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PostPosted: 04 Jun 2013, 00:30 
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Also looking for new thread titles

The hard thing’s to sit without being noticed.
Everything else will come easy. Three sips
and the impulse returns to sit thinking alone.
Against the buzzing backdrop of noise
everything fades, and it’s suddenly a miracle
to be born and to stare at the glass. And work
(a man who’s alone can’t not think of work)
becomes again the old fate that suffering’s good
for focusing thought. And soon the eyes fix
on nothing particular, grieved, as if blind.

If this man gets up and goes home to sleep,
he’ll look like a blind man that’s lost. Anyone
could jump out of nowhere to brutally beat him.
A woman—beautiful, young—might appear,
and lie under a man in the street, and moan,
the way a woman once moaned under him.
But this man doesn’t see. He heads home to sleep
and life becomes nothing but the buzzing of silence.

Undressing this man you’d find a body that’s wasted
and, here and there, patches of fur. Who’d think,
to look at this man, that life once burned
in his lukewarm veins? No one would guess
that there was a woman, once, who gently touched
that body, who kissed that body, which shakes,
and wet it with tears, now that the man,
having come home to sleep, can’t sleep, only moan.

Sad Wine (II) - Cesare Pavese

I see the boats go by along the sea.
Their sails, like wings of what I see, bring
A vague and intimate desire for me to be again
Who I was then, although I do not know
Exactly what that was. So everything
Brings back my being as a home
And, recalling this, what I am is pain.

Fernando Pessoa, 1932

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Days - Philip Larkin

Add your own, commentary most welcome.

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 Post subject: Horses indeed
PostPosted: 05 Jun 2013, 11:23 
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A translation of Cavafy translating a fragment of the Iliad :

When they saw Patroklos dead
—so brave and strong, so young—
the horses of Achilles began to weep;
their immortal nature was upset deeply
by this work of death they had to look at.
They reared their heads, tossed their long manes,
beat the ground with their hooves, and mourned
Patroklos, seeing him lifeless, destroyed,
now mere flesh only, his spirit gone,
defenseless, without breath,
turned back from life to the great Nothingness.

Zeus saw the tears of those immortal horses and felt sorry.
“At the wedding of Peleus,” he said,
“I should not have acted so thoughtlessly.
Better if we hadn’t given you as a gift,
my unhappy horses. What business did you have down there,
among pathetic human beings, the toys of fate.
You are free of death, you will not get old,
yet ephemeral disasters torment you.
Men have caught you up in their misery.”
But it was for the eternal disaster of death
that those two gallant horses shed their tears.


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PostPosted: 05 Jun 2013, 13:55 
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mm, not relevant, poell's horse was definitely not immortal :D

cavafy is really good, durrell led me to him. the best poets always make you wanna learn their language, and speaking of greeks, this bit always makes me think of heraclitus: immortals mortals, mortals immortals, living the other’s death, in the others’ life having died

rayuela, glad to have an active poetry thread once again

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PostPosted: 13 Jun 2013, 15:57 
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The Curtains in the House of the Metaphysician


It comes about that the drifting of these curtains
Is full of long motions, as the ponderous
Deflations of distance; or as clouds
Inseparable from their afternoons;
Or the changing of light, the dropping
Of the silence, wide sleep and solitude
Of night, in which all motion
Is beyond us, as the firmament,
Up-rising and down-falling, bares
The last largeness, bold to see.

Wallace Stevens, Harmonium.

I don't know much by Stevens, but I love the way he elegantly articulates abstractions to almost trivial observations. It obscurely reminds me of animated pages in children books, where you could change the animal in the front or the landscape behind by pulling a strip, or the sky above by turning a disk : as naive in its conception, and as undeniably true in its display.


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PostPosted: 13 Jun 2013, 18:02 
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there is a place here called the museum of jurassic technology, the existence of which seems to be dedicated to exploring the sort of sentiment you've summed up above. i thought it interesting, the space created to evoke a very specific set of experiences that don't lend themselves to articulation. indeed, the bit you posted from an author i'm not familiar with does the feeling justice..

