Rouge

Immense et rouge

Au-dessus du Grand Palais
Le soleil d’hiver apparaît
Et disparaît
Comme lui mon coeur va disparaître
Et tout mon sang va s’en aller
S’en aller à ta recherche
Mon amour
Ma beauté
Et te trouver
Là où tu es.

by J. Prevert

 

Immense and red
Above the Grand Palais
The winter sun appears
And disappears
The way my heart will disappear
And all my blood will go
Will go to look for you
My love
My beauty
And find you
There  wherever  you are.

 

This One

Thirty seven years approaching

already ripped pages of my life

by this time white pieces of hair have grown,

Xanthippei *, discreet announcers of age

regadless, chattery psalms in the head are chanting

and a relentless fire  is burning the heart-

but for this coronida** quickly write about, Muses,

this one, my rulers, overthrows your madness.

 

 

*Xanthippe was an ancient Athenian (of supposedly argumentative nature), the wife of pholosopher Socrates, and mother of their three sons: Lamprocles, Sophroniscus, and Menexenus.

 

**coronida (singular)-THE two KORONIDES (or Coronides) were two nymph daughters of the constellation-giant Orion. When the land of Boiotia (Boeotia) was struck by pestilence and drought they voluntarily offered themselves up as sacrifice to the gods, bashing out their own brains with shuttles. Persephone in pity then turned them into comets.

The name Koronides was associated with the Greek words korônis, “curving one” or “comet” and korônê “the shuttle” and “the crow.”

 

Original:

Philodemus-Xanthipi

 

                                                                           (AP XI.41)

By Philodemus 110-30BC.

(see Index scholarum in Universitate Litteraria Gryphiswaldensi

-Philodemus, Georg Kaibel)

 

 

Philodemus of Gadara (ca. 110–ca. 30 BC) “was an Epicurean philosopher and epigrammatist who, having studied in the Epicurean school …”http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/philodemus )

 

Drenched in Fragance…

J’ai voulu ce matin te rapporter des roses ;
Mais j’en avais tant pris dans mes ceintures closes
Que les noeuds trop serrés n’ont pu les contenir.

Les noeuds ont éclaté. Les roses envolées
Dans le vent, à la mer s’en sont toutes allées.
Elles ont suivi l’eau pour ne plus revenir.

La vague en a paru rouge et comme enflammée.
Ce soir, ma robe en est toute embaumée.
Respires-en sur moi l’odorant souvenir.

( Les Roses de Saadi,

by  Marceline Desbordes-Valmore)

Epigrammatic

No pleasure is sweeter than love; other joys, are all

second to it ; even the honey from my mouth I spit out.

This is what Nossis says: whoever did not love Kypris,

does not know her blossoms what kind of roses are.

(PALAT. ANT. BOOK V – 170–Epigram by Nossis about 400 BC )

῞Αδιον οὐδὲν ἔρωτος· ἃ δ’ ὄλβια, δεύτερα πάντα
ἐστίν· ὰπὸ στόματος δ’ ἔπτυσα καὶ τὸ μέλι.
Τοῦτο λέγει Νοσσίς· τίνα δ’ ἁ Κύπρις οὐκ ἐφίλασεν,
οὐκ οἶδεν κήνα γ’ ἅνθεα ποῖα ῥόδα.

http://www.locriantica.it/english/figures/nossis.htm

“at least our imagination, which perpetually figures them to us by the desire we have of seeing them again, makes us think so. By a peculiar power love can make that seem life itself which, as soon as the loved object returns, is nothing but a little canvas and flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with me I scarce ever cast my eyes on it. If a picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions, they can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present; they have all the tenderness and the delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression beyond it.”

Heloise to Abelard, Letter II, p.25 (1901)

http://sacred-texts.com/chr/aah/index.htm

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40227

 

“My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

 

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

 

Where can we find two better hemispheres,

 

Without sharp north, without declining west?

 

Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;

 

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

 

Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.”

 

“My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.”
The Good-Morrow
by John Donne  1572-1631
 http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/john-donne

Twice

“You took my heart in your hand
With a friendly smile,
With a critical eye you scanned,
Then set it down,
And said: It is still unripe,
Better wait a while;
Wait while the skylarks pipe,
Till the corn grows brown

As you set it down it broke-
Broke, but I did not wince;
I smiled at the speech you spoke,
At your judgment that I heard:
But I have not often smiled
Since then, nor questioned since,
Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,
Nor sung with the singing bird.”

by Christina Rosetti (1830-1894)

http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/crossetti/harrison2/4.6.html

 

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)

 

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

 

‘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

Lyre

I, too, wish to sing of heroic deeds
(about the Atreides, and about Kadmus),
but the lyre’s strings
can only produce sounds of love.
Recently, I changed the strings,
and then the lyre itself,
and tried to sing of the feats of Hercules,
but still the lyre kept singing songs of love.
So, fare well, you heroes!
because my lyre sings only songs of love.

