Somnambule Ballad

Somnambule Ballad

Green, how much I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship upon the sea
and the horse in the mountain.
With the shadow on her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
and eyes of cold silver.
Green, how much I want you green.
Beneath the gypsy moon,
all things look at her
but she cannot see them.

Green, how much I want you green.
Great stars of white frost
come with the fish of darkness
that opens the road of dawn.
the fig tree rubs the wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the mountain, a filching cat,
bristles its bitter aloes.
But who will come? and from where?
She lingers on her balcony,
green flesh, hair of green,
dreaming of the bitter sea.

—Friend, I want to change
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket,
Friend, I come bleeding,
from the passes of Cabra.
—If I could, young man,
this pact would be sealed.
But I am no more I,
nor is my house now my house.
—Friend, I want to die
decently in my bed,
Of iron, if it be possible,
with sheets of fine holland.
Do you not see the wound I have
from my breast to my throat?
—Your white shirt bears
three hundred dark roses.
Your pungent blood oozes
around your sash.
But I am no more I,
nor is my house now my house.
—Let me climb at least
up to the high balustrade:
let me come! Let me come!
up to the green balustrades.
Balustrades of the moon
where the water resounds.

Now the two friends go up
towards the high balustrades.
Leaving a trail of blood,
leaving a trail of tears,
Small lanterns of tin
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
were piercing the dawn.

Green, how much I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends went up.
The long wind was leaving
in the mouth a strange taste
of gall, mint and sweet-basil.
Friend! Where is she, tell me,
where is your bitter girl?
How often she waited for you!
How often did she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!

Over the face of the cistern
the gypsy girl swayed.
Green flesh, hair of green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of the moon
suspends her above the water.
The night became as intimate
as a little square.
Drunken civil guards
were knocking at the door.
Green, how much I want you green,
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship upon the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

"Federico Gacia Lorca"

Hey people!!!

Hey, you happy people
who are sitting on the shore safe and sound,
with smiles on your face,
someone is drowning in the sea,
someone is constantly struggling
in this dark, heavy, angry sea, that you know it well.
You are extremly happy
when you believe that you are enemy free,
When you think in vain that you've given a hand to a weak person,
to eleminate their weekness,
When you tighten your belts,
When, when, when?
When shall I tell you
that someone is drowning in the sea
and is sacrificing in vain?
Hey, you people over there
who are sitting carelessly on the shore,
with delicious foods on your table,
wearing nice and couzy clothing,
someone is calling you from the sea.
He beats the heavy wave with his tired hand,
his mouth agape, eyes torn wide with terror,
he has seen your shadows from far away,
has swallowed water in the dark blue deep,
each moment his impatience grows more and more.
He waives from the sea
with his arm, at times,
and at times, with his head...
Hey you people there,
he still has his eyes on this old world from a far,
he's shouting and hopes for help.
Hey you people
who are calmly watching from the shore,
the wave beats on the silent shore,
spreads like a drunk fallen on his bed unconscious,
recedes with a roar, and this call comes from afar again:
Hey, you people on the shore...

And the sound of the wind
more heart-rending by the moment,
and his voice gets weaker almost lost in the sounds of the wind;
from waters near and far
again this call is heard:
Hey, you peolpe on the shore...

By: Nima Youshij

Translated by: Julius D.

Wounds

I have been wounded so often and so painfully,
dragging my way home at the merest crawl,
impaled not only by malicious tongues-
one can be wounded even by a petal.

And I myself have wounded-quite unwittingly-
with casual tenderness while passing by,
and later someone felt the pain,
it was like walking barefoot over the ice.

So why do I step upon the ruins
of those most near and dear to me,
I, who can be so simply and so sharply wounded
and can wound others with such deadly ease?

