Related quotes
Who ever converses among old books will be hard to please among the new.
quote by William Temple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The man as he converses is the lover; silent, he is the husband.
quote by Honore De Balzac
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Every man becomes, to a certain degree, what the people he generally converses with are.
quote by Robert Motherwell
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But For Eyes, What Are Men?
Man touches woman by eyes,
With which he X-rays her parts,
With which he converses with her
And with which he cans her in brain
For later visualization.
But for eyes, men will be impotent.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Black Slippers: Bellotti
At the table beyond us
With her little suede slippers off,
With her white-stocking'd feet
Carefully kept from the floor by a napkin,
She converses:
'Connaissez-vous Ostende?'
The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the
restaurant
Replies with a certain hauteur,
But I await with patience,
To see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.
She re-enters them with a groan.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Talks With The Dead
He converses too often
with the dead. The talks
Remembered, taken in
Deep the words said.
He sorts through afterwards
The conversations, what
Was said by who to whom,
And how was said. And as
He spoke took in the eyes
Of those speaking, the open
Happiness there, the lack
Of worries, absence of fear
Of their mortality, being there
In that other place, just a finger
Tip, a cool breath’s feel away.
He sees them, they pass by,
Time of no concern, no pressures
For them anymore, just the talking,
Soft conversations with those
Who have moved on, those who
Felt death’s kiss and touch over much.
poem by Terry Collett
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Ode to Pity
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush
Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush
Converses with the Dove.
2
Gently brawling down the turnpike road,
Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream--
The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud
And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,
The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,
And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear
And quite invisible doth take a peep.
poem by Jane Austen
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I Go Out On The Road Alone
Alone I set out on the road;
The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;
The night is still. The desert harks to God,
And star with star converses.
The vault is overwhelmed with solemn wonder
The earth in cobalt aura sleeps. . .
Why do I feel so pained and troubled?
What do I harbor: hope, regrets?
I see no hope in years to come,
Have no regrets for things gone by.
All that I seek is peace and freedom!
To lose myself and sleep!
But not the frozen slumber of the grave...
I'd like eternal sleep to leave
My life force dozing in my breast
Gently with my breath to rise and fall;
By night and day, my hearing would be soothed
By voices sweet, singing to me of love.
And over me, forever green,
A dark oak tree would bend and rustle.
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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1. A virus has infected me
it stays on my top snugly seated
in a white boney case, hooked onto two
powerful lenses, a pair of sonar and smell detectors
and a bonus taste pad latched onto it
not to mention the central control that
takes messages from all in order to manoevre
the physique in the right direction
but the being that daily whispers?
converses? tiptoes over the corridors
of a hodgepode of mysterious terrains
which triggers fear as well as at times
the ironical blessed dose of courage,
in the chamber of the heart, causing machinery
to crash? is he a harmful virus we are still
learning to clear, or is he the master of a game
on a multi dimensional computer
he so cleverly designed leaving us
in the dark of our own whereabouts?
a new generation computer that works
on a programme fueled by nature
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Scarlet Flower
The East is Red at the Great Wall.
My heart and soul yearningly-long
For my Scarlet Flower all day long
My love is magenta blood
It burns with crimson flames.
Scarlet, my beautiful beloved
Your dark almond eyes
Glow in tender purity and passion
With balmy warmth and devotion.
And we walk around ancient Xi’an
Kuomintang General Chiang Kai-shek
Was captured here in nineteen thirty six
At the foot of the Hills of Lishan.
Now the camera has another film roll
And you pose for the picture where long ago
Tang Emperor Xuanzong’s concubine
Lady Yang Guifei used to stroll.
The red buttons on your black garment
Wink with joy in the park, enchanted
At the white marble-sculpture:
Backward leant
Lady Yang Guifei steps out naked
From the emerald pool
Of the Huaqing hot springs.
Scarlet, your ebony hair in chignon
Adorns your delicate ivory skin
Oh how graceful is your face, my love.
In the afternoon-light the blue scarf
Beneath your chin playfully converses
With purple magnolia and red roses
And golden chrysanthemums.
poem by Paul Hartal
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A Little Language
I know a little language of my cat, though Dante says
that animals have no need of speech and Nature
abhors the superfluous. My cat is fluent. He
converses when he wants with me. To speak
is natural. And whales and wolves I’ve heard
in choral soundings of the sea and air
know harmony and have an eloquence that stirs
my mind and heart—they touch the soul. Here
Dante’s religion that would set Man apart
damns the effluence of our life from us
to build therein its powerhouse.
It’s in his animal communication Man is
true, immediate, and
in immediacy, Man is all animal.
His senses quicken in the thick of the symphony,
old circuits of animal rapture and alarm,
attentions and arousals in which an identity rearrives.
He hears
particular voices among
the concert, the slightest
rustle in the undertones,
rehearsing a nervous aptitude
yet to prove his. He sees the flick
of significant red within the rushing mass
of ruddy wilderness and catches the glow
of a green shirt
to delite him in a glowing field of green
—it speaks to him—
and in the arc of the spectrum color
speaks to color.