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PostPosted: 17 Jun 2013, 17:38 
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Not sure if applicable, but for my first post I'm going to drop some of my own writing.
I look forward to getting negged in the WAYWT's!

Thousands of hides cut down in concrete walled factories under glaring spheroid lights, the meat's been gone since Iowa and we work with flesh here - long sheets stretched over framework like a gossamer wing, longstanding traditions unbroken even though they thin the leathers every year, even though they reproportion solvents and strip away at our welting.
The important thing is a notion, the idea of those thousand strides cascading up a steep and verdant hill some miles outside of a dead Pennsylvania coal town, sleep falling on people in far-lit wooden buildings miles below as night falls and we stay here, ensconced in the cradle of a thousand green miles beneath that full grain hope hand-fashioned in a familiar place.
And a way of life is built like this, a time and a place is anchored like this and entire armies of souls find respite in the purpose and safety of nature's seemingly inexhaustible cradle.

Breed, hope and learn - you are all approaching something.


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PostPosted: 18 Jun 2013, 15:09 
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^^^ I found this very evocative and dreamlike, with a rhythm that transported me as though on a river - more please!

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PostPosted: 18 Jun 2013, 17:11 
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summer is almost here and time seems to be right for this piece of haiku by basho matsuo from 1686
( technically frog is a word for spring though )


古池や / 蛙飛びこむ / 水の音

an ancient pond / a frog jumps in / the splash of water


it might evoke so what or even so-called wtf. but the translation is not wrong except that it, translated, does feel like say some aged fabric beautifully stained and charged with depth and nuance has been washed with a detergent containing optical brightener. anyway objective information in it is in fact simple.
an old pond that there is,
a frog jumping there,
and its sound.
the single sound is thrown in to open up the silence that surrounds it. acoustic and atmospheric a bit like satie. what basho suggested is the quality of the silence around or the void or the eternal. he just did it minimally, in a sabi manner, and nonchalantly with the choice of such word as frog.
the sound here is the figure and the silence is the ground. but he tried to feature the ground without reversal, without describing non-existence as existence, with keeping the silence as it is, sort of as nothing of nothing. in this respect maybe as ambitious as writers like bataille etc.



Image


Last edited by crouka on 13 Mar 2014, 16:25, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: 18 Jun 2013, 18:18 
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phpBB [video]


thought of this for some reason, maybe something to do with the part about throwing in a single sound to open up the silence. i'd like to write about this phenomenon some more, what you had said about the qualities that rarely make it through translation, the challenge of it motivating me professionally to find other ways of conveying the emotional value..

so yes, just taking a moment to appreciate your contribution before i return to work for the time being. its good to have you here.

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PostPosted: 06 Jul 2013, 22:04 
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@docus - Since you ask so kindly...

Do you know that secret place behind the cross-section at Water street? It's a little notch, right behind the old Nynex junction box. When the trees are bare and the sky is dead you can see it. It's just a little hole in the branches, right then.
But right now, everything there is green. Nobody but us could spot it on a day like today, the sun high in the sky and the forest humming all around us. A million tiny wings beat out a single chord down in there, but wide leaves and tall grass would keep you thinking otherwise unless you knew better.

One warm night, many summers ago, I asked her how she always knew where to find it. I was hunched over on a rusty Mongoose and wondering which way we'd come. She was walking beside her bike, smoking. The stream behind us didn't seem to orient me at all, like it was snaking back into the forest whenever I turned around. The back wheel of her bike was making this circling metal whine & I would later tell myself as i drifted to sleep that yes, the forest was responding, rising in pitch and tempo.
After a minute she stopped walking and the trees fell quiet. "You have to look for the lights, dummy." The tip of her cigarette made a lazy arc.

"The lights?" I asked. She handed me the bottle then and something turned over in the stream behind us.

"It's the fireflies." She said, turning away. "They're always here, close to the stream."


