּה הַכֹּל-יָכֹל אִם הָרֶצַח מְשַׂגְשֵׂג?

    הוּא מֵת כָּלִיל וְהֵם קָבְרוּ אוֹתוֹ

    לִפְנֵי עֲשׂוֹרִים, כִּסּוּהוּ בְּמוֹ גּוּפוֹתֵיהֶם

    הַתְּשׁוּשִׁים בְּבֶּלְזֶן וּבְבָּאבִּי יַאר.

    הָנִיחוּ לַחֲזָקִים לְחַבֵּר שִׁירִים וְהִמְנוֹנוֹת,

    לִחְיוֹת עִם נֹגַהּ הָאֱלֹהִים בְּגֻלְגְּלוֹתֵיהֶם הַקָּשׁוֹת

    אוֹ לְהַגִּיד דְּבַר חַסְדּוֹ בָּרַבִּים;

    לִבְהוֹת בַּמְּרוֹמִים וְלָחוּשׁ מְרוֹמָמִים

    אוֹ מֻשְׁפָּלִים וַהֲלוּמֵי-יִרְאָה לִכְפֹּף בִּרְכֵּיהֶם:

    הֵם גָּמְרוּ אִתּוֹ לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד.

    בְּלֹא יִפְחָה מִצִּדּוֹ חָזְרוּ,

    אוֹת כְּמוֹ יָד פְּתוּחָה בַּשָּׁמַיִם.

               

    עַמּוּד הָאֵשׁ: בְּשָׂרָם כּוֹנֵן אוֹתוֹ;

    הוּא בָּעַר קְצָרוֹת וָמֵת –כֻּלְּכֶם יוֹדְעִים הֵיכָן.

    עַכְשָׁו בְּדָמָם הֵם מְחַשְּׁלִים אֶת הַפְּלָדָה,

    כְּשֶׁאֱלֹהִים מֵת, וְאוֹיְבֵיהֶם לֹא.

     

    July 17

    Crystal Night

     works of magic fly paula's photos  at his Flickr album


    July 07

    under the summer moon

     

    An octopus pot –
    inside, a short-lived dream
    under the summer moon
    (Basho, trans.Ueda)

     
     
    *
     
    My way -
    no-one on the road
    and it's autumn, getting dark
    (Basho, trans. Marsh)

    *

     

    The love of cats
    When it was over, the hazy moon
    Over the bed chamber
    (Basho)

     
    *


    Lighting one candle
    With another candle
    An evening of Spring
    (Buson)


    June 21

    A REED FLUTE

    Can you catch a mermaid  
    And make her your wife?  

    On a night like this,  
        the moon so wan,  
    Roaming the sea's warm depths....  

    Can you become a grasslike ghost  
    And appear just bare bones?  

    On a night like this,  
        the moon so wan,  
    Riding a balloon  
    And floating, floating  
        toward a pollen-strewn sky...  
    In a tree's empty shade,  
    I converse with my flute,  
        just we two together.  
    CHONG CHI-YONG 

    June 18

    We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night

    We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night

    Dawn's orb orange-raw shining over Palisades
    bare crowded branches bush up from marshes--
    New Jersey with my father riding automobile
    highway to Newark Airport--Empire State's
    spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan
    rising as in W. C. Williams' eyes between wire trestles--
    trucks sixwheeled steady rolling overpass
    beside New York--I am here
    tiny under sun rising in vast white sky,
    staring thru skeleton new buildings,
    with pen in hand awake ...
       --  Allen Ginsberg
    via wood s lot

    Dan Mcdermott The Green Wave IV Oil on Linen

    Dan Mcdermott The Green Wave2 Oil On Canvas
    June 16

    I Keep A Close Watch

    I Keep A Close Watch

    Never win and never lose
    There's nothing much to choose
    Between the right and wrong
    Nothing lost and nothing gained
    Still things aren't quite the same
    Between you and me

    I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
    I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

    I still hear your voice at night
    When I turn out the light
    And try to settle down
    But there's nothing much I can do
    Because I can't live without you
    Any way at all

    I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
    I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

    John Cale

    June 14

    cruelty and beauty

    Ono no Komachi,  lived around 850 C.E.  during the Heian period. The story about her is that she was a woman of unparallelled beauty in her youth and enjoyed the attention of many suitors. She was, however, haughty and cruel, breaking many hearts. She was punished by living to an old age and dying as a destitute and ugly hag in loneliness. The legend is almost certainly false, but the passionate nature of her loves survives to this day. 
     
     
    Seeing the moonlight
    spilling down
    through these trees,
    my heart fills to the brim
    with autumn.
     
    *
     
    The autumn night
    is long only in name --
    We've done no more
    than gaze at each other
    and it's already dawn.
     
    *
     
    Yielding to a love
    That knows no limit,
    I shall go to him by night --
    For the world does not yet censure
    Those who tread the paths of dreams.
     
    *
     
    Now that I am entering
    The winter of life,
    Your ardor has faded
    Like foliage ravaged
    By late autumn rains.

    *
     
    The pine tree by the rock
    must have its memories too:
    after a thousand years,
    see how its branches
    lean toward the ground.