The rainbow articulates
a promise he remembers
he but imitates
in noises that he makes,
this speech in every sense
the world surrounding him.
He picks up on the fugitive tang of mace
amidst the savory mass,
and taste in evolution is an everlasting key.
There is a pun of scents in what makes sense.
Myrrh it may have been,
the odor of the announcement that filld the house.
He wakes from deepest sleep
upon a distant signal and waits
as if crouching, springs to life.
poem by Robert Duncan
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The butterfly
I have watched a butterfly now a full half hour
So self-poised upon a yellow budding flower
And a huge winged butterfly with all rainbow colors indeed
I know not if it sleeps or it feeds
How in pure calm motionless it stands on leaf so thin
Even more still as it visits a stump pale with green
And then what joy waits it when the light breeze
Has found it out among the trees
It carried it up, down and away
A whole world on a spangled ray
This plot of Orchard-ground is ours
My son's trees they are, My family flowers
Stop here whenever you are jaded and worry
And take a rest in our green sanctuary
Visit our rich wreathe glorious foreheads of lofty pines
And breathe ambrosial passion from their veins
By the balmy flowers seek refuge from human eye
And smell their scent being shoot to the sky
Come often to us fear no wrong
Sit near us on a balmy bloom of a bough long
We will talk of sunshine and of song
And summer days long lost, for ever gone
When we were young and strong
Our days of youth vigor and rapture sealed in our memory’s throng
My fragile creature, stay, do not take haste your flight
A little longer stray around, delay in my sight
So many converses I have with you in a day bright
You are the historian of my infancy
With you around I can relive my fantasies
Float longer near me, do not yet depart
Tell me again the days of my childhood of lost heart
My sweet times in you I revive
Gay creature as you are to you I owe my strive
You bring solemn images of happy times to my heart
…..
These innocent days of sun and joy free of care
With no worries no burden of life to bare
How sweet, how pleasant were these days
The times when in our childish plays
Some giggling budding girls, few boys and I
Together chased you the flying butterfly
A very hunter did I rush
Upon my prey I leapt, I sprang, I fell
And the heavy odor of the trodden grass I smell
Oh that precious moment in me forever dwells
I lay on my back aloof and watched the sky
The thin gray cloud was spread on high
Sealed and carved in my bosom stone
Inside my very marrow bone
I got up and followed you from brake to bush
In open meadows in dales over brooks and creeks
As the sun of dusk sets behind the mountains peaks
But at the very last moment I feared to brush
The feathered dust from off your wings
This sweet joyful time makes my heart sink
Under huge broad-breast old oak tree lush and green
With trunk and boughs spread with bubbles skin
There under the tree in the warm summer day
I kissed a young maid with gems entangled in her hair
The day was not harsh no clouds in gray
The forest was in full foliage not bare
And the wind moaned soughing bleak
As I kissed her warm enthralling cheek
Yet there was not enough wind in the air
To move away the bright ringlet curl
From her lovely soft cheek
The swans’ lake flapped their wings
And trumped their shrieks in full beak to sing
And as I was sunk in this heavenly bliss
My eyes caught in swift a glance of the lovely valley of her breast
The smell of her silken robe and the scent of her inner vest
Shy and perplexed at her first maiden kiss
Painting in passionate pangs she looked for a liss
She folded her arms beneath her cloak
And she stole to the other side of the oak
At once into the summer air you bounced and flew
And took my joyous soul to fly away with you
Fly, Fly and tower into vaults of heights and heavenly bowers
Creature of sun and joy, wind and sky
My memories of past glory, my soul are with you even as I die
And return to us right after spring thundering showers
Guard yourself from the evil behind your magnificent wings
Hide yourself from the storm, the rain, and the howling winds
The forest gloom foster danger with deadly weight
which haunts us in some sad reverse of fate
Pass by lakes pores and ocean shores
Leap and rest on the back of cloudy rack sailing in ore
A child born out of his mother sweet womb
To turn into a hovering ghost over his stone tomb
Fly butterfly over earth and ocean with waving holy motion
Ride on winds that shake the dew drops that wake
The sweet budding spring flowers in balmy bowers
Carry these divine memories of joy and love to contend eternally with stars above.
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Introductory 03
I was one night meditating on the time which had elapsed, repenting of the life I had squandered and perforating the stony mansion of my heart with adamantine tears. 1 I uttered the following verses in conformity with the state of mind:
Every moment a breath of life is spent,
If I consider, not much of it remains.
O thou, whose fifty years have elapsed in sleep,
Wilt thou perhaps overtake them in these five days?
Shame on him who has gone and done no work.
The drum of departure was beaten but he has not made his load.
Sweet sleep on the morning of departure
Retains the pedestrian from the road.
Whoever had come had built a new edifice.
He departed and left the place to another
And that other one concocted the same futile schemes
And this edifice was not completed by anyone.
Cherish not an inconstant friend.
