The Power of Words (Yoko Ono)

Your words will run around forever to reverberate in the ocean of the world like a pebble you dropped in the water.

Let’s believe in that power – the large power that could move the mountain and the ocean. yes.

Yoko Ono
December 31st 2010

First pubished in the major national Japanese newspapers: Yomiuri Shimbun, Asahi Shimbun, Mainichi Shimbun & Sankei Shimbun.

Source > Link here

Urm

Little far departed

Much

These worlds

I traipse through

One room to another

Stunning the diversity

Of exhibits, glass cases

Mind boggling, the bane

To be stuck

With a season ticket

(Penned Dec 19, 2010)

Happy 235th Ms. Austen!

What is it?

It is noisy.

Isn’t it always?

It’s the precipice.

The wind howls its siren call.

The waters, foaming to the rocks

Gulls screeching, circling.

Should I go to the greens?

Why the greens?

So I can hear the leaves whisper.

The twigs crackle to moonsong

And night souls brush by trees.

Wouldn’t that be a little scary?

Why? Is that your notion of fear?

I see yours’ is the rocks. 

To be continued... 

(So we'd like to think.)

(Penned Dec 16, 2010)

♬ The first day of the rest of your life (Étienne Daho)

Click here > Le premier jour du reste de ta vie (Etienne Daho)

Lyrics (English)

A morning like any other 
A new bet
Look for a little magic
In this gloomy inertia
 
Pitter patter in the rain
Play the role of his life
Then one night the curtain falls
It's the same for all the world
 
Stand up but at what price 
Sacrificing instincts and yearnings
The most essential
 
But everything can change today
And the first day of the rest of your life
More Confidential
 
Why seek what's ever more beautiful
Whats farther whats higher  
And want to pluck out the moon
When we have the stars
 
When the certainties collapse
In seconds
Know that from cradle to grave
It's hard for the whole world
 
Stand up but at what price 
Sacrificing instincts and yearnings
Most confidential
 
But everything can change today
And the first day of the rest of your life
It is providential
 
Standing regardless of the price
Follow your instincts and yearnings
The most essential
 
You can explode today 
And the first day of the rest of your life
Non-accidental
 
Yes everything can change today 
And the first day of the rest of your life
More Confidential

Lyrics (French)

Un matin comme tous les autres
Un nouveau pari
Rechercher un peu de magie
Dans cette inertie morose

Clopan clopin sous la pluie
Jouer le rôle de sa vie
Puis un soir le rideau tombe
C'est pareil pour tout l'monde

Rester debout mais à quel prix
Sacrifier son instinct et ses envies
Les plus essentielles

Mais tout peut changer aujourd'hui
Et le premier jour du reste de ta vie
Plus confidentiel

Pourquoi vouloir toujours plus beau
Plus loin plus haut
Et vouloir décrocher la lune
Quand on a les étoiles

Quand les certitudes s'effondrent
En quelques secondes
Sache que du berceau à la tombe
C'est dur pour tout l'monde

Rester debout mais à quel prix
Sacrifier son instinct et ses envies
Les plus confidentielles

Mais tout peut changer aujourd'hui
Et le premier jour du reste de ta vie
C'est providentiel

Debout peu importe le prix
Suivre son instinct et ses envies
Les plus essentielles

Tu peux exploser aujourd'hui
Et le premier jour du reste de ta vie
Non accidentel

Oui tout peut changer aujourd'hui
Et le premier jour du reste de ta vie
Plus confidentiel

Paris - Some observations (Day 3)

Je vous présente a work-in-progress account of my observations of the sights and sounds of Paris. It may help you understand this city a little better, with an insider’s view from an outsider. Do note, I write this when Day 3 is yet to begin.

1.       No matter what the occasion, Parisiens are ‘always’ impeccably dressed. This is irrespective of social stature. The concept of ‘jhallas’ in non-existent here.

2.       Everyone loves boots and scarves in Paris. Period.

3.       Parisiens live and swear by bread. Main course or dessert, they eat bread for ‘every’ meal. One out of every 5 stores on any street in Paris is a boulangerie/ pâtisserie. Every Parisien who walks back home in the evening, rich or poor, walks home with sticks of baguette. Everyone eats the same bread. Bread is their great leveller. Bread is the Parisien’s Rajnikant. I’m surprised there’s no Musée dedicated to bread (there’s one dedicated to handfans!?!?!)

