Category Archives: Poetry, Poets, Writers

quotation: Words are but wind; and learning is nothing but words; ergo, learning is nothing but wind. Jonathan Swift


Words are but wind; and learning is nothing but words; ergo, learning is nothing but wind.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) Discuss

Advertisements

today’s birthday: George Orwell (1903)


George Orwell (1903)

Best known by his pseudonym George Orwell, Eric Arthur Blair was a British novelist and essayist famed for his scathingly satirical and frighteningly political novels: the anti-Soviet fable Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, a prophetic novel that portrays the catastrophic excesses of state control over the individual. Orwell was distrustful of all political parties and ideologies, and this sentiment is reflected in much of his work. What are some of his other novels? More… Discuss

Haiku – Words, poetic thought by George-G (The Smudge ans other poems) (“Words know the meaning…”)


Haiku – Words, poetic thought by George-G
(The Smudge ans other poems)

Words know the Story,
what has been, is, will be.
Words – learn the meaning.

©By George -B

quotation: The best of men cannot suspend their fate: The good die early, and the bad die late. Daniel Defoe


The best of men cannot suspend their fate:

The good die early, and the bad die late.

Daniel Defoe (1660-1731) Discuss

today’s birthday: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811)


Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811)

A prolific writer whose works fill more than a dozen volumes, Stowe was an American novelist and humanitarian. Spurred to action by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, she began writing an antislavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which became an instant and controversial best-seller. Its impact on Northerners’ attitudes toward slavery was significant, swaying much of the public to support, or at least sympathize with, the abolitionist cause. What else did Stowe write? More… Discuss

poetry: Aleksandr Pushkin: The Bronze Horseman A Petersburg Story 1833


 

Aleksandr Pushkin

Aleksandr Pushkin

The Bronze Horseman

A Petersburg Story

1833INTRODUCTION

The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.
The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.
The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.

PROLOGUE

On a deserted, wave-swept shore,
He stood – in his mind great thoughts grow –
And gazed afar. The northern river
Sped on its wide course him before;
One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver.
On banks of mosses and wet grass
Black huts were dotted there by chance –
The miserable Finn’s abode;
The wood unknown to the rays
Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed,
Hummed all around. And he thought so:
‘The Swede from here will be frightened;
Here a great city will be wrought
To spite our neighborhood conceited.
From here by Nature we’re destined
To cut a door to Europe wide,
To step with a strong foot by waters.
Here, by the new for them sea-paths,
Ships of all flags will come to us –
And on all seas our great feast opens.’ 

An age passed, and the young stronghold,
The charm and sight of northern nations,
From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold,
Rose the proud one and precious.
Where once the Finnish fisherman,
Sad stepson of the World, alone,
By low riverbanks’ a sand,
Cast into waters, never known,
His ancient net, now on the place,
Along the full of people banks,
Cluster the tall and graceful masses
Of castles and palaces; and sails
Hasten in throng to the rich quays
From all the lands our planet masters;
The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks;
Bridges hang o’er the waters proud;
Abundantly her isles are covered
With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks… 

By the new capital, the younger,
Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once -
Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager
By a new queen when her time comes.
I love you, Peter’s great creation,
I love your view of stern and grace, 
The Neva wave’s regal procession,
The grayish granite – her bank’s dress,
The airy iron-casting fences,
The gentle transparent twilight,
The moonless gleam of your nights restless,
When I so easy read and write
Without a lamp in my room lone,
And seen is each huge buildings’ stone
Of the left streets, and is so bright 
The Admiralty spire’s flight,
And when, not letting the night’s darkness
To reach the golden heaven’s height,
The dawn after the sunset hastens –
And a half-hour’s for the night.
I love your so sever winter’s 
Quite still and fresh air and strong frost, 
The sleighs race on the shores river’s,
The girls – each brighter than a rose,
The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances,
And, on the bachelors’ free feast,
The hissing of the foaming glasses
And the punch’s bluish flaming mist.
I love the warlike animation
Of the play-fields of the god Mars,
And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars 
So homogeneous attraction,
In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves,
Those flags, victories and rended,
The glitter of those helmets, splendid,
Shot through in military strives.
I love, O capital my fairest,
Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke,
In moments when the northern empress
Adds brunches to the regal oak
Or Russia lauds a winning stroke
To any new and daring foe,
Or, breaking up the light-blue ice,
The Neva streams it and exults,
Scenting the end of cold and snow.

City of Peter, just you shine
And stand unshakable as Russia!
May make a peace with beauty, thine,
The conquered nature’s casual rushes;
And let the Finnish waves forget
Their ancient bondages and malice
And not disturb with their hate senseless
The endless sleep of Peter, great!

The awful period was that,
It’s fresh in our recollection…
This time about, my dear friend,
I am beginning my narration.
My story will be very sad.


PART ONE

On Petrograd, sunk into darkness,
November breathed with fall cold’s harshness.
And, splashing, with the noisy waves
Into the brims of her trim fences,
The Neva raved, like the seek raves
In a bed, that has become the restless.
Now it was very dark and late;
The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat.
And the wind blew with sadly wailing.
Right at this time, from being a guest
Evgeny, for his nightly rest,
Came home. This name was most prevailing
In our young hero’s name choice.
It sounds pleasantly. Of course,
With it my pen’s had long connections
It needn’t the special commendations,
Though in the times, in Lithe gone,
It might have been the most attractive
And under Karamzin’s pen, fine,
Sung in some legends, our native;
But now it is forgotten by 
The world and rumors. Our guy
Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service,
Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is
For his kin which had left the world,
Or for the well-forgotten old.

So, he is home – our Evgeny,
Took off his greatcoat, undressed,
Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed 
He was by his thoughts, so many.
What did he thought of? Well, of that
That he was poor and that his bread, 
His honour and his independence
Just by hard work must be achieved, 
That God should send to him from heavens
More mind and money. That do live 
Such idle, fully happy creatures –
The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,.
Whose life is absolutely light!
That he had served for two long years;
And that the weather, former fierce,
Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood
In the Neva is getting higher,
The bridges might be got entire,
And that his sweet Parasha’s place
For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed.
There sighed Evgeny with his soul,
And dreamed as dreams a real bard:

“To marry then? Of course it’s hard. 
But why don’t marry, in a whole?
I’m of the young and healthy sight,
Ready to work for day and night;
I’ll someway find the good repose,
The simple and shy place, at last,
Parasha will be there composed. 
The year or, may be, two will pass –
I’m in position, to my dear 
I’ll give all family to bear
And bring our children up, at once...
Such we’ll start life, at last repose,
With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both,
And our grandsons will bury us...” 

Thus he did dream. And a great sadness
Embraced his soul in that night,
He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser,
Rain’s siege of windows – not so tight.
At last his sleepy eyes were closed...
And now the night is getting gray –
That night, so nasty and morose, 
And it is coming – the pale day
The awful day! During the night
Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests
But, having lost all her great battles,
The river ceased the useless fight…
And in the morn on her shores proud,
Stood people in a pressed in lot
And saw the tall and heard the loud 
Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought.
But by the force of airy breathing
Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva
Came back – the wrathful one and seething -
And flooded islands, near and far;
The weather grew into the cruel,
Neva – more swelling and more brutal,
Like in a kettle boiled and steamed,
And then, as a wild creature seemed,
Jumped on the city. And before it,
All ran away from its strait path,
And all got emptied there; at once.
The waters flew into the cellars,
And raised up to the fence of canals –
And, like Triton, Petropol sails
Sunk in the water till his waist. 