Such a traitor is not fit for amity.
As all the good and bad must surely die,
He is happy who carries off the ball of virtue.
Send provision for thy journey to thy tomb.
Nobody will bring it after thee; send it before.
Life is snow, the sun is melting hot.
Little remains, but the gentleman is slothful still.
O thou who hast gone empty handed to the bazar,
I fear thou wilt not bring a towel filled.
Who eats the corn he has sown while it is yet green,
Must at harvest time glean the ears of it.
Listen with all thy heart to the advice of Sa’di.
Such is the way; be a man and travel on.
The capital of man’s life is his abdomen.
If it be gradually emptied there is no fear
But if it be so closed as not to open
The heart may well despair of life;
And if it be open so that it cannot be closed,
Go and wash thy hands of this world’s life.
Four contending rebellious dispositions
Harmonize but five days with each other.
If one of these four becomes prevalent,
Sweet life must abandon the body
Wherefore an intelligent and perfect man
Sets not his heart upon this world’s life.
After maturely considering these sentiments, I thought proper to sit down in the mansion of retirement to fold up the skirts of association, to wash my tablets of heedless sayings and no more to indulge in senseless prattle:
To sit in a corner, like one with a cut tongue, deaf and dumb,
Is better than a man who has no command over his tongue.
I continued in this resolution till a friend, who had been my companion in the camel-litter of misery and my comrade in the closet of affection, entered at the door, according to his old custom with playful gladness, and spread out the surface of desire; but I would give him no reply nor lift up my head from the knees of worship. He looked at me aggrieved and said:
‘Now, while thou hast the power of utterance,
Speak, O brother, with grace and kindness
Because tomorrow, when the messenger of death arrives,
Thou wilt of necessity restrain thy tongue.’
One of my connections informed him how matters stood and told him that I had firmly determined and was intent upon spending the rest of my life in continual devotion and silence, advising him at the same time, in case he should be able, to follow my example and to keep me company. He replied: ‘I swear by the great dignity of Allah and by our old friendship that I shall not draw breath, nor budge one step, unless he converses with me as formerly, and in his usual way; because it is foolish to insult friends and easy to expiate an oath. It is against propriety, and contrary to the opinions of wise men that the Zulfiqar of A’li should remain in the scabbard and the tongue of Sa’di in his palate.’
O intelligent man what is the tongue in the mouth?
It is the key to the treasure-door of a virtuous man.
When the door is closed how can one know
Whether he is a seller of jewels or a hawker?
Although intelligent men consider silence civil,
It is better for thee to speak at the proper time.
Two things betoken levity of intellect: to remain mute
When it is proper to speak and to talk when silence is required.
In short, I had not the firmness to restrain my tongue from speaking to him, and did not consider it polite to turn away my face from his conversation, he being a congenial friend and sincerely affectionate.
When thou fightest with anyone, consider
Whether thou wilt have to flee from him or he from thee.
I was under the necessity of speaking and then went out by way of diversion in the vernal season, when the traces of severe cold had disappeared and the time of the dominion of roses had arrived:
Green garments were upon the trees
Like holiday robes on contented persons.
On the first of the month Ardibihesht Jellali
The bulbuls were singing on the pulpits of branches.
Upon the roses pearls of dew had fallen,
Resembling perspiration on an angry sweetheart’s cheek.
I happened to spend the night in a garden with one of my friends and we found it to be a pleasant cheerful place with heart-ravishing entangled trees; its ground seemed to be paved with small glass beads whilst, from its vines, bunches like the Pleiads were suspended.
A garden the water of whose river was limpid
A grove the melody of whose birds was harmonious.
The former full of bright-coloured tulips,
The latter full of fruits of various kinds;
The wind had in the shade of its trees
Spread out a bed of all kinds of flowers.
The next morning when the intention of returning had prevailed over the opinion of tarrying, I saw that my friend had in his skirt collected roses, sweet basil, hyacinths and fragrant herbs with the determination to carry them to town; whereon I said: ‘Thou knowest that the roses of the garden are perishable and the season passes away’, and philosophers have said: ‘Whatever is not of long duration is not to be cherished.’ He asked: ‘Then what is to be done?’ I replied: ‘I may compose for the amusement of those who look and for the instruction of those who are present a book of a Rose Garden, a Gulistan, whose leaves cannot be touched by the tyranny of autumnal blasts and the delight of whose spring the vicissitudes of time will be unable to change into the inconstancy of autumn.
Of what use will be a dish of roses to thee?
Take a leaf from my rose-garden.
A flower endures but five or six days
But this rose-garden is always delightful.
After I had uttered these words he threw away the flowers from his skirts, and attached himself to mine, saying: ‘When a generous fellow makes a promise he keeps it.’