4.       Unhappy with your salary hike? Feel fortunate! As a norm, working Parisien’s get an annual raise varying from 2-3%, and that is ‘if’ they get an Annual raise that year.

5.       An Indian woman traveling alone, and especially one who does not look like a Tamilian (90% of the Indian population here are Tamilians), commuting on local transport, draws her share of attention. People are constantly trying to read your features and attire, trying to figure which part of the world you are from. Most times, their curiosity gets the better of them, and they end up striking a conversation, only to find that out. Mostly that results in being asked out for coffee.

6.       No, contrary to popular belief, you do not see couples snogging at every other street corner in Paris.

7.       Which brings us to Paris being the most romantic city on the planet and possibly why. It is not so because of notions addressed in Point #6. Perhaps it is so because Parisiens believe in expressing whatever they are feeling, when they feeling it without inhibition. They do not run behind trees or pillars. Very few of them resist to act or fester on their emotions.

8.       Perhaps why the city is also so romantic could be on account of how it puts you so much at ease. It makes the traveler believe that the city truly belongs to him, and nurtures him at least while he is here. There is something vintage or Gothic in the romance of it’s old stones, of eras past, of the love and fervour with which the city was built over the years and how it is still maintained and upheld, with pride. While you are in Paris and Paris belongs to everyone, a part of it also belongs to you and you alone. And the memory of those moments will linger with you and simmer within you. Forever.

9.       Second to only bread, Parisiens live and swear by the Météo or the met forecast. 99% of Parisiens check the met forecast the night before to make plans for their day and their wardrobe. The met forecast here is most alarmingly accurate. The rare occasion of a light 20 minute rain shower (in autumn, which is now) that was not forecasted, really, really upsets Parisiens and throws a spanner in the works. They’d all huddle under the nearest cover, going ‘Merde!’ over the rain. As usual being unable to contain their emotion, they would strike up a conversation to express their personal angst with whoever happens to be around, get curious about where you are from and invitations to coffee are likely to follow.

10.   Which brings us to the fact that one of every 7 stores in Paris is a Café/ Bistrot. Their staple meal-on-the-move here are slender 6 inch Subway-like sandwiches with jambon (ham)-cheese, poulet-rôti (roast chicken) or thon (tuna) made with a baguette.  They are true ‘gourmands’ of food and there’s always time for un café. Among world cuisines, Greek and Lebanese are most popular. There are quite a few Japanese restaurants as well which are simple outstanding!

11.    The degree of how warm and helpful a Parisien will be to you if you reach out for any assistance, depends on how much French you speak and whether or not you do. Not that they are snooty or anything, they are only ‘extremely’ passionate (with a very strong sense of belonging) about their language, heritage and culture.

12.   Besides, if you are especially in Paris by yourself, knowing the language really, really helps you be independent, interact, read and navigate the maps and directions better and understand plaques and other informational literature so rampantly available all across public utilities and museums, churches and monuments across Paris.

13.   You think Paris is a terribly expensive city? Well, here’s news. Italy is even more expensive. A ride up the Parisien pride, la Tour Eiffel would cost you under Euro 20 and you can spend hours there. An hour on a Venetian gondola puts you back by Euro 400!

14.   You have to be extra wary while on your touristy jaunts at Paris of elderly people. Even the slightest accidental nudge and you would have to dodge a tirade of angst on how they have been offended. Steer clear of the elderly here and they will smile at you warmly from afar.

15.   Speaking of touristy things, nothing epitomizes the very of soul of Paris, musically, as does Edith Piaf’s version of ‘La vie en rose’. Much to the chagrin of local souvenir shop owners, ‘La vie en rose’ happens to be the fastest (and mostly) selling song in all the tiny little wind-up music boxes they have on sale. I too  seem to have fallen for that singular song (rendered by Mireille Mathieu) among all others, when I posted a song on Facebook the day before I left for Paris.