    June 10

    the strongest of the strange

    you wont see them often
    for wherever the crowds are
    they
    are not.

    these odd ones, not
    many
    but from them
    come
    the few
    good paintings
    the few
    good symphonies
    the few
    good books
    and other
    works.

    and from the
    best of the
    strange ones
    perhaps
    nothing.

    they are
    their own
    paintings
    their own
    books
    their own
    music
    their own
    work.

    sometimes i think
    i see
    them- say
    a certain old
    man
    sitting on a
    certain bench
    in a certain
    way

    or
    a quick face
    going the other
    way
    in a passing
    automobile

    or
    there’s a certain motion
    of the hands
    of a bag-boy or a bag-
    girl
    while packing
    supermarket
    groceries.

    sometimes
    it is even somebody
    you have been
    living with
    for some
    time-
    you will notice
    a
    lightning quick
    glance
    never seen
    from them
    before.

    sometimes
    you will only note
    their
    existence
    suddenly
    in
    vivid
    recall
    some months
    some years
    after they are
    gone.

    i remember
    such a
    one-
    he was about
    20 years old
    drunk at
    10 a.m.
    staring into
    a cracked
    new orleans
    mirror

    face dreaming
    against the
    walls of
    the world

    where
    did i
    go?

    -charles bukowski.  via thenonist

    May 29

    A DREAM OF WINDBLOWN WAVES 1

    You say you are coming─  
    Just how will you come?  

    Like the grape-dark night surging in  
    To the sound of an endless cry  
    that embraces the sea─  
    Is that how you'll come?  

    You say you are coming─  
    Just how will you come?  

    Like an ashen silver giant from  
    a forlorn isle across the sea,  
    Swooping down on a day fierce with wind─  
    Is that how you'll come?  

    You say you are coming─  
    Just how will you come?  

    When outside the window  
    sparrows' eyes droop  
    And inside, chin in hands,  
    I'm crushed with care......  
    Like the dawn moon, round like  
    a silver door pull,  
    Doffing a veil tinged with shame─  
    Is that how you'll come?  CHONG CHI-YONG 

    May 28

    astropoetica

    Astropoetica: Mapping the Stars through Poetry.

    Clickable Star Chart, each constellation was granted by an original poem

     

    Clickable Star Chart: Galactic South. click on the link to get in to the poetic path. by clicking on the map it will take you to different poems dedicated to a star.

     

    here is one:

    Apus by Johann Bayer
     

    In the nooks of the darkness
    somebody has prepared a trap
    the people's hopes
    hardly flicker
    like some fragile stars
    hung by an insectarium

    beyond the dreams
    it raises splitting the darkness

    the Bird of Paradise

     

    May 27

    לכל איש יש שם - זלדה

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתן לו אלוהים

    ונתנו לו אביו ואימו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו קומתו ואופן חיוכו

    ונתן לו האריג

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו ההרים

    ונתנו לו כתליו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו המזלות

    ונתנו לו שכניו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו חטאיו

    ונתנה לו כמיהתו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו שונאיו

    ונתנה לו אהבתו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו חגיו

    ונתנה לו מלאכתו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתנו לו תקופות השנה

    ונתן לו עיורונו

    לכל איש יש שם

    שנתן לו הים

    ונתן לו

    מותו .

     
    May 25

    Doors

     
    photo by: Maurice Hammon

     
     
    There are barn doors
    And there are revolving doors
    Doors in the rudders of big ships
    And there are revolving doors
    There are doors that open by themselves
    There are sliding doors
    And there are secret doors
    There are doors that lock
    And doors that don't
    There are doors that let you in and out
    But never open
    And there are trapdoors
    That you can't come back from

     

    Doors /Thom Yorke  via cheek


    May 23

    ירח -אלתרמן Moon-Nathan Alterman

    An old sight too has its moment of birth.
    A birdless sky
    Strange and set apart.
    Facing your window on the moonlit night stands
    A city plunged in crickets' tears.

    And when you see a road still watching for a wayfarer
    And the moon
    Is on the cypress spear,
    You say: 'My God, are all these things still out there?
    May one whisper them a greeting?'

    From their pools the waters gaze upon us.
    The tree is at rest
    In a flush of catkin blossoms.
    Never shall the sorrow of Your great playthings
    Be plucked from me, O our God
    .

     

    ©  1938, Nathan Alterman
    From: Stars Outside
    Publisher: Yachdav, Tel Aviv
    © Translation: Lewis Glinert

     

     

    גם למראה נושן יש רגע של הולדת.
    שמים בלי צפור
    זרים ומבצרים.
    בלילה הסהור מול חלונך עומדת
    עיר טבולה בבכי הצרצרים.

    ובראותך כי דרך עוד צופה אל הלך
    והירח
    על כידון הברוש
    אתה אומר - אלי, העוד ישנם כל אלה?
    העוד מתר בלחש בשלומם לדרש?

    מאגמיהם המים נבטים אלינו.
    שוקט העץ
    באדם עגילים.
    לעד לא תעקר ממני, אלהינו,
    תוגת צעצועיך הגדולים.