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PostPosted: 04 Sep 2013, 18:25 
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PostPosted: 26 Nov 2013, 01:40 
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Thought this thread worth a bump, though i understand poetry not exactly the horse we're likely to beat all that often. A friend, poet by calling as well as trade, has been sending me things worthwhile, opening windows into something that doesn't seem to be explored all that much, unless you happen to be in a poetry MFA program that is?

at any rate, here's something along that vector of Paul Celan's

"Snow-voice, reared, to the last,
in the rising wind, before
huts
forever windowless:

flat-dreams cry
across
the rippled ice;

to hew out
word-shadows, to stack them
around the clamps
in the fosse."

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PostPosted: 02 Feb 2014, 04:42 
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moishe nadir, who is probably my favourite poet. "from man to man" was a book published in 1919. translated from the yiddish. the ♢ is his own peculiar format; all of his poems are paragraphs.

theater copies life ♢ good ♢ the question however is this ♢ if life is real then can a copy of what is real be real ♢ and if life is not real then why copy a lie when it's much easier to invent one ♢ and if life is really a lie then it's the lying playwrights who are the real truth-sayers because they give the lie to the lie ♢ if life is beautiful and wonderful then why sit in the theater and reflect on the tiny crumb of life portrayed there when so much more of life exists outside the theater walls ♢ and if all of human life is ugly and boring and colorless then how is a billionth part of that very same life more colorful or more beautiful or more interesting ♢ can the mirror really mirror itself ♢ in the brightly polished lie slumbers the face of life ♢ only through that which is greater than truth can we discern the small gray foolish eyes of truth

we were sitting at a wine bar discussing the harmful effects of various strong drinks ♢ we sipped refreshingly harmful wine smoked harmfully pleasant cigars and dreamed harmfully passionate dreams ♢ the scientist in our group shook the last drops of wine from his wineglass onto his lips then wiped his moustache and said that alcoholic beverages were positively a curse on mankind ♢ they assaulted the heart ♢ they poisoned the blood and were very harmful to one's health ♢ lekhayim ♢ and i replied lekhayim ♢ it's true perhaps that wine is harmful to one's health but that is nothing really in comparison with life itself ♢ what is more harmful to one's health than life ♢ what ruins and buries the human body more than breathing and the throbbing of our pulse ♢ what ages man more than existing ♢ what drives one into the grave faster than the so-called here-and-now ♢ and yet it would never occur to anyone to found a party dedicated to the abolition of life or to place limits on our breathing ♢ and it would never enter anyone's mind to dilute life with water just because life is harmful to one's health ♢ or to enjoy it only from time to time and only on rare occasions ♢ lekhayim ladies and gentlemen

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PostPosted: 13 Feb 2014, 13:33 
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We often forget
errant trains of thought
whose tortuous track
we have long since lost
witless where or how
those mental relics
go once derailing
salvaged little ideas
into darkness tossed.

too few experience
crossing the threshold
and bearing witness
to that musty place
its vague silhouettes
at cross purposes
with the dull lustre
of minds hammered flat
by each day’s rat race

but what of those few
who stumble inside
or deliberately
hazard the courage
what do they disturb
but fragmented dreams
and incomplete thoughts
filling to the brim
that makeshift storage

fantastic landscapes
and brilliant colours
blindly awaiting
their maker’s return
vibrant piebald life
again drawing breath
once touched there anew
by daydream’s regard
a fire set to burn

so when you next glimpse
strange architectures
or those neglected
weed-choked garden plots
suddenly cut short
your feckless footsteps
please darken its doors
and stay awhile in
the house of train wrecked thoughts


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PostPosted: 13 Feb 2014, 14:34 
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Yi Sang

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PostPosted: 13 Feb 2014, 14:38 
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Count Eric Stanislaus Stenbock

He giveth sleep to His beloved,
Sweetest of all things, sleep;
But I am not of His beloved,
Therefore I cannot sleep.

He giveth tears to His beloved
and His beloved weep;
But I am not of His beloved,
Therefore I cannot weep.




I dreamed a dreadful dream, almost
Too terrible to tell;
I dreamed that you and I, my love,
Together were in Hell.