16.   If you are smart about it, it is very, very possible to be on a budget in Paris. But who the hell wants to be on a Budget in Paris? The chunk of the cost for travelers is the local stay which is expensive. The premium on prices of stay options depends on how central or conveniently located to public utilities a particular place is. ‘Paris Visite’ and Museum Passes makes traveling and sightseeing quite cost-effective. The next relatively big chunk of cost is food (because wine is cheap). But then again, you can be smart about this too. But why be so smart? Because whether you have a little or a lot, the better you can manage the basics, the more you have to shop!

Cerf-volant (Paper plane)

I came across this tiny little song from the 2004 movie Les Choristes (The Chorus) called Cerf-volant (Paper plane). It has a very simple little melody which (I think) like the song goes a long way. 

You can listen to the song here

Here are the lyrics with the meaning, 

Cerf-volant
Volant au vent
Ne t'arrête pas
Vers la mer
Haut dans les airs
Un enfant te voit
Voyage insolent
Troubles enivrants
Amours innocentes
Suivent ta voie
Suivent ta voie
En volant

Cerf-volant
Volant au vent
Ne t'arrête pas
Vers la mer
Haut dans les airs
Un enfant te voit
Et dans la tourmente
Tes ailes triomphantes
N'oublie pas de revenir
Vers moi

-

Paper plane
Flying in the wind
Do not stop
Go to the sea
High up in the air
A child sees you
Traveling insolently ‘midst
Intoxicating confusion 
Innocent loves
Follow your path
Follow your path
While flying

Paper plane
Flying in the wind
Do not stop
Go to the sea
High up in the air
A child sees you
And in the storm
Your wings triumphant
Do not forget to return
Towards me

Lorsque imaginant un après-midi

Ligne par ligne, tellement lisse                         
L’une après l’autre, c’est près arrondi                               
Cette argile fait prêt par les mains des Dieux           
Tranquil comme la lumière au fond de l'océan          
Doucement soupirant, presque gravé dans le corail,
à travers lequel, les eaux de ce monde                            
passent par en murmurants sourdinés                               
presque pur, où toutes les salettes de l'eau                     
ne peut pas mais se déposent                                         
Ici, au fond de l'océan, ici c'est où le lieu                         
le plus proche du coeur de cette Terre.    

(Penned Sept 13, 2010)     

While at play

Up in arms the house is

Ruckus, wrecking havoc

With the neighbours

Oh come see, doesn’t stop

It doesn’t just, this wailing

Like the clanging

Of cymbals at prayer hour

Terrifying the din, the mayhem

To alleviate, to silence

What cannot be seen

In the child that wails

Without reason

He was out in the yard

And scampered home

With legions

Of his terrifying selves

Oh come see, what

Bites into him, so invisibly

How do we root it out?

Oh the sheer distress

Of this errant

Splinter.

(Penned Sept 13, 2010)

3 selected verses (Sheenagh Pugh)

The Bereavement of the Lion-Keeper
Who stayed, long after his pay stopped,
in the zoo with no visitors,
just keepers and captives, moth-eaten,
growing old together.

Who begged for meat in the market-place
as times grew hungrier,
and cut it up small to feed him,
since his teeth were gone.

Who could stroke his head, who knew
how it felt to plunge fingers
into rough glowing fur, who has heard
the deepest purr in the world.

Who curled close to him, wrapped in his warmth,
his pungent scent, as the bombs fell,
who has seen him asleep so often,
but never like this.

Who knew that elderly lions
were not immortal, that it was bound
to happen, that he died peacefully,
in the course of nature,

but who knows no way to let go
of love, to walk out of sunlight,
to be an old man in a city
without a lion.

Sometimes
Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

The Beautiful Lie
He was about four, I think... it was so long ago.
In a garden; he'd done some damage
behind a bright screen of sweet-peas
- snapped a stalk, a stake, I don't recall,
but the grandmother came and saw, and asked him:
"Did you do that?"

Now, if she'd said why did you do that,
he'd never have denied it. She showed him
he had a choice. I could see, in his face,
the new sense, the possible. That word and deed
need not match, that you could say the world
different, to suit you.