Vincent Van Gogh – Starry Night (1889)

Notice how Van Gogh’s ”painterly” use of dark and light blue brush strokes creates a swirling dramatic atmosphere, emphasizing the yellow stars and moon to create an active and intense night sky. Van Gogh frequently contrasted complementary colors to achieve this effect.

unmistakable

Any time, anywhere, any place
you could be anyone today
maybe I will recognize you on a crowded street
maybe you'll take me by surprise
will you be the one I had in mind


There! come a day
when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
how can I be sure
that you're the one I'm waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

people say watch your life through a glass
desperately waiting on a chance
I know you're out there
holding in holding out for me
how do I to know the time is right
what if you're here and I'm just blind


there! come a day

when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
baby how can I be sure
that you're the one am waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

how can I know a song I never heard
how will I know your voice when you haven't said a word
how do I know how this will end
before we began ( before we began )


there come a day
when you walk out of my dreams
face to face
like I'm imagining
how can I be sure
that you're the one am waiting for
will you be
unmistakable

مهتاب Moonlight

بی تو، مهتاب شبی باز از آن کوچه گذشتم

همه تن، چشم شدم خیره به دنبال تو گشتم،

شوق دیدار تو لبریز شد از جام وجودم،

شدم آن عاشق دیوانه که بودم.

در نهانخانه ی جانم یادِ تو درخشید

باغِ صد خاطره خندید

عطرصد خاطره پیچید



یادم آمد که شبی با هم از آن کوچه گذشتیم

پرگشودیم و در آن خلوت دل خواسته گشتیم

ساعتی برلب آن جوی نشستیم



تو همه رازِ جهان ریخته در جشمِ سیاهت

من همه محو تماشای نگاهت



آسمان صاف و شب آرام

بخت خندان و زمان رام

خوشه ی ماه فروریخته در آب

شاخه ها دست برآورده به مهتاب

شب و صحرا و گل و سنگ

همه دل داده به آواز شباهنگ...



یادم آید : تو به من گفتی :

«از این عشق حذر کن!

لحظه ای چند بر این آب نظر کن،

آب، آیینه ی عشق گذران است

تو که امروز نگاهت به نگاهی نگران است

باش فردا، که دلت با دگران است.

تا فراموش کنی، چندی از این شهر سفر کن!»



با تو گفتم:

«حذر عشق ؟ حذر از عشق ؟ - ندانم

سفر از پیش تو ؟ هرگز نتوانم ،

نتوانم !



روز اول که دل من به تمنای تو پر زد،

چون کبوتر، لبِ بامِ تو نشستم ،

تو به من سنگ زدی ، من نه رمیدم، نه گسستم»



باز گفتم که : « تو صیادی و من آهوی دشتم

تا به دام تو درافتم ، همه جا گشتم و گشتم

حذر از عشق ندانم

سفر از پیش تو هرگز نتوانم، نتوانم....!



اشکی از شاخه فروریخت

مرغ شب ، ناله ی تلخی زد و بگریخت!



اشک در چشم تو لرزید،

ماه بر عشق ِ تو خندید!

یادم آید که دگر از تو جوابی نشنیدم.

پای در دامن اندوه کشیدم،

نگسستم ، نرمیدم،





رفت در ظلمت غم، آن شب و شبهای دگر هم،

نگرفتی دگر از عاشق آزرده خبر هم ،

نکنی دیگر از آن کوچه گذر هم !



بی تو ، اما به چه حالی من از آن کوچه گذشتم!

Ballad of the Moon

The moon came in to the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.

The little boy stares at her, stares.
Stares hard!

In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows nude and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.

with a worry voice,
child said:
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies arrives,
they will make "necklaces and rings"
from your white heart.

"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they will find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight.
she replied;

"Moon, moon, moon, run!
"I can hear their horses coming"

Let it be, my little one,
don't step on my starched whiteness,
you are rouining it!!!

Drumming on the plain,
closer comes the the horsemen,

The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.

Through the olive grove
there! they come "the gypsies of dream and bronze"
with heads held high,
their eyelashes falls half asleep.

Oh, how wram and phonetic the night owl calls,
calls from its tree!

The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child on his hands.

They are crying in the forge,
Gypsies are crying and shouting.

The air, the air is veiwing all over, views all.
The air is at the viewing.

Fedrico Garcia Lorca
Translated by: J.D.
1/6/08

Alas love !!!

I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me no more,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember that
on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
.. ... ... ... ... ...,
.. .. ... ... .... ... ....,
in me ..... .. .... or ...,
.. ...,
... ... .... .. ...
without ... .

November 1st T.O.

