Carbs, comedy and poetry
Apr. 10th, 2004 03:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemima"Now where's my waffle sundae?"
My next fluffy purchase.
Ten poems for ten missed days, for National Poetry Month
In tfiseh (In prison), translation of Yiddish poem (author unknown):
My silken hair runs wild,
My delicate hands are locked,
And my bright glance is gutted
And I am clothed in black.
But know one thing, people --
My mind you will not lock,
Nor will you forge my thoughts,
Nor the strivings that flow
From my hot young heart.
(-translated by G. Sigal)
The Human Abstract by William Blake:
Pity would be no more, t104
If we did not make somebody Poor: t105
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;
And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care. t106
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.
The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain t107
It's the Strangest Thing by Alter Esselin, translated by Joseph Esselin
It's the strangest thing, I just can't understand it --
Nor could I even with the Vilner's* wisdom,
Understand how a well intentioned God
Who looks with compassion on even the worm
Could take a poet of the highest caliber --
One who swallows misery poems as if they were brandy
Who feels as if any day they might lynch him
And views himself as a blinded Samson --
Thrown like a splinter in the wind into an obscure corner
And be told, "Here you will write what Kronos will erase…
Here you will sense, feel and imagine,
But what you most desire you will never find."
In addition, to be granted long years--
And yet be expected to sing the joy of life.
* The sage, The Vilner Gaon
Are you the New Person Drawn Toward me? by Walt Whitman
ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning — I am surely far differ-
ent from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your
lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd
satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade — this smooth
and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground
toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all
maya, illusion?
Sed Non Satiata by Charles Baudelaire
Bizarre Diety, as dark as night,
Scented with musky perfume and Havana,
Work of some obi, the Faust of the savanna,
Witch with ebony flanks, child of black midnight,
Rather than constance, le nuits, opium,
The elixer of your mouth where love pavanes;
Your eyes are wells where my desires come
And my ennuis drink in thirsty caravans.
From those black eyes, your soul's smoke-vents, I pray,
Pitiless demon, pour on me less flame;
I am not the Styx to encompass you nine times,
Alas! I can't, Megaerian libertine,
Break your spirit and bring you to bay,
Transformed in your bed's hell to Proserpine!
Dogma, lyrics and spoken word by Nicole Blackman
All we want is a headrush
All we want is to get out of our skin for a while
We have nothing to lose because we don't have anything
Anything we want anyway...
We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
We don't live
We just scratch on day to day
With nothing but matchbooks and
Sarcasm in our pockets
And all we are waiting for
Is for something worth waiting for
Let's admit america gets the celebrities we deserve
Let's stop saying "Don't quote me"
Because if no one quotes you
You probably haven't said a thing worth saying
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
We need something to kill the pain
Of all that nothing inside
We all just want to die a little bit
We fear that pop-culture
Is the only culture we're ever going to have
We want to stop reading magazines
Stop watching TV
Stop caring about hollywood
But we're addicted to the things we hate
We don't run washington and no one really does
Ask not what you can do for your country
Ask what your country did to you
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
The only reason you're still alive is because someone
Has decided to let you live
We owe so much money we're not broke we're broken
We're so poor we can't even pay attention
So what do you want
You want to be famous and rich and happy
But you're terrified you have nothing to offer this world
Nothing to say and no way to say it
But you can say it in three languages
You are more than the sum of what you consume
Desire is not an occupation
You are alternately thrilled and desperate
Skyhigh and fucked
Let's stop praying for someone
To save us and start saving ourselves
Let's stop this and start over
Let's go out - Let's keep going
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
This is your life - This is your fucking life
We need something to kill
The pain of all that nothing inside
Quit whining you haven't done
Anything wrong because frankly
You haven't done much of anything
Someone's writing down your mistakes
Someone's documenting your downfall
Sonnet VI by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Night is my sister, and how deep in love,
How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide's edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
Small chance, however, in a storm so black,
A man will leave his friendly fire and snug
For a drowned woman's sake, and bring her back
To drip and scatter shells upon the rug.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place.
ODE TO BROKEN THINGS by Pablo Neruda
Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.
And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.
Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.
Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.
NOCTURNE by Ruben Dario
I want to express my anguish in verses that speak
of my vanished youth, a time of dreams and roses,
and the bitter defloration of my life
by many small cares and one vast aching sorrow.
And the voyage to a dim orient in half-seen ships,
the seeds of prayer that flowered in blasphemies,
the bewilderment of a swan among the puddles,
the false nocturnal blue of a sick Bohemia.
Far-off harpsichord, silent and forgotten,
that never gave my dreams the sublime sonata;
orphan skiff, heraldic tree, dark nest
which the night made lovely with its silver light;
Hope still aromatic with fresh herbs; the trill
of the nightingale in the morning in the spring;
the white lily cut down by a fatal destiny;
the search for happiness, and evil's persecutions--
And the dismal amphora with its divine poison
that causes the inner torments of this life;
the fearful knowledge of our human mire;
and the horror of knowing that we are transitory,
the horror of walking blindly, among alarms,
toward the unknowable, toward the inevitable;
and the brute nightmares that rack our weeping sleep,
from which no one but She can wake us up!
