Aften

postcard“I aften wish that eence again
The weary road I’ve traivell’t

Wis mine tae tread, I’d hae things fit

Withoot mischance or guessin’;

My ships wad safely mak’the port,

My webs be never raivell’t,

An’ a’d be for the best – I wish,

An faur’s the hairm in wishin’? ”

 

(by “Turlundie”-Scottish poet

http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_wish.htm)

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Three poems

In Paris

 

Starlit houses, and sky below,

Earth dazed in the nearness.

The same secret longing though

In Paris, so vast and joyous.

 

The evening boulevards noisy,

The last ray of light dies,

Couples, paired round me,

Fierce lips, insolent eyes.

 

I’m alone. It’s sweet to rest

My head on a chestnut tree.

As in far Moscow, my breast

Throbs to Rostand’s poetry.

 

Paris at night, painful strangeness,

Dear the heart’s ancient folly!

I’m going back to violets, sadness,

A portrait of someone kind to me.

 

There that gaze, pensive, a brother,

There that mild profile, on the wall.

Rostand, L’Aiglon that martyr,

And Sarah – in dream I find them all!

 

In Paris, so vast and joyous,

I dream of clouds and grass,

Laughter, shadows, ominous,

And the pain that will not pass.

 

Paris, June 1909.

Marina Tsvetaeva

(Note: Rostand’s play L’Aiglon concerns the unhappy life of the Duke of Reichstadt, the son of Napoleon I and Marie Louise, lived under the surveillance of Metternich at the Schönbrunn Palace. The drama was produced, on the 15th March 1900, by Sarah Bernhardt, at her own theatre, she herself playing the part of the Duke.

http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Russian/Tsvetaeva.htm#_Toc254018895)

 

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‘To kiss the brow – eases anxiety.’

 

To kiss the brow-eases all anxiety.

I kiss the brow.

 

To kiss the eyes – cures insomnia’s misery.

I kiss the eyes.

 

To kiss the lips – one’s no longer thirsty.

I kiss the lips.

 

To kiss the brow – erases memory.

I kiss the brow.

 

                                                  5th June 1917.

Marina Tsvetaeva

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

‘Go, find yourself naïve lovers, they’

 

Go, find yourself naïve lovers, they

Won’t correct marvels by number.

I know that Venus was – hand made,

I’m a craftsman, with craft encumbered.

From the highest solemnity, dumb,

To the soul almost trampled to death,

Here’s the whole celestial stair – from

My breathing – to: not one breath!

 

                                                  18th June 1922

Marina Tsvetaeva

Noble Form

I live upon this wretched solitary cliff

Like a bird of sorrow that shuns green

Branches and clear water: and withdraw

From my worldly loves, and my very self,

So my thoughts may fly swiftly to that sun

I worship and adore. And though they fail

To spread their wings as I wish, yet if I call

Still they fly back from other paths to this.

And in the instant that they reach the place,

Where I send them, ardent, happy, their brief joy

Surpasses every delight on Earth by far.

And if they could but re-create his noble

Form, just as the burning mind desires,

I might own my portion of perfect good.

by Vittoria Colonna (1490-1547)
Translated by A. S. Kline

Wind

This wind is

Coming fiercely

Slipping away

Turning around

Wrapping me softly

Leaving me

Breathless

Like your love.

 

Invisible

“It seems that somewhere people are celebrating;
although there are no houses or human beings
I can listen to guitars and other laughters which
are not nearby

Maybe far away, within the ashes of heavens
Andromeda, the Bear, or the Virgin…

I wonder; is loneliness the same, all over the
worlds ? ”

 

By Odysseas Elytis, Calendar of an invisible April-
http://www-hpcc.astro.washington.edu/faculty/marios/Poems/elytis/

Will they?

“If I know a song of Africa,

of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back,

of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces

of the coffee pickers,

does Africa know a song of me?

 

Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on,

or the children invent a game in which my name is,

or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me,

or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?”

 

From OUT OF AFRICA by Isak Dinesen (1885-1962), chapter titled “Kamante and Lulu,” page 83.

 

 

Sweet Things

“Sweet evenings come and go, love,
They came and went of yore:
This evening of our life, love,
Shall go and come no more.