Siege and assault! The evil waters
Thrust into windows, like slaughters.
The mad boats row into a glass.
The stalls are under the wet mass.
The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces,
The stores of the tread, auspicious,
The things, carried the pale want from,
The bridges got away by storm,
The coffins from the graveyards - float,
Along the streets!
                               The populace
Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death.
All is destroyed: bread and abode.
And how to live?
                           The monarch, blessed, 
Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion,
Still governed Russia that year, dread,
And from the balcony he, sad 
And pale, said: “Ne’er the God-made nature
Can be subdued by any tsars.”
And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s 
With his full of deep sadness eyes.
The streets turned into the fast rivers,
Running to made lakes, dark and grievous,
The Palace was an island, sad,
That loomed over the blackened waters.
The Tsar decreed – from end to end,
Down the shortest streets and longest,
On danger routs over the waves,
His generals set into the sailing –
To save the drawing and straining
On streets and in their homes-graves.

Then on the widest Square of Peter,
Where with his glass a new pile glittered,
Where on its porch, too highly placed,
With their paw raised, as if they’re living,
Stood two marble lions, overseeing.
On one of them, as for a race,
Without his hat, arms – tightly pressed,
Awfully pale – no stir appeared –
Evgeny sat. And there he feared
Not his own death. He did not hear
How the wrathful roller neared,
Greedily licking his shoes’ soles,
And how flagged him the rain coarse,
And how the fierce wind there wailed,
Or how it’d blown off his hat.
His looks of deepest desperation
Were all set on a single place
Without a move. The waves, impatient, 
Had risen there, like tallest crags,
Lifted from waked deeps in a madness,
There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest …
O, God! O, God! – Right on that place,
Alas! so close to the waves,
And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish,
A willow-tree, a fence unfinished
And an old hut: there they must be –
A widow and her child Parasha –
His soul’s dream … Or does he see
It in a dream? … And, like the usher 
Of dreams – a sleep, is our life none –
Just Heavens make of Earth a fun?  

And he, like under conjuration,
Like in jail irons’ limitation,
Cannot come down. Him around
Only black waters could be found!
And turned to him with his back, proudest,
On height that never might be tossed,
Over Neva’s unending wildness,
Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, 
The idol on his brazen horse. 


PART TWO

But now, sated with distraction
And tired of its rude attack,
Neva, at last, was coming back,
Looking at ruins with satisfaction
And leaving with a little attention
Its prey behind. A reprobate,
With his sever and low set,
Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless,
Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses:
The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!...
And, under their large booty posted,
Afraid of chases and exhausted,
The robbers speed to their old place,
Losing their loot along the road.

The waves were gone, the pavement, broad,
Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed, 
With heart half-dead and stifled throat,
In a hope, fear and awful pains,
Runs to the stream, just now restrained.
But, in the winning celebration,
Waves still were boiling with a passion,
As if to flames, under them fanned;
They still were with white foam covered,
And Neva’s breast was heavily moved,
Like the steed’s one after a race.
Evgeny sees a boat here;
He runs to it – a find, revered, –
He calls a boatman at once –
The boatman, a guy quite careless,
Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness,
Takes him into the waves’ wild dance.

And for a long with these waves, close,
The much trained rower was in fight,
And to sink deeply mid their rows,
The scuff, with its brave sailors both,
Was apt all time… The other side
Is reached, at last. And the frustrated
Runs through the so well-known street
To his old places. He doesn’t meet
A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated
As the worst one! All’s in a mess –
All is failed down or swept or stressed:
The little houses are bent down,
Some – shifted, some – razed to their ground
By awful forces of the waves;
The bodies, waiting for their graves,
Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless.
Our poor Evgeny – his mind’s flamed – 
Half-dead under the tortures, endless,
Runs there where the inhumane fate
Would give him the unknown message,
As if a letter, sealed to bear;
He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage,
There is the Gulf, the house is near… 
But what is this? He stopped, frustrated,
Went back, returned a little later…
He looks… he walks … he looks once more.
There is the place their house for
And willow-tree. The gates were here –
They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace? 
And full of troubles, hard to wear,
He walked and walked around the place. 
Told to himself in voices loud –
And suddenly, as if all’s found,
Struck his forehead and fell in laugh.
The night embraced the city, stuffed
With all its woe. And still for hours
A sleep was running from each house –
The folk recalling the past day.
Now, through the clouds, weak and pale,
The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city
And did not found e’en a trace
Of the past woe. The dawn, witty,
Had safely screened the doing, base.
The former life had got its place.
Along the streets now free of flooding,
With cold indifference, folks are moving.
Just having left his lodge of night,
The clerk is going at his site.
The petty tradesman, very dauntless, 
Is opening his cellar – wet, 
Robbed by the waves’ impudent set –
Intending to revenge his losses
On brothers-humans. From the yard
Is pulled the boat, full of mud.
Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus,
Now is singing his songs, deathless,
To the Neva shores’ former plight.

What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? …
Alas! His agitated mind,
Against the immense woe’s billow
Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s
And Neva’s noise was always growing 
In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind,
With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming, 
Being quite tortured by some dream.
A week, month passed by as a stream,
At his past home he wasn’t returning
And his landlord, when the rent’s time
Had gone, gave his corner to some
Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly.
Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff
And soon became a stranger, fully,
To world: his day wasn’t long enough
For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning
His bread was one a beggar has,
He wore the dirt and rotten dress.
The evil children, with cries joyful, 
Sometimes threw stones to his back,
Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful,
Stung his thin body – for his track
Was cast without choosing direction –
He seemed to notice nothing else –
He was quiet deafened and oppressed
By noise of inner agitation. 
And thus he strayed in his life’s mist – 
Not humane being, nor some beast –
Not fish, nor flesh – not living creature,
Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept 
By Neva’s wharf – the summer’s features
Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad,
Was breathing there. The roller, sad,
Was splashing its complain and groan
And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone,
Like the offended at the door
Of justice that doesn’t hear him more.
The poor waked up. All was gloom round:
Falling the rain, wind wailing loud,
And it was answered through the night
By some alone distant guard...
Evgeny got up in a hurry, 
He recollected his all flurry,
Stood on a spot, began to walk 
And stopped again, almost choked, 
Intently gazing him around
With a wild terror on his face... 
It seemed that he himself had found
By a big house where were placed,
With their paw up, as if quite living,
Two marble lions, overseeing,
And in the height, strait o’er him posed,
Over the rock, fenced with cast iron, 
With arm stretched into the skies, sullen, 
The idol sat on his bronze horse.

Evgeny startled. Became clear
The strange thoughts, torturing his mind –
He named the place where played the flood,
Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, – 
Merging in one rebellious stream, –
The lions, square and, at last, him,
Who stood without a move and sound –
The cooper head piercing black skies –
Him, by whose fatal enterprise
This city under sea took ground...
He’s awful in the nightly dark!
In what a thought his brow’s sunk!
What a great might in it lies, hidden!
And what a fire’s in this steed!
O, proud horse, where do you speed!
Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’?
O, karma’s mighty sovereign!
Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen,
Into the height, with a curb, iron,
Before an abyss in your reign?