When he said "No", I swear it was as moving
as the first time a baby's fist clenches
on a finger, as momentous as the first
taste of fruit. I could feel his eyes looking
through a new window, at a world whose form
and colour weren't fixed

but fluid, that poured like a snake, trembled
around the edges like northern lights, shape-shifted
at the spell of a voice. I could sense him filling
like a glass, hear the unreal sea in his ears.
This is how to make songs, create men, paint pictures,
tell a story.

I think I made up the screen of sweet peas.
Maybe they were beans; maybe there was no screen,
it just felt as if there should be, somehow.
And he was my - no, I don't need to tell that.
I know I made up the screen.  And I recall very well
what he had done.

About the poet

Possibly the best 'Dear Edward' letter. Ever.

'Dear Edward: I've gone back and
forth the last few days, trying to
decide whether or not I should
even write this.'

'In the end, I realized I would
regret it if I didn't, so here
goes.'

'I know the last time we saw each
other, we weren't exactly hitting
the sweetest notes.'

'It certainly wasn't the way I
wanted the trip to end.'

'I suppose I'm responsible, and
for that I'm sorry. But, in all
honesty, if I had the chance, I'd
do it again.'

...

'There's no way I can repay you
for all you've done for me. So
rather than try, I'm just going to
ask you to do something else for
me: Find the joy in your life.'

'You once said you're not
everyone. Well, that's true.
You're certainly not everyone.
But everyone is everyone.'

'My pastor always says, "Our lives
are streams flowing into the same
river towards whatever heaven lies
in the mist beyond the falls."
Find the joy in your life, Edward.'

Source: An extract from the original script of The Bucket List

Script at http://is.gd/eR5To

Sans titre

Lorsque je l'ai entendue (As I heard) http://is.gd/ePOQV

J’ai écrit ce qui suit. (I wrote what follows)

_

Perdu, c'est mon lapin
Dans les petites boules de savon
Dans leurs arcs-en-ciel fascinants
Tourbillonants
à chaque micro-instant
Quand ils dansent.
Le soleil a toujours
Beaucoup de
trucs dans son sac.

_

Lost is, my little rabbit

In the tiniest of soap bubbles

In their fascinating rainbows

Swirling

In each micro-instant

That they dance.

The sun always has

Many tricks

Up his sleeve. 

(Penned Sept 2, 2010)

Sandōkai (參同契)

Harmonious Song of Difference and Sameness
(Sekito Kisen Daiosho)

The mind of the great sage of India
is intimately communicated from west to east.
While human faculties are sharp or dull,
The Way has no northern or southern ancestors.
The spiritual source shines clear in the light;
the branching streams flow on in the dark.
Grasping at things is surely delusion;
according with sameness is still not enlightenment.
All the objects of the senses
interact and yet do not.
Interacting brings involvement.
Otherwise, each keeps its place.
Sights vary in quality and form,
sounds differ as pleasing or harsh.
Refined and common speech come together in the dark,
clear and murky phrases are distinguished in the light.
The four elements return to their natures
just as a child turns to its mother.
Fire heats, wind moves,
water wets, earth is solid.
Eye and sights, ear and sounds,
nose and smells, tongue and tastes;
Thus with each and every thing,
depending on these roots, the leaves spread forth.
Trunk and branches share the essence;
revered and common, each has its speech.
In the light there is darkness,
but don't take it as darkness;
In the dark there is light,
but don't see it as light.
Light and darkness oppose one another
like front and back foot in walking.
Each of the myriad things has its merit,
expressed according to function and place.
Phenomena exist; box and lid fit.
Principle responds; arrow points meet.
Hearing the words, understand the meaning;
don't set up standards of your own.
If you don't understand the Way right before you,
how will you know the path as you walk?
Progress is not a matter of far or near,
but if you are confused, mountains and rivers block your way.
I respectfully urge your who study the mystery,
do not pass your days and nights in vain. 

Source: http://is.gd/eCsSY

About Sandōkai: http://is.gd/eCsXL

Used Books (S. Jane Sloat)

I like them dog-eared and lawnsoft,
and savor the character of winestain
and thumbsmudge,

the tear-warp between pages,
scrawl lolling down margins,

x’s, question and check marks
scratched out as anchors.

They kindle affinity with readers
who’ve leafed through before, house

a kinship of signatures, conjuring towns
and streets in states I’ll never visit.