When we have passed away, love,
All things will keep their name;
But yet no life on earth, love,
With ours will be the same.

The daisies will be there, love,
The stars in heaven will shine:
I shall not feel thy wish, love,
Nor thou my hand in thine. ”

by George Eliot -i.e. Mary Anne (alternatively Mary Ann or Marian) Evans, an English novelist, journalist and translator, and one of the leading writers of the Victorian era..

She used a male pen name, she said, to ensure her works would be taken seriously…
http://www.poemhunter.com/george-eliot-2/

 

Sunday

Dimanche

Entre les rangees d’arbres de l’avenue des Gobelins

Une statue de marbre me conduit par la main

Aujourd’ hui c’est dimanche les cinemas sont pleins

Les oiseaux dans les branches regardent les humains

Et la statue m’embrasse mais personne ne nous voit

Sauf un enfant aveugle qui nous montre du doigt.

(by Jacques Prevert)

 

Sunday

Among the tree lines of Gobelins Avenue

A statue is holding my hand guiding me

Today is Sunday cinemas are busy

The birds in the branches are observing the people

And the statue is kissing me though no one can see us

A blind child only is pointing at us with his finger.

Crossroads

Moment sent by a hand

that I had so much loved

you reached me almost at dusk

like a black dove

The road shone before me

soft breath of sleep

at the end of a secret feast…

Moment grain of sand

that you alone kept

the tragic clepsydra whole

silent as though it had seen Hydra

in the heavenly orchard

(by Giorgos Seferis)

 

 

http://authormanolis.wordpress.com/2011/06/10/the-great-george-seferis-poems-in-greek-and-english/#1A

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4112/the-art-of-poetry-no-13-george-seferis

 

I have a need

I have a need for your voice,
a longing for your company,
and an ache of melancholy
for the absence of signs of arrival.
Patience requires my torment,
the urgent need for you, heron of love,
your solar mercy for my frozen day,
your help, for my wound, I count on.
Ah, need, ache and longing!
Your kisses of substance, my food,
fail me, and I’m dying with the May.
I want you to come, the flower of your absence,
to calm the brow of thought
that ruins me with its eternal lightning.

by Miguel Hernandez

Canceled

You Who Never Arrived

 

You who never arrived in my arms, Beloved, who were lost from the start, I don’t even know what songs would please you. I have given up trying to recognize you in the surging wave of the next moment. All the immense images in me — the far-off, deeply-felt landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected turns in the path, and those powerful lands that were once pulsing with the life of the gods– all rise within me to mean you, who forever elude me.
You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing. An open window in a country house– , and you almost stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,– you had just walked down them and vanished. And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, separate, in the evening…

(by Rainer Maria Rilke)

                                 torso of apollo

 

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared. Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur: would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.

(by Rainer Maria Rilke)

 

 

 

poem

 

 

Compass

I am walking barefoot on an endless white beach. Suddenly the water keeps rising and covers every piece of land. Now I am walking in the water. I can feel the sand with my feet but I cannot see it. I have to find my way out of the water. I have to swim. Which way did I come here? I have to remember.

I am walking barefoot in my sun filled apartment. Suddenly the walls of the rooms are disappearing. Now I am walking from room to room. I can feel the doors that I close behind me but I cannot see them. I have to close all the doors. I can start over. Which way did I come here? I have to remember.

I am walking barefoot in your charming eyes. Suddenly I am hearing a crying woman. Now I am walking among crying women. I can feel their feelings but I cannot see them. I have to find my way out of your eyes. I have to run. Which way did I come here? I have to remember.

Victoria

There was a house at the end of our street behind tall willow trees.
As a child I used to walk by that house every day on my way to school.
All I could ever see was an old lady dressed in black clothes,
cooking in her kitchen. Once I asked my mother “Are there witches?”.
“ No!” she said. “Now go get your father, our dinner is ready”.
At that time I was convinced that the old lady was a witch,
teaching magic to the young girl who was always standing besides her.
Why else was my mother so reluctant to talk about them?