The poor madman circled around
The foot of the black idol’s mass,
He gazed into the brazen face 
Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud.
And was his breast oppressed. He laid
On the cold barrier his forehead.
His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover,
His heart was all caught with a flame,
His blood seethed. Gloomy he became
Before the idol, looming over, 
And, having clenched his teeth and fist,
As if possessed by evil powers,
“Well, builder-maker of the marvels,”
He whispered, trembling in a fit,
“You only wait!...”- And to a street,
At once he started to run out –
He fancied: that the great tsar’s face,
With a wrath suddenly embraced,
Was turning slowly around...
And strait along the empty square
He runs and hears as if there were,
Just behind him, the peals of thunder,
Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, –
A race the empty square across,
Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed;
And by the moon, that palled lighter,
Having stretched his hand over roofs,
The Brazen Horseman rides him after –
On his steed of the ringing hoofs.
And all the night the madman, poor,
Where’er he might direct his steps,
Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure,
Keeps on the heavy-treading race.

And from this time, when he was going,
Along this square, only by chance,
A sense of terror was deforming 
His features. And he would then press
His hand to heart in a great fastness,
As if to make its tortures painless,
Take off the worn peaked cap at once,
Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes
And try to pass by.
                                  A small island’s
Seen in the sea quite near a shore.
A fisherman, the late catch for,
Would sail to it with his net, silent,
Sometimes – and boil there his soup, poor;
Or an official clerk would moor
To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s.
The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget
There any plant. A player, sightless,
The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad, 
Of an old hut. The water over,
It had been left like a bush, black.
Last spring, by a small barging rover,
It was conveyed to the shore, back –
Destroyed and empty. By its entry,
They’d found the poor madman of mine
And, for a sake of the Divine, 
Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 2004 - March, 2005
© Copyright, poetryloverspage.com, 2004-2005

today’s birthday: Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799)


Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799)

Among the giants of Russian literature, Pushkin was a poet and writer whose masterpieces include the poem The Bronze Horseman, the drama The Stone Guest, and his verse novel Eugene Onegin, which contains witty descriptions of 19th-century Russian society. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many works, but his career was cut short when he died after a duel with a young Frenchman. How old was he when he died? More… Discuss

quotation: I believe there’s no proverb but what is true; Miguel de Cervantes


I believe there’s no proverb but what is true; they are all so many sentences and maxims drawn from experience, the universal mother of sciences.

Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) Discuss

Haiku – Stephen Hawking, poetic thought by George-B (the Smudge and Other poems)


 

Haiku – Stephen Hawking,
poetic thought by George-B

Time before our Time

was a pendulum at rest

waiting for Hawking

(the Smudge and Other poems)

thh

 

quotation: What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.


 

Quotation of the Day: Jane Austen

What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.

Jane Austen (1775-1817) Discuss

 

Haiku-History Lesson, poetic thought by George-B (The Smudge and Other Poems Page)


Haiku – History Lesson, poetic thought by George-B
(The Smudge and Other Poems Page)

Mustard in a jar

Hills covered with wild mustard

All evolves with time…

Impressions from the trail: April - Spring - 2014- A Good Year

Impressions from the trail: April – Spring – 2014- A Good Year

today’s birthday: Omar Khayyám (1048)


Omar Khayyám (1048)

Khayyám was a Persian poet, mathematician, and astronomer. The details of his life are mostly conjectural, but he is known to have been a celebrated mathematician of his time. Yet, he is now best known for his Rubaiyat, a collection of epigrammatic verse quatrains whose hedonism often masks serious metaphysical reflections. It was little known in Europe until Edward FitzGerald’s loose English translations were published in 1859. What does the name Khayyám indicate about his lineage? More… Discuss

quotation: I needed some real danger and some mortal risk to run, to tranquilize me. Alexandre Dumas


I needed some real danger and some mortal risk to run, to tranquilize me.

Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870) Discuss

quotation: Henry Fielding


Great vices are the proper objects of our detestation, smaller faults of our pity, but affectation appears to me the only true source of the ridiculous.

Henry Fielding (1707-1754) Discuss

today’s birthday: Charlotte Brontë (1816)


Charlotte Brontë (1816)

The eldest of the three famous Brontë sisters whose novels have become standards of English literature, Charlotte Brontë is best known for penning Jane Eyre, the story of a governess who falls passionately in love with her employer. Ranked among the great English novels, it addresses women’s need for both love and independence. Considered the most professional of the sisters, Charlotte endeavored to achieve financial success from the family’s literary efforts. What were her other novels? More… Discuss

The Murders in the Rue Morgue (FULL Audiobook)


The Murders in the Rue Morgue (FULL Audiobook)

Rabindranath Tagore – Gitanjali (a moving introduction by W.B. Yeats, a must read)


Sacred-texts  Hinduism  Tagore


The Gitanjali or `song offerings’ by Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941), Nobel prize for literature 1913, with an introduction by William B. Yeats (1865–1939), Nobel prize for literature 1923. First published in 1913.

This work is in public domain according to the Berne convention since January 1st 1992.


RABINDRANATH TAGORE

GITANJALI

Song Offerings
A collection of prose translations
made by the author from
the original Bengali
With an introduction by
W. B. YEATS
to WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN


INTRODUCTIONIA few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, I know no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I would go to the British Museum and find books in English that would tell me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. But though these prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his life, and of the movements of thought that have made them possible, if some Indian traveller will not tell me.' It seemed to him natural that I should be moved, for he said,I read Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.’ I said, An Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard the Second had he been shown translations from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no books to answer his questions, but would have questioned some Florentine banker or Lombard merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple is this poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and I shall never know of it except by hearsay.' He answered,We have other poets, but none that are his equal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet seems to me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music as in poetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma wherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he wrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older, are still played in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his life; when he was very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would sit all day in his garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language’; and then he said with deep emotion, words can never express what I owed at seventeen to his love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it became religious and philosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his hymns. He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken out of Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.' I may have changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought.A little while ago he was to read divine service in one of our churches—we of the Brahma Samaj use your word `church’ in English—it was the largest in Calcutta and not only was it crowded, but the streets were all but impassable because of the people.’

Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded strange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the same veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were making the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? Every morning at three---I know, for I have seen it'---one said to me,he sits immovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his reverie upon the nature of God. His father, the Maha Rishi, would sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the rowers waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey.’ He then told me of Mr. Tagore’s family and how for generations great men have come out of its cradles. Today,' he said,there are Gogonendranath and Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath, Rabindranath’s brother, who is a great philosopher. The squirrels come from the boughs and climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands.’ I notice in these men’s thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held that doctrine of Nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon physical things. I said, In the East you know how to keep a family illustrious. The other day the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man who was arranging their Chinese prints and said, ``That is the hereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family to hold the post.'' 'He answered,When Rabindranath was a boy he had all round him in his home literature and music.’ I thought of the abundance, of the simplicity of the poems, and said, In your country is there much propagandist writing, much criticism? We have to do so much, especially in my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we cannot help it. If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste, whether in our own minds or in the minds of others.'I understand,’ he replied, `we too have our propagandist writing. In the villages they recite long mythological poems adapted from the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages, and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their duties.’


II
I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see how much it moved me. These lyrics—which are in the original, my Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical invention—display in their thought a world I have dreamed of all my live long. The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. A tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind which—as one divines—runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England, Chaucer wrote his Troilus and Cressida, and thought he had written to be read, or to be read out—for our time was coming on apace—he was sung by minstrels for a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer’s forerunners, writes music for his words, and one understands at every moment that he is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of defence. These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies’ tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master’s home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God Himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us, seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image, as though we had walked in Rossetti’s willow wood, or heard, perhaps for the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream.

Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints—however familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their thought—has ceased to hold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the violent rhetoric of the Book of Revelations? We would, if we might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy. I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door---and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey.' And it is our own mood, when it is furthest froma Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries, And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.' Yet it is not only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness.Entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment.’ This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.