They preach the economy of timber
and purses, while scribbled dates

evoke evenings spent couch-lounging
through past springs and winters.

Though they come off the press crisp
and unsullied, I like them used

for the gust of tinder and sawdust,
the waft of feathers adrift in a hayloft.

I turn the yellow hem of the pages,
a hue half neon, half tubercular,

like the wallpaper of a motel
nicotine-thick with confessions

where with the fray, I find repose
under covers well plumbed
and sepulchral. 

Source: http://bit.ly/bTqOZ3

How Wonderful (Irving Feldman)

How wonderful to be understood,
to just sit here while some kind person
relieves you of the awful burden
of having to explain yourself, of having
to find other words to say what you meant,
or what you think you thought you meant,
and of the worse burden of finding no words,
of being struck dumb . . . because some bright person
has found just the right words for you—and you
have only to sit here and be grateful
for words so quiet so discerning they seem
not words but literate light, in which
your merely lucid blossoming grows lustrous.
How wonderful that is!

And how altogether wonderful it is
not to be understood, not at all, to, well,
just sit here while someone not unkindly
is saying those impossibly wrong things,
or quite possibly they’re the right things
if you are, which you’re not, that someone
—a difference, finally, so indifferent
it would be conceit not to let it pass,
unkindness, really, to spoil someone’s fun.
And so you don’t mind, you welcome the umbrage
of those high murmurings over your head,
having found, after all, you are grateful
—and you understand this, how wonderful!—
that you’ve been led to be quietly yourself,
like a root growing wise in darkness
under the light litter, the falling words.

Source: Thanks to @willgetback

Light-years (Hester Knibbe)

It’s a beautiful world, you said,
with these trees, marshes, deserts,
grasses, rivers and seas

and so on. And the moon is really something
in its circuits
of relative radiance. Include

the wingèd M, voluptuous
Venus, hotheaded Mars, that lucky devil
J and cranky Saturn, of course, plus

U and N and the wanderer P, in short
the whole solar family, complete with its
Milky Way, and count up all the other

systems with dots and spots and in
that endless emptiness what you’ve got
is a commotion of you-know-what. It’s a beautiful

universe, you said, just take a good look
through the desert’s dark glasses
for instance or on your back

in seas of grass, take a good look
at the deluge of that Rorschach—we’re standing out there
somewhere, together.

Translated by Jacquelyn Pope

Source: http://is.gd/dR2li

Dandelions (Peter Campion)

After the cling of roots and then the “pock”
when they gave way
                                     the recoil up the hand
               was a small shock
of emptiness beginning to expand.

Milk frothing from the stems. Leaves inky green
and spiked.
                      Like blissed-out childhood play
              turned mean
they snarled in tangled curls on our driveway.

It happens still. That desolating falling
shudder inside
                            and then our neighborhood
                seems only sprawling
loops...like the patterns eaten on driftwood:

even the home where I grew up (its smell
of lingering
                      wood-smoke and bacon grease)
             seems just a shell
of lathe and paper. But this strange release

follows: this tinge like silver and I feel
the pull of dirt
                            again, sense mist uncurling
               to reveal
no architecture hidden behind the world

except the stories that we make unfolding:
as if our sole real power
                                                    were the power
             of children holding
this flower that is a weed that is a flower.

Source: http://is.gd/dR2cT

Bienvenue

La nuit, le matin
On recommence
Le même destin
Décollant
La même piste d’atterrissage
En espérant
Un bon vol
Une fois
Il n’y aura pas
Ni pluie ni brouillard
Seulement le ciel
Seulement le ciel
Un soleil aimable
Tout en disant
Bienvenue.

(Penned July 6, 2010)

Sunrise

Mornings such

Sparkling

A little brazen

Little off the edge

Almost

Downhill

Into the ravine

Quickly evaporating

(Penned July 1, 2010)

Parosan

I have blogged about Parosan before. She has always wanted me to.

It’s been on my mind to write about her. It sent her flying into a chortling spasm of rapture to know that I've finally blogged about her again.

