2009/12/28
the begger
it would be much easier if you offended me. lied to me. if you raised your voice, made fun of me. if you slapped me across the face.
but it seems you remembered the writer's words well: not acting is also an action in itself. so you just don't do anything at all.
one step forward: i'm gonna say it to you for i can't stand it.
one step back: i ain't gonna say nothing for it would be begging.
i'm humiliated to the marrow, i despise myself.
i say nothing, i can only hear it growing inside of me. and i take another silent answer of yours. i read the dregs to find out its meaning.
my tights are torn, my face is dirty. i don't wail any more, and i don't swing back and forth. i just watch the beautiful lady with her man leaving the church, i fix my eyes on my raised hand and watch carefully while noting falls into my palm.
wondering whether i'll survive the winter.
but it seems you remembered the writer's words well: not acting is also an action in itself. so you just don't do anything at all.
one step forward: i'm gonna say it to you for i can't stand it.
one step back: i ain't gonna say nothing for it would be begging.
i'm humiliated to the marrow, i despise myself.
i say nothing, i can only hear it growing inside of me. and i take another silent answer of yours. i read the dregs to find out its meaning.
my tights are torn, my face is dirty. i don't wail any more, and i don't swing back and forth. i just watch the beautiful lady with her man leaving the church, i fix my eyes on my raised hand and watch carefully while noting falls into my palm.
wondering whether i'll survive the winter.
2009/12/27
let the ladies speak for myself
I wish I had a river so long,
Teach my feet to fly high
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on.
Teach my feet to fly high
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on.
2009/12/26
24, full stop.
A weakling struggles in his gigantic little garments, execrates, makes threats, sobs. The world laughs hysterically. In the tenth row there's another one, just as small and weak; he watches the scene with a ball in his throat and a tear in his eye. He remains silent. For a short while he wants to scream his way through the cackle but he sinks before anyone has noticed anything. (The earth will spit him out with abomination later on, together with the scum.) Again and again, every day, in every village and in every town. ''Only the gentle are ever really strong'', said James Dean and died.
2009/12/25
Hughes, Szymborska
Ted Hughes - Drawing
Drawing calmed you. Your poker infernal pen
Was like a branding iron. Objects
Suffered into their new presence, tortured
Into final position. As you drew
I felt released, calm. Time opened
When you drew the market at Benidorm.
I sat near you, scribbling something.
Hours burned away. The stall-keepers
Kept coming to see you had them properly.
We sat on those steps, in our rope-soles,
And were happy. Our tourist novelty
Had worn off, we knew our own ways
Through the town’s runs. We were familiar
Foreign objects. When he’d sold his bananas
The banana seller gave us a solo
Violin performance on his banana stalk.
Everybody crowded to praise your drawing.
You drew doggedly on, arresting details,
Till you had the whole scene imprisoned.
Here it is. You rescued for ever
Our otherwise lost morning. Your patience,
Your lip-gnawing scowl, got the portrait
Of a market-place that still slept
In the Middle Ages. Just before
It woke and disappeared
Under the screams of a million summer migrants
And the cliff of dazzling hotels. As your hand
Went under Heptonstall to be held
By endless darkness. While my pen travels on
Only two hundred miles from your hand,
Holding this memory of your red, white-spotted bandanna,
Your short-sleeved jumper -
One of the thirty I lugged around Europe –
And your long brown legs, propping your pad,
And the contemplative calm
I drank from your concentrated quiet,
In this contemplative calm
Now I drink from your stillness that neither
Of us can disturb or escape.
Wisława Szymborska - The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word "woods."
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
[Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh]
Drawing calmed you. Your poker infernal pen
Was like a branding iron. Objects
Suffered into their new presence, tortured
Into final position. As you drew
I felt released, calm. Time opened
When you drew the market at Benidorm.
I sat near you, scribbling something.
Hours burned away. The stall-keepers
Kept coming to see you had them properly.
We sat on those steps, in our rope-soles,
And were happy. Our tourist novelty
Had worn off, we knew our own ways
Through the town’s runs. We were familiar
Foreign objects. When he’d sold his bananas
The banana seller gave us a solo
Violin performance on his banana stalk.
Everybody crowded to praise your drawing.
You drew doggedly on, arresting details,
Till you had the whole scene imprisoned.