Wondering!!!

wondering ... wondering
if you are
as sincere as cheating
as gallant as whining
as kind as lying
as valiant as hiding


wondering ... wondering
if love is
as furious as hatred
as scarlet as death
as fervent as bluntness
as plain as everyday

wondering
wondering

Oct. 27, Toronto 2 AM

Love Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

by: Pablo Neruda

Solidarity Song

Peoples of the world, together
Join to serve the common cause!
So it feeds us all for ever
See to it that it's now yours.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

Black or white or brown or yellow
Leave your old disputes behind.
Once start talking with your fellow
Men, you'll soon be of one mind.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

If we want to make this certain
We'll need you and your support.
It's yourselves you'll be deserting
if you rat your own sort.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

All the gang of those who rule us
Hope our quarrels never stop
Helping them to split and fool us
So they can remain on top.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

Workers of the world, uniting
Thats the way to lose your chains.
Mighty regiments now are fighting
That no tyrrany remains!

Forward, without forgetting
Till the concrete question is hurled
When starving or when eating:
Whose tomorrow is tomorrow?
And whose world is the world?

Bertolt Brecht

I want to go with the one I love

I want to go with the one I love.
I do not want to calculate the cost.
I do not want to think about whether it is good.
I do not want to know whether she loves me.
I want to go with the one I love.

J.D.

Anarchy

The World
The blue skies darken
Nations are poised on the edge
There is anarchy.

Careless Friendship

Care is the prelude to love
Love is the stitch that binds friends
Can there be love without caring?
Or with the lack of
The friendship falls.

My Gift To You

I live through my dark existence
only to bask in your beauty
your eyes that shine like sapphires
your smile that brightens even my sad existence
I envy the wind that runs through your hair
that touches your lips
I long to touch you
to hold you in my arms but I cannot
for your heart belongs to another
so, I can only love you from afar
your friendship means more to me
than anything this world provides
but like an angel you touched my heart
in a way that I've never felt before
cause I've never known what love is until this day
I know that we are only friends
but my heart wishes it to be more
so I will still hope and dream
that one day I can feel your lips pressed to mine
to hold you in my arms and say, "I love you"

Flag of the words

Now, here I am
standing on my feet
holding in my fist
this flag...
This bloody flag...
The flag of the WORDS.

* * * *

Here In the south
under the hot, young sunshine,
In the kingdom of the love and snare,
To set free my soul from me
I am walking towards myself.

* * * *

My songs are the songs of Crikets,
who are in love with the earth and moonlight.
The songs of the bees,
the bees that sucks the nectars
to fill up their hives.

* * * *

I don't know and I am not sure
What could I do more?
with these young veins on my arms
in the Land of the vein cutters!!!

But, I know with no hesitation
my hands are carrying a message
they are aware of their mission,
the mission who’s flag is in my hands.

And I am going to nail it down,
on the land of the sleepy heads,
on the field of the crosses,
on the hill of the Leprotic soules.

By: J.D.
Edited by: Branka D.

Existansialism

To exist as an individual, it is necessary to be withdrawn from the entire world. The individual then is aware of himself -- that he exists -- and this is the greatest and most terrible thing. Indeed, on one hand, the individual recognizes that he is created by God, and hence that he comes from nothing. But at the same time this is the most terrible thing, for to exist -- as the etymology of the word indicates -- is "to stand out," "to emerge from"; the finite existent being is detached from God. Thus I must recognize that my existence denotes a detachment, an opposition to God.
In consequence of this, my existence is in itself a mystery: on the one hand I cannot be non-existent, and on the other, my existence is bathed in sin; I exist, and I am necessarily a sinner. (Kierkegaard, as a Protestant, accepts the doctrine of Luther that man, inconsequence of the original fall, is essentially a sinner.)
The consciousness of this contradiction causes anguish, and anguish ends in despair -- the individual accepts existence as a mystery which he cannot hope to fathom. But because of the coincidence of opposites, from despair rises faith, and faith gives the individual the hope of redemption by means of grace. I abandon myself to the grace of God; I pray, and the prayer gives me the "pre-sentiment" that time will be changed into eternity and death into life.

Is this enough ...?
J.D.

THREE POEMS
PABLO NERUDA (1904-1973)


POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.



SADDEST POEM
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.



CLENCHED SOUL
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.