Parosan once sat next to me. Everyday of our lives then, I got to hear all her rantings. What I did not, she would tell me over our long strolls comet-spotting by the sea sky. She was a terribly impulsive child, always a little unsure of herself, yet randomly outspoken in a way that did me proud. She had a certain wild spunk about her which surfaced to this world, most sharply every now and then. She was bubbling with questions aiming them at me, in rapid succession,  like one heat seeking missile after another; questions  about everything you can ever imagine like potion boiling in a cauldron, precariously darting itself out. She was like an atom, a quark, in constant motion, zipping away, doing a million different things with her life, all at the same time; at times stumbling, at times sailing through high mast, every bit as curious and eager to zealously consume life like an infant running amuck in a room full of furniture.

We lived our lives at the same mad pace, a little differently. I never spoke as much about myself as much perhaps as she did. Yet somewhere in between the baroque of her life, she sensed things in a shockingly remarkable manner. I never really had the advantage of a poker face. From some faraway corner, something as little as the slightest twinge in my voice, she knew something was gently swaying me at sea. I never really needed to tell her things. Her ‘care-a-hang’ take on things was swift and sharp, like a pin prick. It was always a perspective, radically different from my line of thought, refreshing and hilarious.

Today Parosan is older, a measurably mellowed quark making her transit through a denser environment. She is fast approaching fork roads I have survived before. I am a little afraid for her. I advise her caution. Her questions are still gurgling, as wild as rapid.

I only hope it isn’t time soon that I run out of answers. 

Twelve (Stan Rice)

By the time you are twelve your affections are fixed.
Then come the decades that roll your heart like a cheese
In the sea. Yes, it is surreal.
Then you are twelve again, and old.
And you find the waxed red ball of your heart on the shore.
And you are not surprised by anything now except
That you should love at the end what you loved
At the beginning.

Source: http://www.stanrice.com/poetry-radiancepigs.html#excerpt 

Off the easel

For either

Lack of definition

Or want of it

Speculation rampant

Foams and looms

Like the sky 

Drizzling watercolours

Puddles translucent
In endless flux

Like shifting seas

Of tinted algae

On parchment seeping

Holding little

Later than sooner

But sometime

For certain

This riot of hues

Like the turmoil

Of ignorance

Eats away

Into itself. 

(Penned June 15, 2010)

Stationery (Agha Shahid Ali)

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.
The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

Source: Time Out Mumbai ISSUE 20 Friday, May 28, 2010
Thank you @willgetback

Reading the poems of an absent friend (Ou Yang Hsiu)

Translated by Kenneth Rexroth

Tsu Mei is early dead. Chang Yu

Now is somewhere in the South.

And I, unhappy, am like

A four horse chariot which

Has lost the horses on right

And left. Their memory, like

A strong enemy, attacks

And overthrows me. The feeble

Swarm of my own thoughts struggles

In vain against the shock. All

Men respect hard work, but in

Leisure and repose they find

Happiness and peace. And me,

What is the matter with me?

Nothing, except that I cannot

Bear the loss of friends. It has

Been a long time since I have

Written a poem. My ideas

Are like sticky pudding. When

Good land is not cultivated

Regularly the grass vanishes

And is replaced by weeds, hard

To hoe. When you do not use

A well every day the pure

Water does not replace itself.

By chance, I opened a book

Of Mei's and I forgot

Everything else while the sun

Sank below the eaves. The joys

Of poetry, for those who

Appreciate them, increase with

Time and familiarity,

Their richness never ends in

Satiety. I am sorry

For the men of these times. They

Talk of nothing interesting

And have no ambition and

Die without ever being

Aware of the music of verse.

But I am lucky enough

To appreciate these pleasures,

The more I savour, the deeper

I understand, the more I want.

In the leisure which my duties

Leave me, I stay at home, so

I can enjoy them undisturbed.

And I wonder that my feeble

Means have enabled me to

Enjoy these poems so much, that here

I have run off, like a horse

Whose rider has lost the bit.

About the poet http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouyang_Xiu

Observation

So many

Spread themselves so wide

Across these worlds

Mustard seeds

Scattered on white marble

Really going nowhere

Unless you tilt the plane

Like buttered bread

From Oliver Twist

As deep

As a mosquito on water

(Penned June 3, 2010) 

The Word (Tony Hoagland)

 Down near the bottom
 of the crossed-out list
 of things you have to do today,

 between "green thread"
 and "broccoli" you find
 that you have penciled "sunlight."

