September, 2015
Alone
POSTED IN classic poetry September 8, 2015
AloneFrom childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Edgar Allan Poe
Do not stand at my grave and weep / Sa nu plangi la mormantul meu
POSTED IN translated English-Romanian September 8, 2015
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Sa nu plangi la mormantul meu.
Nu zac acolo in somn greu.
Sunt mii de vanturi respirand.
Sunt diamant de nea, lucind.
Sunt soarele din coptul grau.
Sunt ploaia Toamnei, tandru brau.
In dimineti, cand te trezesti,
iti sunt o soapta la feresti,
de pasari prinse-n zbor tacut.
O stea lucind in noapte-ti sunt.Sa nu plangi la al meu zenit.
Nu sunt acolo. N-am murit.
Romanian version, Maria Magdalena Biela
i carry your heart with me / iti port inima cu mine
POSTED IN translated English-Romanian September 8, 2015
i carry your heart with me / iti port inima cu minei carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars aparti carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
e.e.cummings
………………………………………………………………………………………
Iti port inima cu mine (o port in inima mea)
Nu raman niciodata fara ea (oriunde
merg eu, si tu mergi , draga mea; si orice e facut
doar de mine este si fapta ta, iubito)
Nu ma tem
de soarta (caci tu-mi esti soarta, dulcea mea)nu vreaunici o lume (pentru ca, frumoaso, tu esti lumea mea, adevarata mea)
si tu esti tot ceea ce luna a insemnat vreodata
si tot ceea ce soarele va canta vreodata esti tu.
asta-i cea mai ascunsa taina, ce nimeni n-o cunoaste
(asta-i radacina radacinilor si mugurul mugurilor
si cerul cerurilor unui copac numit viata; ce crestemai sus decat sufletul poate spera ori mintea se poate ascunde)
si asta-i minunea care desparte stea de stea.Iti port inima (o port in inima mea).
Romanian version, Maria Magdalena Biela
i carry your heart with me
POSTED IN classic poetry September 7, 2015
i carry your heart with mei carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars aparti carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
e.e.cummings
The Ballerina
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 7, 2015
The BallerinaThe light kissed their faces
Heaven’s hue through which it shown
An empty stage apart from her alone.
She needs no music, and stutters a breath
Her once stable ankles surrender and creath.
The silence is deafening
She feels so alone
On this worn old stage that she still calls her home.
Her dance is pure instinct,
and comes quickly with
Their judgement nearly brings her down to her knees.
Though they still stare, calculating and cold
Upset that she doesn’t fit into their perfect mould.
That smile, too big.
Those legs too long
Everything about her is perfectly wrong
She tries to continue,
hold her chin up
But the pressure is too much,
and she ceases to try.
Her dance is over,
she takes her bow
Her confident front is over now
She turns her back to her ghostly crowd,
She’ll hold in her tears, she’s far too proud
Walking away is the hardest part,
But no amount of applause can heal this broken heart.Celine Brielle
Old Irish Blessing
POSTED IN classic poetry September 4, 2015
Old Irish Blessing!Cheers!
Try to remember
POSTED IN classic poetry September 3, 2015
Try to rememberTry to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow, follow.Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow
Try to remember the time of September
When love was an ember about to billow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow, follow.Deep in December It’s nice to remember
Although you know the snow will follow
Deep in December It’s nice to remember
The fire of September that made us mellow
Deep in December our hearts should remember
And follow, follow, follow…
Tom Jones
Un perro ha muerto / A dog has died
POSTED IN classic poetry September 3, 2015
Un perro ha muerto
Mi perro ha muerto.
Lo enterré en el jardín
junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.Allí, no más abajo,
ni más arriba,
se juntará conmigo alguna vez.
Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,
su mala educación, su nariz iría.
Y yo, materialista que no cree
en el celeste cielo prometido
para ningún humano,
para este perro o para todo perro
creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo
donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera
ondulando su cola de abanico
para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra
de no tenerlo más por compañero,
que para mí jamás fue un servidor.Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo
que conservaba su soberanía,
la amistad de una estrella independienre
sin más intimidad que la precisa,
sin exageraciones:
no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario
llenándome de pelos o de sarna,
no se frotaba contra mi rodilla
como otros perros obsesos sexuales.
No, mi perro me miraba
dándome la atención que necesito,
la atención necesaria
para hacer comprender a un vanidoso
que siendo perro él,
con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,
perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba
con la mirada que me reservó
toda su dulce, su peluda vida,
su silenciosa vida,
cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,
y sin pedirme nada.Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola
andando junto a él por las orillas
del mar, en el invierno de Isla Negra,
en la gran soledad: arriba el aire
traspasado de pájaros glaciales,
y mi perro brincando, hirsuto, lleno
de voltaje marino en movimiento:
mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio
enarbolando su cola dorada
frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.Alegre, alegre, alegre
como los perros saben ser felices,
sin nada más, con el absolutismo
de la naturaleza descarada.No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerco.
Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.
Pablo Neruda
…………………………………………….
A Dog Has DiedMy dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he’d keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea’s movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean’s spray.Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.
Pablo Neruda