 

by Anacreon (570 BC – 488 BC)
a Greek lyric poet, notable for his drinking songs and hymns.
Anacreon wrote all of his poetry in the ancient Ionic dialect.

 

Original text:
ΘΕΛΩ ΛΕΓΕΙΝ ΑΤΡΕΙΔΑΣ,
ΘΕΛΩ ΔΕ ΚΑΔΜΟΝ ΑΙΔΕΙΝ,
Ο ΒΑΡΒΙΤΟΣ ΔΕ ΧΟΡΔΑΙΣ
ΕΡΩΤΑ ΜΟΥΝΟΝ ΗΧΕΙ.
ΗΜΕΙΨΑ ΝΕΥΡΑ ΠΡΩΗΝ
ΚΑΙ ΤΗΝ ΛΥΡΗΝ ΑΠΑΣΑΝ·
ΚΑΓΩ ΜΕΝ ΗΙΔΟΝ ΑΘΛΟΥΣ ΗΡΑΚΛΕΟΥΣ,
ΛΥΡΗ ΔΕ ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ΑΝΤΕΦΩΝΕΙ.
ΧΑΙΡΟΙΤΕ ΛΟΙΠΟΝ ΗΜΙΝ, ΗΡΩΕΣ·
Η ΛΥΡΗ ΓΑΡ ΜΟΝΟΥΣ ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ΑΙΔΕΙ.

Wind

This wind is

Coming fiercely

Slipping away

Turning around

Wrapping me softly

Leaving me

Breathless

Like your love.

 

All at once

I live, I die: I burn, I drown,
Amidst the cold, heat strikes me down
Too soft and too hard my life is to me
My great sorrows are mixed with glee.

All at once I laugh and I cry
And I endure great torment in pleasure.
My happiness flees, but lasts forever.
All at once I wilt and I thrive.

Thus inconstant love torments me.
Just as I think my pain has worsened
Without thinking so I am trouble-free.

Then when I believe my joy is certain
With happiness I so craved it fills me,
And sets me back to my first misfortune.

by Louise Labé (1524-1566)

Je vis, je meurs : je me brûle et me noie – I live, I die; I burn, I drown. (Sonnet VIII)
http://thehuuvandan.org/lit.html#labe

 

Enchanted

 

The earth trembled as you passed by,
     Turning everything sacred as you walked.

And you set your blue eyes upon me for the first time,
     speaking at me with the depth of the night
          …like a nightingale who doesn’t need its wings to fly.
What a blessing it is to be worthy of your look.

I have seen rain on the desert,
      and all impossible things coming true.

All of my prayers carry your name.
      I wish to be pure so that I can desire you.

Take me as you will.
Your slave…

 

 

Ancient Egyptian love poem from the Middle Kingtom  (1991-1668 BCE)

 

Helen’s Return

Come, eternal Pair [1],
Come, Twin Brethren, from your heaven ascended;
Down the steep of air
Drive, by many a starry glance attended!
‘Mid the waters white and blue,
‘Mid the rolling waves be there,
And brotherly bring safe your sister through.
Airs from heaven, serene and pure,
Breathe upon her; bless and speed;
Breathe away her cruel shame!
Never he did Paris lure,
Never won her (as they rede)
Of Aphrodite for his meed,
Nor thither led, where never yet she came!

1 Castor and Pollux, brothers of Helen, set in the heavens as the constellation of the Twins and supposed to be propitious to mariners.

 

http://www.poetry-archive.com/e/helens_return_to_greece.html#A5tityGXFXXHALMy.99

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/

 

Emptiness

I have not been able

to replace you

with no one

not because you are irreplaceable

simply because from one love to another

there is always some emptiness.

(translation of a poem by Dinos Christianopoulos, 1982)

 

 

 

Like The Wind

‘Love shook my heart’

Love shook my heart,

Like the  wind on the mountain

Troubling  the oak-trees.