Here it is. You rescued for ever
Our otherwise lost morning. Your patience,
Your lip-gnawing scowl, got the portrait
Of a market-place that still slept
In the Middle Ages. Just before
It woke and disappeared
Under the screams of a million summer migrants
And the cliff of dazzling hotels. As your hand
Went under Heptonstall to be held
By endless darkness. While my pen travels on
Only two hundred miles from your hand,
Holding this memory of your red, white-spotted bandanna,
Your short-sleeved jumper -
One of the thirty I lugged around Europe –
And your long brown legs, propping your pad,
And the contemplative calm
I drank from your concentrated quiet,
In this contemplative calm
Now I drink from your stillness that neither
Of us can disturb or escape.
Wisława Szymborska - The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word "woods."
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
[Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh]
2009/12/22
patiently
Like a satiated female cat that brings the game she hunted to put it on the doorstep. you give me your tears and tragedies. I already have a whole collection of dead bodies, my wardrobe won't close. I'm still waiting for you to come alone, without the ghosts of yours. so that I can put the boots on your feet, take you for a walk and buy some ice-cream. maybe we would even go dancing. it would be a warm summer night. like it was when I Met you for the first time. but for now, it's all right for my dream.
2009/12/20
this land is a wasteland.
it's a testimony to what never came to existence.
no matter how carefully you watch, you won't notice any silhouette, not a trace of any human activity.
in ten years time it might be Las Vegas or Saint Petersburg here.
or a forgotten hole at the back of beyond just as well.
it's probably no use waiting for the rain to fall, for wacky settlers or a goddamn miracle.
one should get down to work with their own hands.
it is daunting to see no-one by your side.
not knowing if it pays off at all.
it might well be that you're alone in this forever.
but then
how does it differ to what you're having now.
2009/12/18
hibernation mode
put me to sleep. inject me with amok. daze me. or make my love a reciprocated one and my home - a place that is mine. coldness kills very, very slowly.
2009/12/17
milky
winter nights are like milk obscured sky. I would give You snow from above if I could. the song plays in my head over & over again. I've got so much love in my tummy.
Your gaze
Your colour
I just die when I see
Your gaze
Your colour
I just die when I see
2009/12/15
childhood postcards
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
you're ill –
it's your fault.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
you've got an ache –
it's your fault.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
you're feeling said –
you brought yourself down.
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
there's something missing –
you didn't get it on time.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
you're alive.
blame yourself.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky!
your fault.
you're ill –
it's your fault.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
you've got an ache –
it's your fault.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
you're feeling said –
you brought yourself down.
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
there's something missing –
you didn't get it on time.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
you're alive.
blame yourself.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky!
your fault.
2009/12/13
Re: "the cold part"
come, my little yum-yum
do come in your night dream
it's were I'm always, always with You
and the wolves howl so far away that you can't tell it from the wind.
come.
do come in your night dream
it's were I'm always, always with You
and the wolves howl so far away that you can't tell it from the wind.
come.
Ted Hughes (IV)
"(...) There we were.
You were slim and lithe and smooth as a fish.
You were a new world. My new world.
So this is America, I marvelled.
Beautiful, beautiful America!"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
You were slim and lithe and smooth as a fish.
You were a new world. My new world.
So this is America, I marvelled.
Beautiful, beautiful America!"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
Ted Hughes (III)
"(...)
And I became aware of the misery
Of your lips, like nothing before in my life.
Their aboriginal thickness. And of your nose,
Broad and Apache, nearly as a boxer's nose,
Scorpio's obverse to the Semitic eagle
That made every camera your enemy,
The jailor of your vanity, the traitor
In your Sexual Dreams Incorporated,
Nose from Attila's horde: a prototype face
That could have looked up at me through the smoke
Of a Navajo campfire. And your small temples
Into which your hair-roots crowded, upstaged
By that glamorous, fashionable bang.
And your little chin, your Pisces chin.
It was never a face in itself. Never the same.
It was like the sea's face - a stage
For weathers and currents, the sun's play and the moon's.
Never a face until that final morning
When it became the face of a child - its scar
Like a Maker's flaw. But now you declaimed
A long poem about a black panther
While I held you and kissed you and tried to keep you
From flying about the room. For all that,
You would not stay.
(...)"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
And I became aware of the misery
Of your lips, like nothing before in my life.