After a long time I tried again: “Who lives at the house with the tall
willow trees?” “Victoria. Now don’t you have any homework to do?”,
was the reply I got that time. By then Victoria was a beautiful young lady
with long blond hair like her mother. All those years I had never seen her
outside of her kitchen. At times I thought that she must have had some kind
of strange disease. Why else was she never outside?

When I moved away from hometown I was still wondering about Victoria.
By that time I had convinced myself that Victoria must have been crazy.
She must have fallen in love with someone who betrayed her and lost her mind.
Her mother must have told her that she would not let her see anyone again.
Why else was she never outside all these years?

The last few times I walked by that house the kitchen was empty.
Victoria and her mother must have died.
Why else was nobody at the kitchen window?

ps/ The young girl was born out of wedlock. Her mother had tuberculosis
but she could not afford proper care at a hospital. She became her only caregiver.
When her mother died she moved to another town and was living with her aunt.

Image: http://robertgouldhistoricalartist.blogspot.com/

Portrait

Portrait

Unconscious words

on your lips

Unfinished dreams wrapped

around your eyes

Unspoken tenderness confined

in your veins.

Sorrows relieved by dignity.

 

Intersection

Intersection

 

 

Walked the same path

Stared into each other’s eyes

Spoke the same words

Thought the same thoughts

Felt the same feelings

For an instant and

For eternity

Before we said

“Good bye”.

 

 

Palindromic

Palindromic

You will discover me

I will discover you

 

I will disappoint you

You will disappoint me

 

You will deny me

I will deny you

 

I will forget you

You will forget me

 

You will desire me

I will desire you

 

I will seek you out

You will seek me out

 

You will love me

I will love you

 

Endlessly

Endurance

Endurance

 

“Doesn’t it smell like summer?”

“It is still too early”, you said.

Your smile was shining

Provocatively, in the rain.

 

How can you smile with such agony

In your soul, my love?

Chase

Chase

My thoughts

Derailed jasmine

Chasing our shadows

On your walls

My voice

Crystal dust

Racing our words

In your silence

And my hope

Abandoned

On the racks of time

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twice upon a time.

Twice upon a time.

Isabella was sitting by the lamp with the green light, staring at her book.

With her mother visiting her older sister at a nearby city and her brother working till late,  it was awfully quite around the house. She would have gone for a walk, but the rain kept her indoors, thinking about him.

She felt great relief when found out that he was back in town. She could not wait to see him again. She asked her maid to occupy her stepfather so she can leave through the kitchen door. She quickly walked through the garden and into the small forest behind the house.

She kept walking as fast as she could through the fields until she got to the place where they used to meet. There she waited until she heard steps approaching. Not being sure if it was him, she pulled her coat over her head, and remained still in the dark. She felt the steps right behind her. She stopped breathing.

The sound of the steps started fading away…

As she uncovered her face she saw the shadow of a man walking away across the fields.

__________________________________________________________________

“I have already begun to forget about the house with the mezzanine, and

only now and then, when I am working or reading, suddenly–without rhyme

or reason–I remember the green light in the window, and the sound of my

own footsteps as I walked through the fields that night..”

From the : House with the Mezzanine (P. Chekhov)

 

Dream

Dream

The water kept rising until everything was covered by it. He looked around and could not see land anywhere. He stared at the sky. It must have been late afternoon, but the sun was still so bright that the surface of the water looked yellow.

He started swimming slowly in the yellow sea, dreaming about his rescue. No land anywhere…

When he suddenly felt something solid on his feet, he thought he could step on it to rest. To his disappointment it was a fish passing by. He could not tell how big it was, because it moved away very fast.

It became dark. He was tired and cold. He tried to stay awake for awhile by looking at the moon. He has not seen such beautiful moon in his life. Right before he was about to close his eyes, myriads of flowers and green leaves started falling from the sky. It seemed as if someone was throwing them from the moon… In few minutes he was surrounded by colorful flowers. They  were glowing like little stars all around him, keeping him awake till dawn, till he drowned.

“Luc! You will be late to work.” Marcelle said, as she rushed into the bedroom to get her shoes. “Your coffee is ready. I will see you at lunch”.

Some nights Luc still stares at the sky waiting for those flowers to fall, and dreaming about Marcelle coming back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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