(by Sappho)

http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Sappho.htm

Picture_lemnos_2010_CK 125

Reeling

One Night

The room was poor and shabby, a secret room above
the dubious tavern. From the window could be seen
dark shadows moving in a squalid narrow lane;
and from below came voices of town labourers
who now were loud at cards now voiced their jollity
with wanton song or joke, and called for drinks between.

And there — on the plebeian, unattractive bed
I had possession of the glowing body of love,
I had the inebriating lips voluptuously red —
the full red lips of such an inebriety
that even now, after so many eventful years,
writing thereof in my lone house, I reel again.

Translated by John Cavafy
(Poems by C. P. Cavafy. Translated, from the Greek, by J. C. Cavafy. Ikaros, 2003)

http://www.cavafy.com/poems/content.asp?id=211&cat=1

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.

Infatuation

Infatuation

He seems to me equal to the gods that man
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
to your sweet speaking

and lovely laughing — oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears

and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead — or almost
I seem to me.

(translation at : http://inamidst.com/stuff/sappho/ )

           ------------

Peer of the gods, the happiest man I seem
Sitting before thee, rapt at thy sight, hearing
Thy soft laughter and they voice most gentle,
     Speaking so sweetly.

Then in my bosom my heart wildly flutters,
And, when on thee I gaze never so little,
Bereft am I of all power of utterance,
     My tongue is useless.

There rushes at once through my flesh tingling fire,
My eyes are deprived of all power of vision,
My ears hear nothing by sounds of winds roaring,
     And all is blackness.

Down courses in streams the sweat of emotion,
A dread trembling o'erwhelms me, paler than I
Than dried grass in autumn, and in my madness
     Dead I seem almost.

    (translation by Anne Carson, 2002)

——–

Original poem- by

Sappho (630/612 BC  to around 570 BC):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sappho

 
φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν' ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
   σας ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ' ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν,
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ' ἴδω βρόχε' ὤς με φώνας
   οὔδεν ἔτ' εἴκει,

ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶσσα +ἔαγε, λέπτον
δ' αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ' οὐδ' ἒν ὄρημμ', ἐπιρρόμ-
   βεισι δ' ἄκουαι,

κὰδ' δέ ἴδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ' ὀλίγω 'πιδεύης
  φαίνομ' ἔμ' αὔτᾳ.
 

Philanderer

Dimo

I fell in love with a Dimo from Paphos. not strange.

Then a Dimo from Samos. not important.

Thirdly again with a Dimo from Ysies. (one from Argolida and one from

Biotia) not a game anymore

Fourthly came a Dimo from Argolida.

The goddesses of fate must have named me Philodimo

to always love some Dimo.

ΔΗΜΩ
Ερωτεύθηκα κάποια Δημώ από την Πάφο.δεν είναι περίεργο.
Μετά κάποια Δημώ από τη Σάμο.τίποτα σπουδαίο.
Τρίτη πάλι μια Δημώ από τις Υσίες.( μια στην Αργολίδα και μία στην Βοιωτία) δεν είναι πια παιχνίδι.
Τέταρτη ήρθε η Δημώ από την Αργολίδα.
Οι ίδιες οι Μοίρες πρέπει να με ονόμασαν Φιλόδημο
Για να φλογίζει την καρδιά μου πάντα κάποια Δημώ.

By Philodimos (110-40 B. C.)
From: Τα απανθρακωμένα χειρόγραφα (ολόκληρη βιβλιοθήκη) του Ερκολάνο http://thesecretrealtruth.blogspot.com/2012/01/blog-post_795.html#ixzz2KN5Y3OhQ

By Bolognini:

https://sites.google.com/site/ad79eruption/herculaneum-1/villa-of-the-papyri

Portrait

Portrait

Unconscious words

on your lips

Unfinished dreams wrapped

around your eyes

Unspoken tenderness confined

in your veins.

Sorrows relieved by dignity.

 

Judas Kiss

Judas Kiss

It’s the soft wind

That reminds me of

The dance of our words

The wild flowers of

The scents of our feelings

The dark moon of

Your deceptive silences

And the bitter rain of

All my tears.

 

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”.

 

 

Conquest

Conquest

Like sunlight dissolves dawn

Like virtue endures temptation

Like courage defeats fear

I will conquer the lonesomeness

of your silence.

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

Illusion

Illusion

 

Your face

A piece of hot iron

Is burning my mind

Your body

A column of salt

Is following me everywhere

And a feathered god

Amused

Is pointing at us

 

   

 

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