III

We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics—all dull things in the doing—while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He often seems to contrast life with that of those who have loved more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him: Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.' At another time, remembering how his life had once a different shape, he will say,Many an hour I have spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.’ An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his brother’s hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints, `They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.’

W.B. YEATS September 1912

GITANJALI


1
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.


When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony—and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.

I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.


Continue reading

quotation: Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis. Ralph Waldo Emerson (listening to two audiobooks here at EUZICASA)


Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) Discuss

 

Free Audiobook: Ralph Waldo Emerson Self Reliance

POEMS WITH A VOICE, The Lion poem , (‘…Fixing its eye on the rain…’), by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)


The Lion poem by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)

A great lion came from the distances.
It was huge as silence is,
it was thirsty, it was after blood,
and behind its posturing
it had fire, as a house has,
it burned like a mountain of Osorno.

It found only solitude,
it roared, out of uncertainty and hunger –
the only thing to eat was air,
the wild foam of the coast,
frozen sea lettuces,
air the colour of birds,
unacceptable nourishment.

Wistful lion from another planet,
cast up by the high tide
on the rocky coast of Isla Negra,
the salty archipelago,
with nothing more than an empty maw,
claws that were idle
and a tail like a feather duster.

It was well aware of the foolishness
of its aggressive appearance
and with the passing of years
it wrinkled up in shame.
Its timidity led it on
to worse displays of arrogance
and it went on aging like one
of the lions in the Plaza,
it slowly turned into an ornament
for a portico or a garden,
to the point of hiding its sad forehead,
fixing its eyes on the rain
and keeping still to wait for
the grey justice of stone,
its geological hour.


****The Lion poem by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)

 

Fifty Five – (‘Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes…’), Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali (from Collection of Indian Poems)


55
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! Let not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun—what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst—
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain?

***Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali (from Collection of Indian Poems)

Fifty Three-(‘Beautiful is thy wristlet,…’), Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali (from Collection of Indian Poems)


53
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or to think of.

Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
(from Collection of Indian Poems)

Lazybones by Pablo Neruda (Selected Poems) (‘They will continue wandering,…I have no wish to change my planet…’)


Lazybones by Pablo Neruda

They will continue wandering,
these things of steel among the stars,
and weary men will still go up
to brutalize the placid moon.
There, they will found their pharmacies.

In this time of the swollen grape,
the wine begins to come to life
between the sea and the mountain ranges.

In Chile now, cherries are dancing,
the dark mysterious girls are singing,
and in guitars, water is shining.
The sun is touching every door
and making wonder of the wheat.

The first wine is pink in colour,
is sweet with the sweetness of a child,
the second wine is able-bodied,
strong like the voice of a sailor,
the third wine is a topaz, is
a poppy and a fire in one.

My house has both the sea and the earth,
my woman has great eyes
the colour of wild hazelnut,
when night comes down, the sea
puts on a dress of white and green,
and later the moon in the spindrift foam
dreams like a sea-green girl.

I have no wish to change my planet.

[A.R.]
379

quotation: ‘…Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning, but…’ George Eliot


Any coward can fight a battle when he’s sure of winning, but give me the man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing.

George Eliot (1819-1880) Discuss

quotation: “Look now how mortals are blaming the gods,…”) Homer (900 BC-800 BC)


Look now how mortals are blaming the gods, for they say that evils come from us, but in fact they themselves have woes beyond their share because of their own follies.

Homer (900 BC-800 BC) Discuss

Pablo Neruda – Always (…’I am not jealous of what came before me.’…)


Pablo Neruda – Always

I am not jealous
of what came before me.
Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!
********************************************

forever poems: HOUSE Poem by Pablo Neruda (…’and stone I was, stone shall be, and for this caress this stone which has not died for me’…)


House Poem by Pablo Neruda

Perhaps this is the house in which I lived
when neither I, nor earth, existed,
 when everything was moon, or stone, or shadow,
 with the still light unborn.
This stone could then have been
 my house, my windows, or my eyes.
This granite rose recalls
 something that lived in me, or I in it,
a cave, a universe of dreams inside the skull:
 cup or castle, boat or birth.
I touch the rock’s tenacious thrust,
its bulwark pounded in the brine
and I know that flaws of mine subsisted here,
wrinkled substances that surfaced
from the depths into my soul,
and stone I was, stone shall be, and for this
caress this stone which has not died for me:
it’s what I was, and shall be – the tranquility
of struggle stretched beyond the brink of time.

The Dictators Poem by Pablo Neruda


poet Pablo Neruda

The Dictators Poem by Pablo Neruda

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

Dreamcatcher, poetic thought by George-B (The Smudge and other poems page)


Dreamcatcher, poetic thought by George-B

the day is tired now
with eyes barely open is  ready to retire,
behind curved eyelids.
just for a moment,
a furtive look upon what’s left unnoticed,
a fragile filament of light,
a light inverted, hides within the dunes of time:
Sweet Dreams!

Dreamcatcher

Copyright © 2015 [George Bost]. All Rights Reserved.

 

Nascut astazi, MArtie 20, 43 i.e.n: Publius Ovidius Naso (43 î.e.n. — 17 e.n.) – Statuia lui Ovidiu din Constanța


Statuia lui Ovidiu din Constanța

De la Wikipedia, enciclopedia liberă
 

 Statuia lui Ovidiu din Constanţa

Statuia lui Ovidiu din Constanța este un monument din orașul Constanța. A fost executată în 1887 de sculptorul italian Ettore Ferrari. O replică identică se află din 1925 la Sulmona (Italia).

Este așezată în partea veche a orașului, în Piața Ovidiu, în fața primei clădiri a Primăriei Constanța, azi Muzeului Național de Istorie și Arheologie, lângă portul Tomis.

Cu ceva timp în urmă,[Când?] statuia lui Ovidiu a fost toaletată necorespunzător. [1]

 Statuia lui Ovidiu în anul 1941

Descriere

Primul dintre monumentele statuare ridicat la Constanța după reintrarea sub administrație românească este cel care îl înfățișează pe marele poet roman Publius Ovidius Naso (43 î.e.n. — 17 e.n.). Statuia din bronz îl înfățișează pe Ovidiu într-o atitudine adânc meditativă. Dezvelirea statuii, în august 1887, a prilejuit o adevărată sărbătoare la care au participat toți constănțenii, în frunte cu prefectul Remus Opreanu, inițiatorul „Comitetului pentru statuia lui Ovidiu”.

Statuia se află pe un soclu de marmură albă, pe care este încrustată o placă cu un text din „Tristele”.

„Sub astă piatră zace Ovidiu cântărețul
Iubirilor gingașe răpus de al său talent.
O, tu ce treci pe aicea și dacă ai iubit vreodată
Te roagă pentru dânsul sa-i fie somnul lin.”

Inițial statuia a fost amplasată cu fața spre nord, construcția Palatului Primăriei impunând, în 1921, mutarea pe actualul loc. În cursul ocupației Germano-Bulgare, în anii 1916-1918, statuia a fost dată jos de pe soclu de armata bulgară, pentru a fi luată ca pradă de război, dar intervenția unor ofițeri germani a oprit originala “inițiativă culturală”; până la revenirea autorităților românești, în noiembrie 1918, statuia a fost adăpostită în subsolul Primăriei. În 1925, o replică fidelă a acestei opere a fost dezvelită în orașul natal al poetului – Sulmona.


Statue of Ovid in Constanta:
(translated by Google Translate)
 

Statue of Ovidiu Constanta Constanta is a monument in the city. He was executed in 1887 by the Italian sculptor Ettore Ferrari. A replica is from 1925 to Sulmona (Italy).