 Resting on the page, the word
 is as beautiful, it touches you
 as if you had a friend

 and sunlight were a present
 he had sent you from some place distant
 as this morning -- to cheer you up,

 and to remind you that,
 among your duties, pleasure
 is a thing,

 that also needs accomplishing
 Do you remember?
 that time and light are kinds

 of love, and love
 is no less practical
 than a coffee grinder

 or a safe spare tire?
 Tomorrow you may be utterly
 without a clue

 but today you get a telegram,
 from the heart in exile
 proclaiming that the kingdom

 still exists,
 the king and queen alive,
 still speaking to their children,

 - to any one among them
 who can find the time,
 to sit out in the sun and listen.

About Tony

Other Things (Alvin Pang)

 "To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow" - Amana Colony, Iowa, Sept 14.

To buy a potted plant is to admit both faithlessness and need. To water the plant, perhaps daily, perhaps once in a while when you remember and the leaves start to droop, is as close to love as it gets.

Other things mean other things.

To light a lamp is to hide darkness in the same closet as sleep, along with silence, desire, and yesterday’s obsessions. To read a book is to marry two solitudes, the way a conversation erases and erects, words prepare for wordlessness, a cloud for its own absence, and snow undresses for spring.

The bedroom is where you left it, although the creases and humps on the sheets no longer share your outline and worldview. In that way, they are like the children you never had time for.

A cooking pot asks the difficult questions: what will burn and for how long and to what end.

TV comes from the devil who comes from god who comes and goes as he pleases. To hide the remote control in someone’s house is clearly a sin, but to take the wrong umbrella home is merely human.

The phone is too white to be taunting you. The door you shut stays shut. The night is reason enough for tomorrow, whatever you believe.

Remember, the car keys will be there after the dance. Walls hold peace as much as distance. A kettle is not reason enough for tears.

The correct answer to a mirror is always, yes.

Source: http://is.gd/c4IDl

The incident

Dinner date. Spaghetti and meatballs. Uninteresting.

Reading. Small talk. Hmmm’ing.

Good time? Now as good as ever. He pops.

I love you.

She pops. Eyes dilate. Like saucers. Face purpling.

Wild gesturing. Bobs up and down like an orangutan.

He zones out.

Someone else understands. Hands her pen and paper.

Matter of seconds. Heimlich, she scrawls.

The little bulb lights up. He leaps.

Go for the rib cage, says little voice.

Splat! The meatball on the Maître-D’s pince-nez.

First hug. 

(Penned April 29, 2010) 

Trois poèmes français

Petite perle cristalline
Henri-Frédéric AMIEL (1821-1881)

"Petite perle cristalline
Tremblante fille du matin,
Au bout de la feuille de thym
Que fais-tu sur la colline ?

Avant la fleur, avant l'oiseau,
Avant le réveil de l'aurore,
Quand le vallon sommeille encore
Que fais-tu là sur le coteau ? "
_

Sur un Eventail
Paul ARÈNE (1843-1896)

Si les ondines et les fées
Maintenant ainsi qu’autrefois
Sur une coquille de noix
Naviguaient, de corail coiffées,

Et si j’étais, - car nous aimons
Suivre parfois d’étranges rêves, -
Un des minuscules démons
Rois de la mer bleue et des grèves,

Je ne voudrais d’autre travail
Que d’agiter cet éventail
Pour faire une brise légère

Qui pousserait tout doucement
Le bateau vers un port charmant
Et vous seriez la passagère.
_

L'on verra s'arrêter le mobile du monde
Madeleine de l' AUBESPINE (1546-1596)

L'on verra s'arrêter le mobile du monde,
Les étoiles marcher parmi le firmament,
Saturne infortuné luire bénignement,
Jupiter commander dedans le creux de l'onde.