On the same day I happened to write two chapters, namely on polite society and the rules of conversation, in a style acceptable to orators and instructive to letter-writers. In short, some roses of the garden still remained when the book of the Rose-garden was finished but it will in reality be completed only after approbation in the court of the Shah, who is the refuge of the world, the shadow of God, the ray of his grace, the treasury of the age, the asylum of the Faith, strengthened by heaven, aided against enemies, the arm of the victorious government, the lamp of the resplendent religion, the beauty of mankind, the boast of Islam, Sa’d son of Atabek the great, the majestic Shahanshah, owner of the necks of nations, lord of the kings of Arabia and Persia, the sultan of the land and the sea, the heir of the kingdom of Solomon, Muzaffaruddin Ibu Bekr, son of Sa’d Zanki, may Allah the most high perpetuate the prosperity of them both and direct their inclinations to every good thing.
Perused with a kind glance,
Adorned with approbation by the sovereign,
It will be a Chinese picture-gallery or design of the Arzank,
Hopes are entertained that he will not be wearied
By these contents because a Pose-garden is not a place of displeasure.
The more so as its august preface is dedicated
To Sa’d Abu Bekr Sa’d the son of Zanki.
Crab Nebula
Crab Nebula*
* Not an Astronomy Reference
(Unlike the dust of Galaxies / these
are the scattered thoughts of an old man)
Wince ___ *
Mother and son sit alone in the cold
A kerosene lamp with dirty glass
Paints the room ochre and dust
Rock Cold
wince!
She pushes back against the night
Lighting Lucky Strikes one after one in chains
Talking to demons buried deep within the swirling smoke
Rock Cold
wince!
Her son sits unseen under the table
Watching the play unfold
Trying to understand a past before he was born
Before he became
Rock Cold
wince!
* (wince! , is the sound a rocking chair makes on the ‘push back
wince! , is also a facial tic caused by the winterness of childhood)
First, the ‘tricity went, then the gas, the cold water pipes froze and as a child, I seldom took a bath after that. Thoughts festered in the gloom, sitting alone in those cold dark rooms. From that time on, I was always out of step. A bit off track. Lost in my self, looking in that dusty mirror at a neglected child.
'Sometimes, life be like that'.
As a wounded naked child in the chill of the long night. I pondered the decisions in my life and could find fault with none other than my' self. It was I, that rejected the wisdom of others experience, going my own way in arrogant delusions defiance. With too much pride and too late in the game to change, I accept my fate of being erased from the ‘Book of Life.
Carried on wisps of whispered kisses, I clutched and grabbed on, to hold my place, rather than drift away from the face that had borne the me I am. Pushed from behind by blinded eyes, (not drawn by a need to fly) I was thrust into the cold air and sea, floating on coarse cloth tearing me, away from all that was maternal. Forever from that moment on, I lived a dream that never happened. Searching highways for familiar paths to take me back to the beginnings and the traumas of being born too soon. 'Not me, not me, (I cried) choose another other than I'. Too soon they had cut the cord and I am now undone. Now I must forever run, hide and seek, until the womb of those dreams becomes the tomb of clay beneath my feet. Till even the dust of me is washed away. I would forever have wished that I had never been born only to die. Except that I, remain in the dream of those who believed my being born was because they were once in Love.
Continually lost, looking for that familiar space in my genetic memory, that far removed place of ancient lives and times of my night wanderings. I am man become as homing pigeon. Caught in the middle of a magnetic ion storm. Having lost direction to where I belong, I wander the forever. looking for that warm sweet breast and the loving sound of the eternal Mother.
A flowering struggle was the birth of a cold day of gray such as this. Reminiscent of my own, and yet I too somehow came to exist. Un-kissed by the warmth of Sun, dwelling in the damp and gloom. Pushed aside as runt, stunted in growth, overshadowed by others that stretched out too soon to reach the light. They quickly burned off and I was left to stay, so that I might show my discontent and say: 'Such is life here, on this side of the shade'.
A cold front moved across the Hudson River, settling into the concrete streets of Hell's Kitchen. A Postal canvas hamper cried in its wheels while being pushed by a scavenger collecting cardboard refuse. Impatient horns made known their intent. A woman missing teeth with an affluent smile, rattled a paper cup asking for change giving God's blessing in return, and I, lost in my own disappointments barely noticed the Opera's drama. Unawares that I had been ‘caste, in the role as an extra.
The Moon was hidden behind skyline spires, as are the passions that were once desired. Though echoes are mere mutters beneath torrential rains awash in gutters. The homeless bodies are wracked in sadness. Their minds mired in madness. They often weep. Then they scribe wishes for love on paper scraps. Sticking them into the buildings cracks. Wrapping hopes in vague traditions under conditions no one else could bear. Such is the life we live seemingly forever. We all fitfully sleep, dream and hope, that sanity still exists somewhere out there.
Jumping the turnstile intending to ride the train for free. What I saw was not as nice as I had hoped and dreamed. The Stations were filled at every stop with tired people and weary cops. Platforms lighted in cold neon temptations, with scent of Carmel Corn and urination's. Then I heard the conductors static cry... 'Utopia Station, is closed for construction,
this train is now running express and will pass it by'.