It is situated in the old town, Ovidiu Square, in front of the first building of Constanta City Hall, today the National Museum of History and Archaeology, near the port Tomis.

Some time ago, [when?] Ovid’s statue was inadequate taken care of. [1]
Statue of Ovid in 1941
Description
The first statutory monuments raised in Constanta after re under Romanian administration is one that depicts the great Roman poet Ovid (43 BC – 17 AD). The bronze statue depicts Ovidiu a deep meditative attitude. Unveiling the statue, in August 1887 brought about a veritable feast attended by all Constantenii, headed by the Prefect Remus Opreanu initiator “Ovid’s statue Committee”.The statue stands on a pedestal of white marble, which is encrusted plate with a text of “Tristia”. 

“Under this stone lies Ovidiu singer
Tender love succumbed to his talent.
O you who pass by and if you ever loved aicea
I pray for him to be his gentle sleep. “

Originally the statue was placed facing north, requiring the construction of the Palace Hall in 1921, moving to the current place. In the German-Bulgarian occupation in the years 1916-1918, the statue was taken down from the pedestal of the Bulgarian army, to be taken as war booty, but the intervention of German officers stopped the original “cultural values”; to return Romanian authorities in November 1918, the statue was housed in the basement of City Hall. In 1925, a replica of this work was unveiled in hometown of poet – Sulmona.

today’s Birthday: Ovid (43 BCE)


Ovid (43 BCE)

Publius Ovidius Naso, a Roman poet better known as Ovid, is ranked alongside Virgil, Horace, and others as one of the canonical poets of Latin literature. He was a great storyteller whose writings generally deal with the themes of love, mythology, and exile. No other Latin poet wrote so naturally in verse or with such sustained wit, and his works had a decisive influence on European art and literature for centuries. Why did Augustus banish Ovid in 8 CE? More… Discuss

Viata, cugetare poetica de George-B (the smudge and other poems page


Viata,  cugetare poetica de George-B
(the smudge and other poems page)
Privesc o floare…

Parfumul ei imi inunda mintea…

Privesc o pasare, si trilurile ei imi vin in minte..

Privesc spre cerul innorat si-n minte
vad,
aud,
miros,

fulgerul,
tunetul,
ploaia.

Apoi un curcubeu, cald,
o baltoaca in asfaltul ondulat
clipocind cu viata nevazuta
ce a supravietuit potopul,

si n-a fost imbarcata pe arca.

Viata supravietuieste,  fara Noe.


– George-B

quotation: “Death is the only physician,…”, George Eliot


Death is the only physician, the shadow of his valley the only journeying that will cure us of age and the gathering fatigue of years.George Eliot (1819-1880) Discuss

Leonard Cohen – So long, Marianne [Studio Version] (“…I forget to pray for the angels And then the angels forget to pray for us…”)


Leonard Cohen – So long, Marianne [Studio Version]


Munti mei, cugetare poetica de George-B ( euzicasa – The smudge and other poems page)


Muntii mei acum sant dealuri,

sant micuti, si ca o cusma-

asa ca an din an imi par tot mai falnici, si salbatici.

dar nu ma las prejos,
nu ma indoi sub greutatea zilei,

si nu astept munte sau deal sa vina, 

sa mi-seartearna-n poala,

ci ma rog ca muntii falnici,
chiar de-ar fi pentru furnici,
sa-mi aduca bucuria,

ce-am stiut pe Moldoveanu,
si
fecior fiind , de zile  eram plin!

 

Pe acoperisul Romaniei: Varful Moldoveanu

“Parcurgerea crestei dintre Vârful Viştea – 2527 metri şi Vârful Moldoveanu – 2544 metri reprezinta traversarea  ‘AcoperişuluiRomâniei.’ ”   (Toate drepturile sant acordate autorului acestei fotografii: va rog sa activati accesul la articolul sau apasand oriunde pe imagine…este atat de simplu!)

 

Mondial – Atât de fragedă ( pe versurile poemului cu acelasi nume de Mihail Eminescu, nume de familie originar: Eminovici originar din satul Vad, Tara Fagarasului)


Mondial – Atât de fragedă

Mihai Eminescu: Scrisoarea III (‘…cum venira se facura toti o apa si-un pamant…”)


Puteţi asculta înregistrări audio pe situl: http://www.lecturaaudio.ro

translate, as you wish,  HERE

 

Mihai Eminescu

Scrisoarea III


Un sultan dintre aceia ce domnesc peste vro limbă,

Ce cu-a turmelor păşune, a ei patrie ş-o schimbă,

La pământ dormea ţinându-şi căpătâi mâna cea dreaptă;

Dară ochiu-nchis afară, înlăuntru se deşteaptă.

Vede cum din ceruri luna lunecă şi se coboară

Şi s-apropie de dânsul preschimbată în fecioară.

Înflorea cărarea ca de pasul blândei primăveri;

Ochii ei sunt plini de umbra tăinuitelor dureri;

Codrii se înfiorează de atâta frumuseţe,

Apele-ncreţesc în tremur străveziile lor feţe,

Pulbere de diamante cade fină ca o bură,

Scânteind plutea prin aer şi pe toate din natură

Şi prin mândra fermecare sun-o muzică de şoapte,

Iar pe ceruri se înalţă curcubeele de noapte…

Ea, şezând cu el alături, mâna fină i-o întinde,

Părul ei cel negru-n valuri de mătasă se desprinde:

– Las’ să leg a mea viaţă de a ta… În braţu-mi vino,

Şi durerea mea cea dulce cu durerea ta alin-o…

Scris în cartea vieţii este şi de veacuri şi de stele

Eu să fiu a ta stăpână, tu stăpân vieţii mele.

Şi cum o privea sultanul, ea se-ntunecă… dispare;

Iar din inima lui simte un copac cum că răsare,

Care creşte într-o clipă ca în veacuri, mereu creşte,

Cu-a lui ramuri peste lume, peste mare se lăţeşte;

Umbra lui cea uriaşă orizontul îl cuprinde

Şi sub dânsul universul într-o umbră se întinde;

Iar în patru părţi a lumii vede şiruri munţii mari,

Atlasul, Caucazul, Taurul şi Balcanii seculari;

Vede Eufratul şi Tigris, Nilul, Dunărea bătrână –

Umbra arborelui falnic peste toate e stăpână.

Astfel, Asia, Europa, Africa cu-a ei pustiuri

Şi corăbiile negre legănându-se pe râuri,

Valurile verzi de grâie legănându-se pe lanuri,

Mările ţărmuitoare şi cetăţi lângă limanuri,

Toate se întind nainte-i… ca pe-un uriaş covor,

Vede ţară lângă ţară şi popor lângă popor –

Ca prin neguri alburie se strevăd şi se prefac

În întinsă-mpărăţie sub o umbră de copac.

Vulturii porniţi la ceruri pân’ la ramuri nu ajung;

Dar un vânt de biruinţă se porneşte îndelung

Şi loveşte rânduri, rânduri în frunzişul sunător,

Strigăte de-Allah! Allahu! se aud pe sus prin nori,

Zgomotul creştea ca marea turburată şi înaltă,

Urlete de bătălie s-alungau dupăolaltă,

Însă frunzele-ascuţite se îndoaie după vânt

Şi deasupra Romei nouă se înclină la pământ.

Se cutremură sultanul… se deşteaptă… şi pe cer

Vede luna cum pluteşte peste plaiul Eschişer.

