Joy and Sorrow

Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Khalil Gibran


(Picture: Dans la balance. Odilon Redon)

Não sei quantas almas tenho

Não sei quantas almas tenho.
Cada momento mudei.
Continuamente me estranho.
Nunca me vi nem achei.
De tanto ser, só tenho alma.
Quem tem alma não tem calma.
Quem vê é só o que vê.
Quem sente não é quem é.

Atento ao que sou e vejo,
Torno-me eles e não eu.
Cada meu sonho ou desejo,
É do que nasce, e não meu.
Sou minha própria paisagem,
Assisto à minha passagem,
Diverso, móbil e só.
Não sei sentir-me onde estou.

Dream Time

Come to me softly in the night, my child
Come to me in my dreams
Come to me when my tears subside
And night can claim its sleep

I left you awake
In the early morn
To hunt for your naming day
For the feast we had planned in the village
And skins for the drums we would play

I travelled further from home
Than I had ever been before
Because I wanted the best for you
I wanted the spirits to come

Awakening

O dreams, my dreams,

Where is your sweetness?

Where are you,

Joy of nightly fleetness?

They’re gone away –

My fancies, gay,

And now alone

In darkness grown

I, sleepless, stay.

A mute night hovers 

My bed above

In a flash lone

Turned cool and gone

Dreams of my love,

Like a tense crowd.

But still heart beats

The longings’ sound

And catches bits

Of dreams around.

Não sei se os astros mandam neste mundo

 
Não sei se os astros mandam neste mundo,
Nem se as cartas –
As de jogar ou as do Tarot –
Podem revelar qualquer coisa.

Não sei se deitando dados
Se chega a qualquer conclusão.
Mas também não sei
Se vivendo como o comum dos homens
Se atinge qualquer coisa.

Sim, não sei
Se hei-de acreditar neste sol de todos os dias,
Cuja autenticidade ninguém me garante,
Ou se não será melhor, por melhor ou por mais cómodo,
Acreditar em qualquer outro sol –
Outro que ilumine até de noite, –
Qualquer profundidade luminosa das coisas
De que não percebo nada…

Δρόμοι παλιοί

 Δρόμοι παλιοὶ ποὺ ἀγάπησα καὶ μίσησα ἀτέλειωτα
κάτω ἀπ᾿ τοὺς ἴσκιους τῶν σπιτιῶν νὰ περπατῶ
νύχτες τῶν γυρισμῶν ἀναπότρεπτες κι ἡ πόλη νεκρὴ
Τὴν ἀσήμαντη παρουσία μου βρίσκω σὲ κάθε γωνιὰ
κᾶμε νὰ σ᾿ ἀνταμώσω κάποτε φάσμα χαμένο τοῦ τόπου μου κι ἐγὼ
Ξεχασμένος κι ἀτίθασος νὰ περπατῶ
κρατώντας μία σπίθα τρεμόσβηστη στὶς ὑγρές μου παλάμες
Καὶ προχωροῦσα μέσα στὴ νύχτα χωρὶς νὰ γνωρίζω κανένα
κι οὔτε κανένας, κι οὔτε κανένας μὲ γνώριζε, μὲ γνώριζε...

Μανόλης Αναγνωστάκης

Pretty

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother “What will I be? Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill of fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.

“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ”
Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance.

Ελένη

ΤΕΥΚΡΟΣ

... ἐς γῆν ἐναλίαν Κύπρον, οὗ μ’ ἐθέσπισεν

οἰκεῖν Ἀπόλλων, ὄνομα νησιωτικόν

Σαλαμῖνα θέμενον τῆς ἐκεῖ χάριν πάτρας.

 

ΕΛΕΝΗ

Οὐκ ἦλθον ἐς γῆν Τρῳάδ’, ἀλλ’ εἴδωλον ἦν.

ΑΓΓΕΛΟΣ

Τί φῄς;

Νεφέλης ἄρ’ ἄλλως εἴχομεν πόνους πέρι;

ΕΥΡΙΠΙΔΗΣ, ΕΛΕΝΗ

«Τ’ αηδόνια δε σ’ αφήνουνε να κοιμηθείς στις Πλάτρες.»

Αηδόνι ντροπαλό, μες στον ανασασμό των φύλων,

συ που δωρίζεις τη μουσική δροσιά του δάσους

στα χωρισμένα σώματα και στις ψυχές

αυτών που ξέρουν πως δε θα γυρίσουν.

Τυφλή φωνή, που ψηλαφείς μέσα στη νυχτωμένη μνήμη

βήματα και χειρονομίες∙ δε θα τολμούσα να πω φιλήματα∙

και το πικρό τρικύμισμα της ξαγριεμένης σκλάβας.

«Τ’ αηδόνια δε σ’ αφήνουνε να κοιμηθείς στις Πλάτρες.»

False Greatness

Mylo, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad stream, with golden sands,
   Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
   That wears a narrow soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poizing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
   Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold
   His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
   He hugs between his arms.

Pi

The admirable number pi:

three point one four one.

All the following digits are also initial,

five nine two because it never ends.

It can't be comprehended six five three five at a glance,

eight nine by calculation,

seven nine or imagination,

not even three two three eight by wit, that is, by comparison

four six to anything else

two six four three in the world.

The longest snake on earth calls it quits at about forty feet.

Likewise, snakes of myth and legend,

 though they may hold out a bit longer.

The pageant of digits comprising the number pi

doesn't stop at the page's edge.

Die Lösung

Nach dem Aufstand des 17. Juni
Ließ der Sekretär des Schriftstellerverbands
In der Stalinallee Flugblätter verteilen
Auf denen zu lesen war, daß das Volk
Das Vertrauen der Regierung verscherzt habe
Und es nur durch verdoppelte Arbeit
zurückerobern könne. Wäre es da
Nicht doch einfacher, die Regierung
Löste das Volk auf und
Wählte ein anderes?


Bertolt Brecht 

My life has been the poem

My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it.

Henry David Thoreau

(Picture: Acrylic on canvas, Sam Francis)

it was a dream

in which my greater self

rose up before me

accusing me of my life

with her extra finger

whirling in a gyre of rage

at what my days had come to.

what,

i pleaded with her, could i do,

oh what could i have done?

and she twisted her wild hair

and sparked her wild eyes

and screamed as long as

i could hear her

This.  This.  This.

Lucille Clifton

(Picture: Left hand with the index finger, Vasily Polenov)