A lonely rams horn sounds where once fresh fountain waters flowed. Men now slept in hovels of cardboard boxes, mumbling in the winters cold. Shaking Miter heads wail, cry and point to their altars denied. Rubble is all that remains of a world gone terribly wrong. Proud voices quieted of their militant marching song. Crippled hands wave to days of glory passed. Fueled by greed that was never meant to last. Merely a tease and a bribe to follow another war yet to come. After another generation had lost their last remaining son.
'Moon of many names, come out from your hiding', show your true face of blood and shed your pretense of ‘Romance. Falling leaves whispered your true nature and changing seasons have announced that ‘Ten Colds, will thin the herd, before the realization cometh that WE are the Harvest.
There are times as your mind travels on a scattered past, flitting about from first to last, or perhaps all out of sync, trying to find that link to today. A reason to step out of sorrow. Cross that bridge to tomorrow, now hidden by low lying clouds of gray. As newborn birds try to learn to fly, my own wings ragged and dry, wishing I had a reason to soar above the rest and test once again the mourning sky.
Each day I study the script thus far writ, not by the author of us all, rather the chronicler that lives within. The author's abstract and dubious wit, is the final act' and is hidden and unclear. Each must play their part on Faith alone. If not, then randomness and chaos will ensue. It is not for us to discern the time of the curtains fall or what we must endure for remaining true. Daily actions are mere rehearsals for the end. Now as evening draws to a close, not all know the one who will lead the pack. Rather, they believe the one who thinks he knows, ‘the Dreams of Winter Rain.
Wandering nights in my sleep, crossing streets that have no traffic. I am aware that I'm getting closer to home. Exchanging converses with those I meet, there is a familiarity I recognize through eyes that seem to be the same as my own. Upon my waking, I discern there is an understanding I should have known, that we do not arrive there, until our time here on earth has finally and inevitably flown.
Keeping time with the thump of the road. Heel hitting gravel on shoulders unpaved. Adjusting the strap of pack upon my back, I gave it all I had. Now in restless sleep, faithfully I keep the rhythm going on in my head. As I, now much older lay infirm upon my bed. It drives 'the wife, insane. She does not understand why in dreams I go astray. It seems to her, I purpose to ruin her rest. She does not know the lasting lust of youthful legs spent in freedoms search upon the open road.
Words are gathered, arranged, exchanged, articulated and emphasized, thrust before our eyes and into our consciousness. There is no echo. No response. Nothing has changed save the settling of dust and the natural decay of things. Celebrity has not been my goal, nor the acquisition of diamonds or coal. Rather to understand and to know, the why of me.
Fools on the Tarot Card with puppies yapping at their feet. Happy with stick and puffy clouds overhead. Stepping off into the abyss, kissing goodbye their life unnoticed. Interrupting fantasies and dreams. I am thrust into the face of the surreal. Riots in the street for lack of food, or clean water to drink and economic chaos. War planes raining down tears. Waves of sludge, volcanic ash and then comes a brief peace with the end of the Evening News, dancing bears and sour singing divas lull us back into foolishness.
Snow as cold powder measured in more feet than me, drifts up against wood framed houses. icicles dripping off eaves. Bare black branches cracking ‘staccato in the concerto of my childhood dreams, in a world where the clouds are blue and the sky dirty green.
'Life is what it is. Cold and mean'.
As I walk the streets through Subway steam oblivious to the thoughts of others. Their wants and needs, lusts and greed. Unwed Mothers and children crying, hungry, homeless, cold and dying from cheap wine, with nowhere to safely sleep. All that remains is pride. Of what? Embarrassed shame? A strangers name? Nothing remains in who I had hoped to be.
Cold night moon. Winter cold. New Years old cold familiar as broken bones. Too tight shoes, hole in my Soul, where the warm fell away lost, pain too large to lose, carried as a cloak over one shoulder as I leant on a black painted limping stick. I should have embraced the Tao. Where NO thing is worth the seeking and 'the pain of life, just is'.
Plod the men, trying to stride. Their steps half and halt, burdened by the faults of uneven streets, always grading up. Plod another step, another stair tread climbed, beyond where they should have stayed to let the world pass them by. Sometime they rest, to reflect the remains of yesterdays. Only the face of strangers change. What do we hope to find around the corner, down the street? A friendly smile in those we meet? or perhaps proof exists, GOD or some other curiosity.
I made up all those dreams and memories that make me who I am. My life barely made a difference, but then I never gave a damn. Somehow I knew that this could never last. For me there was no future only an uncertain past. Anyway... they were only whispers while standing in the tall weeds of grass.
Others caught words in their understanding. Concepts of math and GOD that I could not. Perhaps I in my rebellion chose instead to catch dreams of what could have been, or better yet, should be. Like all those things that were swirling around inside of me. I found comfort there in the dusty dim. Pictures projected upon my inner mental scrim. Words did not come from my lips. They were all there, locked up tight in my mind. They can keep their happy song as my silence lay at their feet. I kicked and scuffed my shoe, thinking wordlessly, ‘What is wrong with me seeing things differently from the others'?