Şi priveşte trist la casa şeihului Edebali;

După gratii de fereastră o copilă el zări

Ce-i zâmbeşte, mlădioasă ca o creangă de alun;

E a şeihului copilă, e frumoasa Malcatun.

Atunci el pricepe visul că-i trimis de la profet,

Că pe-o clipă se-nălţase chiar în rai la Mohamet,

Că din dragostea-i lumească un imperiu se va naşte,

Ai căruia ani şi margini numai cerul le cunoaşte.

Visul său se-nfiripează şi se-ntinde vultureşte,

An cu an împărăţia tot mai largă se sporeşte,

Iară flamura cea verde se înalţă an cu an,

Neam cu neam urmându-i zborul şi sultan după sultan.

Astfel ţară după ţară drum de glorie-i deschid…

Pân-în Dunăre ajunge furtunosul Baiazid…

La un semn, un ţărm de altul, legând vas de vas, se leagă

Şi în sunet de fanfare trece oastea lui întreagă;

Ieniceri, copii de suflet ai lui Allah şi spahii

Vin de-ntunecă pământul la Rovine în câmpii;

Răspândindu-se în roiuri, întind corturile mari…

Numa-n zarea depărtată sună codrul de stejari.

Iată vine-un sol de pace c-o năframă-n vârf de băţ.

Baiazid, privind la dânsul, îl întreabă cu dispreţ:

– Ce vrei tu?

– Noi? Bună pace! Şi de n-o fi cu bănat,

Domnul nostru-ar vrea să vază pe măritul împărat.

La un semn deschisă-i calea şi s-apropie de cort

Un bătrân atât de simplu, după vorbă, după port.

– Tu eşti Mircea?

– Da-mpărate!

– Am venit să mi te-nchini,

De nu, schimb a ta coroană într-o ramură de spini.

– Orice gând ai, împărate, şi oricum vei fi sosit,

Cât suntem încă pe pace, eu îţi zic: Bine-ai venit!

Despre partea închinării însă, Doamne, să ne ierţi;

Dar acu vei vrea cu oaste şi război ca să ne cerţi,

Ori vei vrea să faci întoarsă de pe-acuma a ta cale,

Să ne dai un semn şi nouă de mila Măriei tale…

De-o fi una, de-o fi alta… Ce e scris şi pentru noi,

Bucuroşi le-om duce toate, de e pace, de-i război.

– Cum? Când lumea mi-e deschisă, a privi gândeşti că pot

Ca întreg Aliotmanul să se-mpiedice de-un ciot?

O, tu nici visezi, bătrâne, câţi în cale mi s-au pus!

Toată floarea cea vestită a întregului Apus,

Tot ce stă în umbra crucii, împăraţi şi regi s-adună

Să dea piept cu uraganul ridicat de semilună.

S-a-mbrăcat în zale lucii cavalerii de la Malta,

Papa cu-a lui trei coroane, puse una peste alta,

Fulgerele adunat-au contra fulgerului care

În turbarea-i furtunoasă a cuprins pământ şi mare.

N-au avut decât cu ochiul ori cu mâna semn a face,

Şi Apusul îşi împinse toate neamurile-ncoace;

Pentru-a crucii biruinţă se mişcară râuri-râuri,

Ori din codri răscolite, ori stârnite din pustiuri;

Zguduind din pace-adâncă ale lumii începuturi,

Înnegrind tot orizontul cu-a lor zeci de mii de scuturi,

Se mişcau îngrozitoare ca păduri de lănci şi săbii,

Tremura înspăimântată marea de-ale lor corăbii!…

La Nicopole văzut-ai câte tabere s-au strâns

Ca să steie înainte-mi ca şi zidul neînvins.

Când văzui a lor mulţime, câtă frunză, câtă iarbă,

Cu o ură ne’mpăcată mi-am şoptit atunci în barbă,

Am jurat ca peste dânşii să trec falnic, fără păs,

Din pristolul de la Roma să dau calului ovăs…

Şi de crunta-mi vijelie tu te aperi c-un toiag?

Şi, purtat de biruinţă, să mă-mpiedec de-un moşneag?

– De-un moşneag, da, împărate, căci moşneagul ce priveşti

Nu e om de rând, el este domnul Ţării Româneşti.

Eu nu ţi-aş dori vrodată să ajungi să ne cunoşti,

Nici ca Dunărea să-nece spumegând a tale oşti.

După vremuri mulţi veniră, începând cu acel oaspe,

Ce din vechi se pomeneşte, cu Dariu a lui Istaspe;

Mulţi durară, după vremuri, peste Dunăre vrun pod,

De-au trecut cu spaima lumii şi mulţime de norod;

Împăraţi pe care lumea nu putea să-i mai încapă

Au venit şi-n ţara noastră de-au cerut pământ şi apă –

Şi nu voi ca să mă laud, nici că voi să te-nspăimânt,

Cum veniră, se făcură toţi o apă ş-un pământ.

Te făleşti că înainte-ţi răsturnat-ai valvârtej

Oştile leite-n zale de-mpăraţi şi de viteji?

Tu te lauzi că Apusul înainte ţi s-a pus?…

Ce-i mâna pe ei în luptă, ce-au voit acel Apus?

Laurii voiau să-i smulgă de pe funtea ta de fier,

A credinţei biruinţă căta orice cavaler.

Eu? Îmi apăr sărăcia şi nevoile şi neamul…

Şi de-aceea tot ce mişcă-n ţara asta, râul, ramul,

Mi-e prieten numai mie, iară ţie duşman este,

Duşmănit vei fi de toate, făr-a prinde chiar de veste;

N-avem oşti, dară iubirea de moşie e un zid

Care nu se-nfiorează de-a ta faimă, Baiazid!

Şi abia plecă bătrânul… Ce mai freamăt, ce mai zbucium!

Codrul clocoti de zgomot şi de arme şi de bucium,

Iar la poala lui cea verde mii de capete pletoase,

Mii de coifuri lucitoare ies din umbra-ntunecoasă;

Călăreţii umplu câmpul şi roiesc după un semn

Şi în caii lor sălbatici bat cu scările de lemn,

Pe copite iau în fugă faţa negrului pământ,

Lănci scânteie lungi în soare, arcuri se întind în vânt,

Şi ca nouri de aramă şi ca ropotul de grindeni,

Orizontu-ntunecându-l, vin săgeţi de pretutindeni,

Vâjâind ca vijelia şi ca plesnetul de ploaie…

Urlă câmpul şi de tropot şi de strigăt de bătaie.

În zadar striga-mpăratul ca şi leul în turbare,

Umbra morţii se întinde tot mai mare şi mai mare;

În zadar flamura verde o ridică înspre oaste,

Căci cuprinsă-i de pieire şi în faţă şi în coaste,

Căci se clatină rărite şiruri lungi de bătălie;

Cad asabii ca şi pâlcuri risipite pe câmpie,

În genunchi cădeau pedestri, colo caii se răstoarnă,

Când săgeţile în valuri, care şuieră, se toarnă

Şi, lovind în faţă,-n spate, ca şi crivăţul şi gerul,

Pe pământ lor li se pare că se năruie tot cerul…

Mircea însuşi mână-n luptă vijelia-ngrozitoare,

Care vine, vine, vine, calcă totul în picioare;

Durduind soseau călării ca un zid înalt de suliţi,

Printre cetele păgâne trec rupându-şi large uliţi;

Risipite se-mprăştie a duşmanilor şiraguri,

Şi gonind biruitoare tot veneau a ţării steaguri,

Ca potop ce prăpădeşte, ca o mare turburată –

Peste-un ceas păgânătatea e ca pleava vânturată.