I dreamed in all eternity
We two together were;
Condemned each other's face and limbs
In hate and rage to tear.

I dreamed your kisses keen, my love,
Bit my flesh through and through
I tasted the salt taste of blood,
My love, as I kissed you.

I dreamed your soft warm limbs, my love,
Burnt with Hell's furious fire;
And demons laughed, and said, This is
The end of your desire.

That laugh--you never saw that laugh,
You never heard its tone;
Thy very presence maddens me,
Yet leave me not alone.

Think'st thou they weep with many tears,
Deem'st thou their brows are knit with pain?
Ah no! far worse than that, they laugh---
Their laugh is hollow and insane.

Almost too horrible to hear,
Too terrible to tell,
The song about the unwept tea,
And the laughter heard in Hell.




QUESTION
Two that sleep, and one that waketh,
Biding the coming of the day,
Till the glorious morning breaketh,
And the shadows flee away.

When the glorious morn be broken,
And the shadows fled away,
Shall then the other twain be woken,
To greet the dawning of the day?

ANSWER
Perhaps the day will never break,
Nor the dark shadows flee away,
'Tis hardly worth our while to wake,
Biding the coming of the day.

To sleep is better than to wake,
To die is better than to sleep,
Perhaps the day will never break,
'Tis not worth while our watch to keep,


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PostPosted: 21 Feb 2014, 02:00 
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very much enjoyed both of the above, t.. please share more when you're up to it.

Струна натянута – вот лопнет,
И сердце бьёт как барабан
Земля – который год уж сохнет
По пахарю, но вновь обман.
Реальность давит жаждой мести,
Нет сострадания во мгле,
А вывод прост : «шпана у власти»… -

Шагает голод по стране
И нет уверенности в дне.
Туман разлился без предела,
Но крик души звучит во мне,
И с каждым днём всё смело, смело !
Шагает голод по стране,
И депутаты – разной масти,
А вывод прост, звучит во мгле,
«Шпана , наверное, у власти»

Толпятся висельники в рай,
Толкает голод женщин с окон
Опять в стране царит Мамай,
И власть везде змеиный кокон .
И стонет снова милый край
Лишь рады те, кто разной масти
На детских трупах строят рай,
Воруют, грабят там у власти…


-Опанас Лахов.

seemed appropriate about now with the current events.

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PostPosted: 07 Mar 2014, 00:18 
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was discussing this one with a friend just now and thought to share as well.
i realise the audience is kind of narrowed down but, if you're able to get this,
sort of speaks of how one feels (now and ever..) catching up with the news..

ВСЁ КРУГОМ

Страшное, грубое, липкое, грязное,
Жестко-тупое, всегда безобразное,
Медленно рвущее, мелко-нечестное,
Скользкое, стыдное, низкое, тесное,
Явно довольное, тайно-блудливое,
Плоско-смешное и тошно-трусливое,
Вязко, болотно и тинно застойное,
Жизни и смерти равно недостойное,
Рабское, хамское, гнойное, черное,
Изредка серое, в сером упорное,
Вечно лежачее, дьявольски косное,
Глупое, сохлое, сонное, злостное,
Трупно-холодное, жалко-ничтожное,
Непереносное, ложное, ложное!

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PostPosted: 07 Mar 2014, 08:31 
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yeah, quite fitting.


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PostPosted: 13 Mar 2014, 16:24 
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waters of march / jobim

the northern hemisphere version


A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
A knot in the wood, the song of a thrush
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of the slope
It's a beam it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of the strain
The joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a slingshot's stone
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
A fight, a bet the fange of a bow
The bed of the well, the end of the line
The dismay in the face, it's a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike, a point, a nail
A drip, a drop, the end of the tale
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light
The sound of a shot in the dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house, the body in bed
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud
A float, a drift, a flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart
A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
It's a thorn in your hand and a cut in your toe
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle, a sting a pain
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule
In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue
And the river talks of the waters of March
It's the promise of life in your heart
A stick, a stone, the end of the road
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun
A knife, a death, the end of the run
And the river bank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart


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