I did not wish to get old. In a way, I am surprised to see I am still alive. The only benefit I can find, is, I do not have to do as I am told. I do not have to smile or pretend, that I care what others say. I do not expect tomorrow, I only live for today. I want nothing more. If I actually believed wishes really came true, I would wish the same for you.
Having always sought the self, that within which I do not yet know. That evolving creature that is borne of hope, that I might still become more then I am. Foolish as I am I wanted to be who I suspect I was meant to be, before the hammer slings and controlling others began their molding abuses. Before the brain washers wash away my individuality. How audacious I must appear to others. How arrogant I must seem to be, to just want to be me.
poem by Donald Goodside
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bénédiction (Benediction)
Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes,
Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé,
Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes
Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié:
— «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères,
Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision!
Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères
Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation!
Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes
Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari,
Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,
Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri,
Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable
Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,
Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,
Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!»
Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine,
Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels,
Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne
Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.
Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange,
L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil
Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange
Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.
II joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage,
Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix;
Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage
Pleure de le voir gai comme un oiseau des bois.
Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte,
Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité,
Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte,
Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité.
Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa bouche
Ils mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats;
Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,
Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.
Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques:
«Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer,
Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,
Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer;
Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe,
De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins,
Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admire
Usurper en riant les hommages divins!
Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies,
Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main;
Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies,
Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin.
Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite,
J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein,
Et, pour rassasier ma bête favorite
Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!»
Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide,
Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieux
Et les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide
Lui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux:
— «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance
Comme un divin remède à nos impuretés
Et comme la meilleure et la plus pure essence
Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés!
Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poète
Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions,
Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fête
Des Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations.
Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique
Où ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,
Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique
Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers.
Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre,
Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,
Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire
A ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair;
Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière,
Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,
Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,
Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!»
Benediction
When, after a decree of the supreme powers,
The Poet is brought forth in this wearisome world,
His mother terrified and full of blasphemies
Raises her clenched fist to God, who pities her:
— 'Ah! would that I had spawned a whole knot of vipers
Rather than to have fed this derisive object!
Accursed be the night of ephemeral joy
When my belly conceived this, my expiation!
Since of all women You have chosen me
To be repugnant to my sorry spouse,
And since I cannot cast this misshapen monster
Into the flames, like an old love letter,
I shall spew the hatred with which you crush me down
On the cursed instrument of your malevolence,
And twist so hard this wretched tree
That it cannot put forth its pestilential buds!'
Thus she gulps down the froth of her hatred,
And not understanding the eternal designs,
Herself prepares deep down in Gehenna
The pyre reserved for a mother's crimes.
However, protected by an unseen Angel,
The outcast child is enrapt by the sun,
And in all that he eats, in everything he drinks,
He finds sweet ambrosia and rubiate nectar.
He cavorts with the wind, converses with the clouds,
And singing, transported, goes the way of the cross;
And the Angel who follows him on pilgrimage
Weeps to see him as carefree as a bird.
All those whom he would love watch him with fear,
Or, emboldened by his tranquility,
Emulously attempt to wring a groan from him
And test on him their inhumanity.
With the bread and the wine intended for his mouth
They mix ashes and foul spittle,
And, hypocrites, cast away what he touches
And feel guilty if they have trod in his footprints.
His wife goes about the market-places
Crying: 'Since he finds me fair enough to adore,
I shall imitate the idols of old,
And like them I want to be regilded;
I shall get drunk with spikenard, incense, myrrh,
And with genuflections, viands and wine,
To see if laughingly I can usurp
In an admiring heart the homage due to God!
And when I tire of these impious jokes,
I shall lay upon him my strong, my dainty hand;
And my nails, like harpies' talons,
Will cut a path straight to his heart.
That heart which flutters like a fledgling bird
I'll tear, all bloody, from his breast,
And scornfully I'll throw it in the dust
To sate the hunger of my favorite hound!'
To Heav'n, where his eye sees a radiant throne,
Piously, the Poet, serene, raises his arms,
And the dazzling brightness of his illumined mind
Hides from his sight the raging mob:
— 'Praise be to You, O God, who send us suffering
As a divine remedy for our impurities
And as the best and the purest essence
To prepare the strong for holy ecstasies!
I know that you reserve a place for the Poet
Within the blessed ranks of the holy Legions,
And that you invite him to the eternal feast
Of the Thrones, the Virtues, and the Dominations.
I know that suffering is the sole nobility
Which earth and hell shall never mar,
And that to weave my mystic crown,
You must tax every age and every universe.
But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra,
The unfound metals, the pearls of the sea,
Set by Your own hand, would not be adequate
For that diadem of dazzling splendor,
For that crown will be made of nothing but pure light
Drawn from the holy source of primal rays,
Whereof our mortal eyes, in their fullest brightness,
Are no more than tarnished, mournful mirrors!'
— Translated by William Aggeler
Benediction
When by an edict of the powers supreme
A poet's born into this world's drab space,
His mother starts, in horror, to blaspheme
Clenching her fists at God, who grants her grace.