Acea grindin-oţelită înspre Dunăre o mână,

Iar în urma lor se-ntinde falnic armia română.

Pe când oastea se aşează, iată soarele apune,

Voind creştetele nalte ale ţării să-ncunune

Cu un nimb de biruinţă; fulger lung încremenit

Mărgineşte munţii negri în întregul asfinţit,

Pân’ ce izvorăsc din veacuri stele una câte una

Şi din neguri, dintre codri, tremurând s-arată luna:

Doamna mărilor ş-a nopţii varsă linişte şi somn.

Lângă cortu-i, unul dintre fiii falnicului domn

Sta zâmbind de-o amintire, pe genunchi scriind o carte,

S-o trimiţă dragei sale, de la Argeş mai departe:

“De din vale de Rovine

Grăim, Doamnă, către Tine,

Nu din gură, ci din carte,

Că ne eşti aşa departe.

Te-am ruga, mări, ruga

Să-mi trimiţi prin cineva

Ce-i mai mândru-n valea Ta:

Codrul cu poienele,

Ochii cu sprâncenele;

Că şi eu trimite-voi

Ce-i mai mândru pe la noi:

Oastea mea cu flamurile,

Codrul şi cu ramurile,

Coiful nalt cu penele,

Ochii cu sprâncenele.

Şi să ştii că-s sănătos,

Că, mulţămind lui Cristos,

Te sărut, Doamnă, frumos.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

De-aşa vremi se-nvredniciră cronicarii şi rapsozii;

Veacul nostru ni-l umplură saltimbancii şi irozii…

În izvoadele bătrâne pe eroi mai pot să caut;

Au cu lira visătoare ori cu sunete de flaut

Poţi să-ntâmpini patrioţii ce-au venit de-atunci încolo?

Înaintea acestora tu ascunde-te, Apollo!

O, eroi! care-n trecutul de măriri vă adumbriseţi,

Aţi ajuns acum de modă de vă scot din letopiseţ,

Şi cu voi drapându-şi nula, vă citează toţi nerozii,

Mestecând veacul de aur în noroiul greu al prozii.

Rămâneţi în umbră sfântă, Basarabi şi voi Muşatini,

Descălecători de ţară, dătători de legi şi datini,

Ce cu plugul şi cu spada aţi întins moşia voastră

De la munte pân’ la mare şi la Dunărea albastră.

Au prezentul nu ni-i mare? N-o să-mi dea ce o să cer?

N-o să aflu într-ai noştri vre un falnic juvaer?

Au la Sybaris nu suntem lângă capiştea spoielii?

Nu se nasc glorii pe stradă şi la uşa cafenelii,

N-avem oameni ce se luptă cu retoricele suliţi

În aplauzele grele a canaliei de uliţi,

Panglicari în ale ţării, care joacă ca pe funii,

Măşti cu toate de renume din comedia minciunii?

Au de patrie, virtute, nu vorbeşte liberalul,

De ai crede că viaţa-i e curată ca cristalul?

Nici visezi că înainte-ţi stă un stâlp de cafenele,

Ce îşi râde de-aste vorbe îngânându-le pe ele.

Vezi colo pe uriciunea fără suflet, fără cuget,

Cu privirea-mpăroşată şi la fălci umflat şi buget,

Negru, cocoşat şi lacom, un izvor de şiretlicuri,

La tovarăşii săi spune veninoasele-i nimicuri;

Toţi pe buze-având virtute, iar în ei monedă calpă,

Chintesenţă de mizerii de la creştet până-n talpă.

Şi deasupra tuturora, oastea să şi-o recunoască,

Îşi aruncă pocitura bulbucaţii ochi de broască…

Dintr-aceştia ţara noastră îşi alege astăzi solii!

Oameni vrednici ca să şază în zidirea sfintei Golii,

În cămeşi cu mâneci lunge şi pe capete scufie,

Ne fac legi şi ne pun biruri, ne vorbesc filosofie.

Patrioţii! Virtuoşii, ctitori de aşezăminte,

Unde spumegă desfrâul în mişcări şi în cuvinte,

Cu evlavie de vulpe, ca în strane, şed pe locuri

Şi aplaudă frenetic schime, cântece şi jocuri…

Şi apoi în sfatul ţării se adun să se admire

Bulgăroi cu ceafa groasă, grecotei cu nas subţire;

Toate mutrele acestea sunt pretinse de roman,

Toată greco-bulgărimea e nepoata lui Traian!

Spuma asta-nveninată, astă plebe, ăst gunoi

Să ajung-a fi stăpână şi pe ţară şi pe noi!

Tot ce-n ţările vecine e smintit şi stârpitură,

Tot ce-i însemnat cu pata putrejunii de natură,

Tot ce e perfid şi lacom, tot Fanarul, toţi iloţii,

Toţi se scurseră aicea şi formează patrioţii,

Încât fonfii şi flecarii, găgăuţii şi guşaţii,

Bâlbâiţi cu gura strâmbă sunt stăpânii astei naţii!

Voi sunteţi urmaşii Romei? Nişte răi şi nişte fameni!

I-e ruşine omenirii să vă zică vouă oameni!

Şi această ciumă-n lume şi aceste creaturi

Nici ruşine n-au să ieie în smintitele lor guri

Gloria neamului nostru spre-a o face de ocară,

Îndrăznesc ca să rostească pân’ şi numele tău… ţară!

La Paris, în lupanare de cinismu şi de lene,

Cu femeile-i pierdute şi-n orgiile-i obscene,

Acolo v-aţi pus averea, tinereţele la stos…

Ce a scos din voi Apusul, când nimic nu e de scos?

Ne-aţi venit apoi, drept minte o sticluţă de pomadă,

Cu monoclu-n ochi, drept armă beţişor de promenadă,

Vestejiţi fără de vreme, dar cu creieri de copil,

Drept ştiinţ-având în minte vre un vals de Bal-Mabil,

Iar în schimb cu-averea toată vrun papuc de curtezană…

O, te-admir, progenitură de origine romană!

Şi acum priviţi cu spaimă faţa noastră sceptic-rece,

Vă miraţi cum de minciuna astăzi nu vi se mai trece?

Când vedem că toţi aceia care vorbe mari aruncă

Numai banul îl vânează şi câştigul fără muncă,

Azi, când fraza lustruită nu ne poate înşela,

Astăzi alţii sunt de vină, domnii mei, nu este-aşa?

Prea v-aţi atătat arama sfâşiind această ţară,

Prea făcurăţi neamul nostru de ruşine şi ocară,

Prea v-aţi bătut joc de limbă, de străbuni şi obicei,

Ca să nu s-arate-odată ce sunteţi – nişte mişei!

Da, câştigul fără muncă, iată singura pornire;

Virtutea? e-o nerozie; Geniul? o nefericire.

Dar lăsaţi măcar strămoşii ca să doarmă-n colb de cronici;

Din trecutul de mărire v-ar privi cel mult ironici.

Cum nu vii tu, Ţepeş doamne, ca punând mâna pe ei,

Să-i împarţi în două cete: în smintiţi şi în mişei,

Şi în două temniţi large cu de-a sila să-i aduni,

Să dai foc la puşcărie şi la casa de nebuni!

