Category Archives: Poetry, Poets, Writers

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)



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.



Song Offerings
A collection of prose translations
made by the author from
the original Bengali
With an introduction by

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.’

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.


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


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)

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)


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.


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!


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


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
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


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,
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:

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,

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, 


with a sprinkle of Cinnamon
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)


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
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’

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

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

So mortal of spirit in hatred collects
pain for redemption,
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.


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 ©


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


Leonard Cohen Live – A Thousand Kisses Deep: “…a light that doesn’t need to live,and doesn’t need to die…”

Leonard Cohen Live – A Thousand Kisses Deep

Mihail Sadoveanu citeşte din Mihai Eminescu:”Sara pe deal” (momente magice pe YouTube!)

Mihail Sadoveanu citeşte din Mihai Eminescu:”Sara pe deal”

Mihail Eminescu: Sara pe deal – Eve on the hill – MADRIGAL Chorus, Great compositions/performances

Seara pe deal - Mihail Eminescu-1

Seara pe deal – Mihail Eminescu-1

Mihail Eminescu: Sara pe deal – Eve on the hill – MADRIGAL Chorus

Eminescu, mai aredelean decât îl lasă istoria să fie – Buna Ziua Fagaras (Pe linga plopii fara sot cu Maria Raaducanu si Maxim Belciug)

Joi, 15 ianuarie, se vor împlini 165 de ani de la naşterea poetului şi gazetarului Mihai Eminescu.

Profesorul făgărăşean Ion Funariu a făcut cercetări pe vremea când era dascăl la ,,Radu Negru” şi a scris o carte în care publică informaţii uluitoare despre poet. Se pare că strămoşii lui Mihai Eminescu sunt ardeleni get-beget proveniţi din inima Ţării Făgăraşului, mai exact satul Vad, comuna Şercaia.

via Eminescu, mai aredelean decât îl lasă istoria să fie – Buna Ziua Fagaras.

Maria Raducanu & Maxim Belciug – Pe langa plopii fara sot (Guilelm Sorban / Mihai Eminescu)

Caught up in time, poetic thought by George-B (the smudge and other poems page)

Caught up in time, poetic thought by George-B
(the smudge and other poems page)

time starts to be appeasing: it weighs 26 hours and 35 minutes.

I do recall another line,
long ago,
when time was light and swift as a mountain river,
fluid, well…

I guess time is taking its time lately so even I can catch-up with.

the persistance of memory-Salvador Dali

the persistence of memory-Salvador Dali


Eu Rîd, gand poetic de George-B (the smudge and other poems)

Eu Rîd, gand poetic de George-B
(the smudge and other poems)

Mi s-a piedut cheia de acasa,
am pierdut cheia de la moara mea

am pierdut cheia de la masina,
de la barca cu moror,
am pierdur vaslele.
am pierdut duplicatul cheilor de mai sus,
si cine stie cate alte chei si duplicatele lor:  le-am pierdut!,
le-am jelit,
am tinut post dupa post,
parastase de 40 de zile, cu popmana, si coliva,
cu vanilie si nucsoara,
ca avem nucsoara acum, ce n-aveam inainte
noi copiii, generatiei fara speranta.

am pierdut cheia timpului si-a rostului lui – a timpului trecut…

acum pot sa spun: tot ce-a fost pierdut nimicu-i
in cumpana cu ce inca am sa pierd: si de-aceea rîd
cu gura pana la urechi eu rîd.

© George-B.

Mihai Eminescu – Somnoroase pasarele ( Madrigal )

Mihai Eminescu – Somnoroase pasarele ( Madrigal )