'Would that a nest of vipers I'd aborted
Rather than this absurd abomination.
Cursed be the night of pleasures vainly sported
On which my womb conceived my expiation.
Since of all women I am picked by You
To be my Mate's aversion and his shame:
And since I cannot, like a billet-doux,
Consign this stunted monster to the flame,
I'll turn the hatred, which You load on me,
On the curst tool through which You work your spite,
And twist and stunt this miserable tree
Until it cannot burgeon for the blight.'
She swallows down the white froth of her ire
And, knowing naught of schemes that are sublime,
Deep in Gehenna, starts to lay the pyre
That's consecrated to maternal crime.
Yet with an unseen Angel for protector
The outcast waif grows drunken with the sun,
And finds ambrosia, too, and rosy nectar
In all he eats or drinks, suspecting none.
He sings upon his Via Crucis, plays
With winds, and with the clouds exchanges words:
The Spirit following his pilgrim-ways
Weeps to behold him gayer than the birds.
Those he would love avoid him as in fear,
Or, growing bold to see one so resigned,
Compete to draw from him a cry or tear,
And test on him the fierceness of their kind.
In food or drink that's destined for his taste
They mix saliva foul with cinders black,
Drop what he's touched with hypocrite distaste,
And blame themselves for walking in his track.
His wife goes crying in the public way
— 'Since fair enough he finds me to adore,
The part of ancient idols I will play
And gild myself with coats of molten ore.
I will get drunk on incense, myrrh, and nard,
On genuflexions, meat, and beady wine,
Out of his crazed and wondering regard,
I'll laugh to steal prerogatives divine.
When by such impious farces bored at length,
I'll place my frail strong hand on him, and start,
With nails like those of harpies in their strength,
To plough myself a pathway to his heart.
Like a young bird that trembles palpitating,
I'll wrench his heart, all crimson, from his chest,
And to my favourite beast, his hunger sating,
Will fling it in the gutter with a jest.'
Skyward, to where he sees a Throne blaze splendid,
The pious Poet lifts his arms on high,
And the vast lightnings of his soul extended
Blot out the crowds and tumults from his eye.
'Blessèd be You, O God, who give us pain,
As cure for our impurity and wrong —
Essence that primes the stalwart to sustain
Seraphic raptures that were else too strong.
I know that for the Poet You've a post,
Where the blest Legions take their ranks and stations,
Invited to the revels with the host
Of Virtues, Powers, and Thrones, and Dominations
That grief's the sole nobility, I know it,
Where neither Earth nor Hell can make attacks,
And that, to deck my mystic crown of poet,
All times and universes paid their tax.
But all the gems from old Palmyra lost,
The ores unmixed, the pearls of the abyss,
Set by Your hand, could not suffice the cost
Of such a blazing diadem as this.
Because it will be only made of light,
Drawn from the hearth of the essential rays,
To which our mortal eyes, when burning bright,
Are but the tarnished mirrors that they glaze.'
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Benediction
When by decree of the almighty powers,
The Poet walks the world's wearisome sod,
His mother, blasphemous and fearful, cowers,
Clenching her fist against a pitying God:
— 'Ah, would whole knots of vipers were my spawn
Rather than this woeful abomination!
Cursed be the sweet swift night and evil dawn
Wherein my womb conceived my expiation!
Since of all women Thou hast chosen me
To be my sorry husband's shame of shames,
Since I may not toss this monstrosity
Like an old billet-doux into the flames,
Thy heavy hatred I shall vomit back
On the damned tool of your malevolence,
Twisting this wretched tree until it crack,
Never to sprout in buds of pestilence!'
Thus she gulps down the froth of her despair,
Nor knowing the eternal paradigms,
Sinks deep into Gehenna to prepare,
Herself, the pyre set for a mother's crimes.
Yet guarded by an unseen Angel's favors,
The outcast child is fired by radiant suns,
In all he eats and all he drinks he savors
Ambrosial gifts and nectared benisons,
He sports with winds, he talks with clouds, he keeps
Singing along the road to Calvary,
While the bright Angel in his traces weeps,
Beholding him as free as birds are free.
All those whom he would love watch him with fear,
Or else, made bold by his serenity,
Wring groans from him that float sweet on the ear
Making him touchstone of their cruelty.
With his due bread and wine, hypocrites, they,
Mix ashes and fat gobs of spittle; grim,
What he has touched, these humbugs cast away,
Deeming it guilty but to follow him.
His wife cries in the market place: 'Behold
Since he adores me, I am fair, and fain,
As idols did, and images of old,
To be regilded and adored again.
I shall be drunk with spikenard, incense, myrrh,
With genuflections, viands and wine to see
If, as a glad usurper, I may stir
His heart to pay God's homages to me!
Tired of these impious japes and of their butt,
My strong lithe hand's caress with subtle art
And my sharp nails like harpy claws shall cut
A mortal path straight to his quivering heart.