Leonard Cohen ~ Dance Me To The End Of Love – Tango Scene Al Pacino and Gabrielle Anwar – Scent of a Woman (1992), great songs/interpretations


Leonard Cohen ~ Dance Me To The End Of Love

Leonard Cohen – Take This Waltz [Official Music Video], great songs/interpretations


Leonard Cohen – Take This Waltz [Official Music Video]

 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 
 
 
 

A lot of Love, poetic thought by George B. (the smudge and other poems Page) inspired and with dedication to ‘Como Agua Para Chocolate’, by the Mexican novelist Laura Esquivel


Lots of Love, poetic thought by George B.
(the smudge and other poems Page)

She first mixed the ingredients,
then added salt and sweat,
and other delicate things to the dough
she mixed and beat, and slammed and slammed
with powerful fists,
before

rolling
flattening
spreading the dough
on whole the top of the  board –
she did that many time…

Now  it all became quiet,
a quiet wait while

inside that silence the yeast was waking up the dough , 
engulfed in the mixture,
almost…ready to burst…

the oven preheated,

“time to open the gates to the baking heat”, she thought…

the moist heat of the oven –
time to release the moisture within –

let it float,
once more all around,  free,  in the boxed heat.

Now, all that was left was…cookies….while,
still very special, 

cookies,

with a sprinkle of Cinnamon
nutmeg
trace of… cloves
and  lots of love.

– George-B.

Inspired, and with dedication to Mexican novelist Laura Esquivel,   and her popular  novel Like Water for Chocolate (Spanish: Como agua para chocolate), the  popular novel published in 1989,  and the amazing magical realism by which  food is  one of the major themes in the story which is seen throughout the story. It is used very creatively to represent the characters feelings and situations.

Copyright © 2015 [George Bost]. All Rights Reserved.

 

Leonard Cohen: Alexandra Leaving – with Sharon Robinson, great songs/interpretation


Leonard Cohen: Alexandra Leaving – with Sharon Robinson

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked—
Do not choose a coward’s explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect,

You who were bewildered by a meaning,
whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Related articles

Leonard Cohen – The Book of Longing


The Book of Longing - Cover and page 1- 2_FotoSketcher
The Book of Longing – Cover and page 1 – Copy-1_FotoSketcher (click to enlarge)

from  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/3655546/Poems-by-Leonard-Cohen.html


The book of longing


I can’t make the hills

The system is shot
I’m living on pills
For which I thank G-d
I followed the course
From chaos to art
Desire the horse
Depression the cart
I sailed like a swan
I sank like a rock
But time is long gone
Past my laughing stock
My page was too white
My ink was too thin
The day wouldn’t write
What the night pencilled in
My animal howls
My angel’s upset
But I’m not allowed
A trace of regret
For someone will use
What I couldn’t be
My heart will be hers
Impersonally
She’ll step on the path
She’ll see what I mean
My will cut in half
And freedom between
For less than a second
Our lives will collide
The endless suspended
The door open wide
Then she will be born
To someone like you
What no one has done
She’ll continue to do
I know she is coming
I know she will look
And that is the longing
And this is the book

Leonard Cohen, Ghent, Alexandra Leaving 15-8-2012, (from the Book of Longing)


ALEXANDRA LEAVING, from Leonard Cohen’s ‘T h e B o o k o f L o n g i n g’


ALEXANDRA LEAVING,
from Leonard Cohen‘s

T h e  B o o k  o f  L o n g i n g

Leonard Cohen - Alexandra Leaving -The Book of longing_FotoSketcher_FotoSketcher

Leonard Cohen – Alexandra Leaving -The Book of Longing_FotoSketcher_FotoSketcher (Click to enlarge)

The song Alexandra Leaving on
Ten New Songs is based on this poem.

(based on The God Abandons Antony,
a poem by Constantine P. Cavafy)

Suddenly the night has grown colder.
Some deity preparing to depart.
Alexandra hoisted on his shoulder,
they slip between the sentries of your heart.

Upheld by the simplicities of pleasure,
they gain the light, they formlessly entwine;
and radiant beyond your widest measure
they fall among the voices and the wine.

lt’s not a trick, your senses all deceiving,
a fitful dream the morning will exhaust—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving,
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin.
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined,
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for this to happen,
Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing.
Your first commitments tangible again.

You who had the honor of her evening,
And by that honor had your own restored—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Alexandra leaving with her lord.

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked—
Do not choose a coward’s explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect,

You who were bewildered by a meaning,
whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Hydra, Greece
September 1999

Thinking of a song: Bob Dylan – I Pity The Poor Immigrant Great song and lyrics


I Pity the Poor Immigrant

thinking of a song: Leonard Cohen & U2 : Tower Of Song (I’m your man), QUOTE: “And all the bridges are burning that we might have crossed But I feel so close to everything that we lost We’ll never, we’ll never have to lose it again”


Leonard Cohen & U2 : Tower Of Song

Of Ill Deeds, poetic thought by George-B (the smudge and other poems page)


Of  Ill Deeds, poetic thought by George-B
(the smudge and other poems page)

The answers are within protected by the shell – viscera
life is  so strong so death is not thought of-
hatred makes victims somewhere outside,
in  coward devotion, hatred makes drum-roll to tormented minds: 
cowardice attacks
the innocent

weak
feeble
the sick
the innocent – how else to hurt
life
hope
a smile
a tear of joy
but by denying their right to exist.

So mortal of spirit in hatred collects
pain for redemption,
immortality
promised by the  master of hatred and lies- promises of  golden stars,
untouched things…
the hater of life maladjusted,  the exception
is promised things by the master of lies.

-George-B.

Copyright © 2015 [George Bost]. All Rights Reserved.

Of Human Fishes, poetic thought by George-B ( the Smudge and Other Poems Page)


Of Human Fishes, poetic thought by George-B
( the Smudge and Other Poems Page)

The human fish is hungry
the human fish is focused on the pray –
the rest of the humans,

fish of no fish, flash, flash,
the human fish knows only teeth, and jaw,
and carnage is written
in the cartilaginous, sacrilegious lack of bone in the backbone
the human fish can’t learn and hates it,
can’t laughs and loves it

the human fish: hurts and takes and
makes reason for that,

the human fish  that time leaves unchanged,
generation in – generation out
it’s just a mass of non-evolving flash,
flash in – flash out, the human fish, the shark inside
the mindless, mind, that’s not evolving.

– George-B

Copyright © 2015 [George-B]. All Rights Reserved.

My Island, poetic thought by George-B (the Smudge and other poems page)


My Island, poetic thought by George-B
(the Smudge and other poems page)


surrounded by water,

my island, migrates,
with the eons of shifting of tectonic plates.

I was way across, at one time,
I may have very well circled the world,
while moving not an inch,
from my island surrounded by waters.

– George-B ©

hello

just a thought: ‘Life – once you got the taste of it….’


just a thought: ‘Life – once you got the taste of it, you’re hooked for … life.
-© George-B.

on beautiful minds, poetic thought by George-B (the Smudge and other poems page)


On Beautiful Minds, poetic thought by George-B
(the Smudge and other poems)


beautiful minds are in search of bodies

beautiful minds are dressed in starry thoughts

beautiful minds will shy at the glamor of stage,
beautiful minds have stage fright
beautiful minds perform best in a choir,
beautiful minds sing together, are harmonic, beautiful minds.

Oh, the beauty of the beautiful minds embodied in the bodies of beautiful minds.

Beautiful minds do not fear the ridicule, yes, beautiful minds care just for love, love they care for, is their sole protection
against the eye of ridicule,

ridicule that knows no blacklist, blacklists don’t apply
in the search for subjects of ridicule…,
or other life and death occurrences.

Oh the innocence of beautiful minds.

-©George-B. All Rights Reserved

frida-kahlo-abrazoamoroso1949