Their aboriginal thickness. And of your nose,
Broad and Apache, nearly as a boxer's nose,
Scorpio's obverse to the Semitic eagle
That made every camera your enemy,
The jailor of your vanity, the traitor
In your Sexual Dreams Incorporated,
Nose from Attila's horde: a prototype face
That could have looked up at me through the smoke
Of a Navajo campfire. And your small temples
Into which your hair-roots crowded, upstaged
By that glamorous, fashionable bang.
And your little chin, your Pisces chin.
It was never a face in itself. Never the same.
It was like the sea's face - a stage
For weathers and currents, the sun's play and the moon's.
Never a face until that final morning
When it became the face of a child - its scar
Like a Maker's flaw. But now you declaimed
A long poem about a black panther
While I held you and kissed you and tried to keep you
From flying about the room. For all that,
You would not stay.
(...)"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
Ted Hughes (II)
"(...)
First sight. First snapshot isolated
Unalterable, stilled in the camera's glare.
Taller
Than ever you were again. Swaying so slender
It seemed your long, perfect, American legs
Simply went on up. That flaring hand,
Those long, balletic, monkey-elegant fingers.
And the face - a tight ball of joy.
I see you there, clearer, more real
Than in any of the years in its shadow -
As if I saw you that once, then never again.
The loose fall of hair - that floppy curtain
Over your face, over your scar. And your face
A rubbery ball of joy
Round the African-lipped, laughing, thickly
Crimson-painted mouth. And your eyes
Squeezed in your face, a crush of diamonds,
Incredibly bright, bright as a crush of tears
That might have been tears of joy, a squeeze of joy.
(...)"
[from: "St Botolph's"]
First sight. First snapshot isolated
Unalterable, stilled in the camera's glare.
Taller
Than ever you were again. Swaying so slender
It seemed your long, perfect, American legs
Simply went on up. That flaring hand,
Those long, balletic, monkey-elegant fingers.
And the face - a tight ball of joy.
I see you there, clearer, more real
Than in any of the years in its shadow -
As if I saw you that once, then never again.
The loose fall of hair - that floppy curtain
Over your face, over your scar. And your face
A rubbery ball of joy
Round the African-lipped, laughing, thickly
Crimson-painted mouth. And your eyes
Squeezed in your face, a crush of diamonds,
Incredibly bright, bright as a crush of tears
That might have been tears of joy, a squeeze of joy.
(...)"
[from: "St Botolph's"]
Lucia procession
madness. when it comes – I can tell You about it very precisely. it's like a scream in a silent movie. tension that cannot be brought outside.
my body ached, it was hard to stand upright.
I went out.
dark gray, the world soaked from skies to the ground.
saint Lucy's bright windows, the raindrops smash against the glittering panes.
then a dark, dark forest.
the tension tears blindfold, only sadness afterwards.
my body ached, it was hard to stand upright.
I went out.
dark gray, the world soaked from skies to the ground.
saint Lucy's bright windows, the raindrops smash against the glittering panes.
then a dark, dark forest.
the tension tears blindfold, only sadness afterwards.
2009/12/12
Ted Hughes (I)
"(...)
The shock of your joy
When you heard of that. Then the shock
Of your prayers. And under those prayers your panic
That prayers might not create the miracle,
Then, under the panic, the nightmare
That came rolling to to crush you:
Your alternative - the unthinkable
Old despair and the new agony
Melting into one famialiar hell.
(...)"
[from: "Visit"]
The shock of your joy
When you heard of that. Then the shock
Of your prayers. And under those prayers your panic
That prayers might not create the miracle,
Then, under the panic, the nightmare
That came rolling to to crush you:
Your alternative - the unthinkable
Old despair and the new agony
Melting into one famialiar hell.
(...)"
[from: "Visit"]
2009/12/09
Her embrace.a fortress
being in love can be so exhausting. wandering about on your tired, tired legs, with your eyes against the strongest light – only for a short life-saving moment in warmth and darkness.
being in love can be devastating. all the goals, facts and resolutions get totally mixed up.
being in love is like an illness. it prevents you from leading a normal life.
the little death.
where are You. do bring Her to me.
where are You.
being in love can be devastating. all the goals, facts and resolutions get totally mixed up.
being in love is like an illness. it prevents you from leading a normal life.
the little death.
where are You. do bring Her to me.
where are You.
2009/12/07
2009/12/01
||
I like early mornings and late evenings
the margin of life
won't be included in the register
I can do what I want
the margin of life
won't be included in the register
I can do what I want
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