That heart which flutters like a fledgling bird,
I shall tear, bleeding, from his breast, to pitch
It blandly in the dust without a word
To slake the hunger of my favorite bitch.'
To Heaven where he spies a splendent throne,
Serene, the Poet lifts rapt arms; and bright
Luminous thoughts that shine through him alone
Conceal the furious rabble from his sight:
— 'Blessèd, O God, who send woe for a cure,
A balm divine for our impurities,
Of essences the noblest and most pure
To school the strong for holy ecstasies!
I know the Poet has his place above
Amid God's saintly hosts and congregations,
Guest at the everlasting banquet of
The Thrones, the Virtues and the Dominations.
Sorrow alone is noble and august,
A force nor earth nor hell shall ever mar,
To weave my mystic crown I know you must
Tax every age and universe that are.
Old Tadmor's vanished gems beyond all price,
Metals unknown, pearls from the richest sea,
Set by Thy holy hand, cannot suffice
To match this dazzling chapter's splendency;
This diadem shall be of sheerest light,
Drawn from the sacred source of primal rays,
Whereof our mortal eyes, however bright,
Serve but as piteous mirrors dull with glaze.'
— Translated by Jacques LeClercq
Benediction
When, on a certain day, into this harassed world
The Poet, by decree of the high powers, was born,
His mother, overwhelmed by shame and fury, hurled
These blasphemies at God, clenching her fists in scorn:
'Would I had whelped a knot of vipers — at the worst
'Twere better than this runt that whines and snivels there!
Oh, cursèd be that night of pleasure, thrice accurst
My womb, that has conceived and nourished my despair!
'Since, of all mortal women, it would seem my fate
To be my saddened husband's horror and disgust;
And since I may not toss this monster in the grate —
Like any crumpled letter, reeking of stale lust —
'Upon his helpless form, whereby Thou humblest me,
I shall divert Thy hatred in one raging flood;
And I shall twist so well this miserable tree
That it shall not put forth one pestilential bud!'
Thus did she foam with anger, railing, swallowing froth;
And, unaware of what the mighty powers had willed,
She set about to draw Gehenna on them both,
Eyeing the fire, considering how he might be killed.
Meantime, above the child an unseen angel beats
His wings, and the poor waif runs laughing in the sun;
And everything he drinks and everything he eats
Are nectar and ambrosia to this hapless one.
Companioned by the wind, conversing with the cloud,
Along the highway to the Cross his song is heard;
And the bright Spirit, following him, weeps aloud
To see him hop so gaily, like a little bird.
Those whom he longs to love observe him with constraint
And fear, as he grows up; or, seeing how calm he is,
Grow bold, and seek to draw from him some sharp complaint,
Wreaking on him all day their dull ferocities.
Cinders are in his bread, are gritty in his teeth;
Spittle is in his wine. Where his footprints are seen
They hesitate to set their shoes, mincing beneath
Hypocrisy; all things he touched, they call unclean.
His wife in public places cries, 'Since after all
He loves me so, that he's the laughingstock of men,
I'll make a business of it, be an idol, call
For gold, to have myself regilded now and then!
'And some day, when I'm drunk with frankincense, rich food,
Flattery, genuflexions, spikenard, beady wine,
I'll get from him (while laughing in his face, I could!)
That homage he has kept, so far, for things divine.
'And, when my pleasure in these impious farces fails,
My dainty, terrible hands shall tear his breast apart,
And these long nails of mine, so like to harpies' nails,
Shall dig till they have dug a tunnel to his heart.
'Then, like a young bird, caught and fluttering to be freed,
('Twill make a tasty morsel for my favorite hound)
I'll wrench his heart out, warm and bleeding — let it bleed! —
And drop it, with contempt and loathing, to the ground.'
Meanwhile toward Heaven, the goal of his mature desire,
The Poet, oblivious, lifts up his arms in prayer;
His lucid essence flames with lightnings — veiled by fire
Is all the furious world, all the lewd conflict there.
'Be praised, Almighty God, that givest to faulty me
This suffering, to purge my spirit of its sin,
To fortify my puny strength, to bid me see
Pure Faith, and what voluptuous blisses dwell therein.
'I know that in those ranks on ranks of happy blest
The Poet shall have some place among Thy Seraphim;
And that Thou wilt at length to the eternal feast
Of Virtues, Thrones and Dominations, summon him.
'I know, Pain is the one nobility we have
Which not the hungry ground nor hell shall ever gnaw;
I know that space and time, beyond the temporal grave,
Weave me a mystic crown, free from all earthly flaw.
'Not emeralds, not all the pearls of the deep sea,
All the rare metals, every lost and buried gem
Antique Palmyra hides, could ever seem to me
So beautiful as that clear glittering diadem.
'Of Light, of Light alone, it will be fashioned, Light
Drawn from the holy fount, rays primitive and pure,
Whereof the eyes of mortal men, so starry bright,
Are but the mirrors, mirrors cloudy and obscure.'
— Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay
poem by Charles Baudelaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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