L'on verra Mars paisible et la clarté féconde
Du Soleil s'obscurcir sans force et mouvement,
Vénus sans amitié, Stilbon sans changement,
Et la Lune en carré changer sa forme ronde,

Le feu sera pesant et légère la terre,
L'eau sera chaude et sèche et dans l'air qui l'enserre,
On verra les poissons voler et se nourrir,

Plutôt que mon amour, à vous seul destinée,
Se tourne en autre part, car pour vous je fus née,
Je ne vis que pour vous, pour vous je veux mourir.

_

Des liens:

1. http://is.gd/bAHoA
2. http://is.gd/bAHwJ
3. http://is.gd/bAHyd

The Shore of the Sky (Tatsuji Miyoshi)

Where are you from, traveler from afar,
resting in treetops bared by the winter?
The treetops are lithe
in the haze, arching, rustling, whispering
crossing their swords on the shore of the sky
I look up and hear the distant sounds
Dry leaves are piled on fallen leaves
in the warm sunlight
hard buds have already formed
but those tight packages will unfold on their own
The midday wind pauses at the deep ends of alleys, under trees, over stones
being a traveler it coils around my clasped fingers
poised thus on the tip of my little finger to point to today’s journey

Source: http://japan.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=16370

Gib mir Sonne (Rosenstolz)

Listen here: http://is.gd/bl332

Lyrics: http://is.gd/bl38P

About the band: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosenstolz

German

Gib mir Sonne

Es kann gar nicht hell genug sein
alle Lichter dieser Welt
Sollen heute für mich leuchten.
Ich werd raus gehen,
mich nicht umdrehen,
ich muss weg.
Manchmal muss Liebe schnell gehen,
mich überfahren, mich überrollen.
Manchmal muss das Leben weh tun,
nur wenn’s weh tut ist es gut.
Dafür zu gehen.
Gib mir Sonne, gib mir Wärme, gib mir Licht,
all die Farben wieder zurück,
verbrenn den Schnee, das Grau muss weg.
Schenk mir `n bisschen Glück.
Wann kommt die Sonne?
Kann es denn sein das mir gar nichts mehr gelingt?
Wann kommt die Sonne?
Kannst du nicht sehen, dass ich tief im Schnee versink?
Und ich trage mein Herz offen,
alle Türen ganz weit auf,
hab keine Angst mich zu verbrennen,
auch wenn’s weh tut,
nur was weh tut ist auch gut.
Gib mir Sonne, gib mir Wärme, gib mir Licht,
all die Farben wieder zurück,
verbrenn den Schnee, das Grau muss weg.
Schenk mir `n bisschen Glück.
Wann kommt die Sonne?
Kann es denn sein das mir gar nichts mehr gelingt?
Wann kommt die Sonne?
Kannst du nicht sehen, dass ich tief im Schnee versink?
Feier das Leben, feier das Glück,
feier uns beide, es kommt alles zurück.
Feier die Liebe, feier den Tag,
feier uns beide, es ist alles gesagt.
Hier kommt die Sonne,
hier kommt das Licht.
Siehst du die Farben?
Kommt alles zurück.
Hier kommt die Sonne,
hier kommt das Licht.
Siehst du die Farben?
Kommt alles zurück.

English

Give me sun

It can't be bright enough
All the lights of this world
Shall shine for me today.
I'll go out,
won't turn around,
I must go away.
Sometimes, love has to go fast, has to run me down, has to overrun me.
Sometimes, life has to hurt
only when it hurts it's good
To go for that.
Give me sun, give me warmth, give me light,
all the colours back,
burn the snow, the grey must go.
Present me with a little luck.
When does the sun come?
Could it be that I can't manage anything anymore?
When does the sun come?
Can't you see I'm sinking deeply into the snow?
And I carry my heart open,
all doors widely open,
am not scared of burning myself,
even if it hurts,
only what hurts is also good.
Give me sun, give me warmth, give me light,
all the colours back,
burn the snow, the grey must go.
Present me with a little luck.
When does the sun come?
Could it be that I can't manage anything anymore?
When does the sun come?
Can't you see I'm sinking deeply into the snow?
Celebrate life, celebrate luck,
celebrate both of us, everything's coming back.
Celebrate love, celebrate the day,
celebrate both of us, everything's said.
Here comes the sun,
here comes the light.
Do you see the colours?
All comes back.
Here comes the sun,
here comes the light.
Do you see the colours?
All comes back.