Extinguish Thou My Eyes by Rainer Maria Rilke
Extinguish Thou my eyes:I still can see Thee,
deprive my ears of sound:I still can hear Thee,
and without feet I still can come to Thee,
and without voice I still can call to Thee.
Sever my arms from me, I still will hold Thee
with all my heart as with a single hand,
arrest my heart, my brain will keep on beating,
and Should Thy fire at last my brain consume,
the flowing of my blood will carry Thee.
Rose of All the World by DH Lawrence
I am here myself; as though this heave of effort
At starting other life, fulfilled my own;
Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core
Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown
By all the blood of the rose-bush into being -
Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly
To bring together two strange sparks, beget
Another life from our lives, so should send
The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning
And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!
That my completion of manhood should be the beginning
Another life from mine! For so it looks.
The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
The seed is all in all, the blossom lent
To crown the triumph of this new descent.
Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire
Fans out your petals for excess of flame,
Till all your being smokes with fine desire?
Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
One rose of wonderment upon the tree
Of perfect life, and is our possible seed
But the residuum of the ecstasy?
How will you have it? - the rose is all in all,
Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?
The sharp begetting, or the child begot?
Our consummation matters, or does it not?
To me it seems the seed is just left over
From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;
Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush
Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.
Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose
Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose
For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;
For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose.
My next fluffy purchase.
Ten poems for ten missed days, for National Poetry Month
In tfiseh (In prison), translation of Yiddish poem (author unknown):
My silken hair runs wild,
My delicate hands are locked,
And my bright glance is gutted
And I am clothed in black.
But know one thing, people --
My mind you will not lock,
Nor will you forge my thoughts,
Nor the strivings that flow
From my hot young heart.
(-translated by G. Sigal)
The Human Abstract by William Blake:
Pity would be no more, t104
If we did not make somebody Poor: t105
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;
And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care. t106
He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.
Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.
And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.
The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain t107
It's the Strangest Thing by Alter Esselin, translated by Joseph Esselin
It's the strangest thing, I just can't understand it --
Nor could I even with the Vilner's* wisdom,
Understand how a well intentioned God
Who looks with compassion on even the worm
Could take a poet of the highest caliber --
One who swallows misery poems as if they were brandy
Who feels as if any day they might lynch him
And views himself as a blinded Samson --
Thrown like a splinter in the wind into an obscure corner
And be told, "Here you will write what Kronos will erase…
Here you will sense, feel and imagine,
But what you most desire you will never find."
In addition, to be granted long years--
And yet be expected to sing the joy of life.
* The sage, The Vilner Gaon
Are you the New Person Drawn Toward me? by Walt Whitman
ARE you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning — I am surely far differ-
ent from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your
lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd
satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade — this smooth
and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground
toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all
maya, illusion?
Sed Non Satiata by Charles Baudelaire
Bizarre Diety, as dark as night,
Scented with musky perfume and Havana,
Work of some obi, the Faust of the savanna,
Witch with ebony flanks, child of black midnight,
Rather than constance, le nuits, opium,
The elixer of your mouth where love pavanes;
Your eyes are wells where my desires come
And my ennuis drink in thirsty caravans.
From those black eyes, your soul's smoke-vents, I pray,
Pitiless demon, pour on me less flame;
I am not the Styx to encompass you nine times,
Alas! I can't, Megaerian libertine,
Break your spirit and bring you to bay,
Transformed in your bed's hell to Proserpine!
Dogma, lyrics and spoken word by Nicole Blackman
All we want is a headrush
All we want is to get out of our skin for a while
We have nothing to lose because we don't have anything
Anything we want anyway...
We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
We don't live
We just scratch on day to day
With nothing but matchbooks and
Sarcasm in our pockets
And all we are waiting for
Is for something worth waiting for
Let's admit america gets the celebrities we deserve
Let's stop saying "Don't quote me"
Because if no one quotes you
You probably haven't said a thing worth saying
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
We need something to kill the pain
Of all that nothing inside
We all just want to die a little bit
We fear that pop-culture
Is the only culture we're ever going to have
We want to stop reading magazines
Stop watching TV
Stop caring about hollywood
But we're addicted to the things we hate
We don't run washington and no one really does
Ask not what you can do for your country
Ask what your country did to you
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
The only reason you're still alive is because someone
Has decided to let you live
We owe so much money we're not broke we're broken
We're so poor we can't even pay attention
So what do you want
You want to be famous and rich and happy
But you're terrified you have nothing to offer this world
Nothing to say and no way to say it
But you can say it in three languages
You are more than the sum of what you consume
Desire is not an occupation
You are alternately thrilled and desperate
Skyhigh and fucked
Let's stop praying for someone
To save us and start saving ourselves
Let's stop this and start over
Let's go out - Let's keep going
Sex, drugs, god, cash, America
This is your life - This is your fucking life
We need something to kill
The pain of all that nothing inside
Quit whining you haven't done
Anything wrong because frankly
You haven't done much of anything
Someone's writing down your mistakes
Someone's documenting your downfall
Sonnet VI by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Night is my sister, and how deep in love,
How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide's edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
Small chance, however, in a storm so black,
A man will leave his friendly fire and snug
For a drowned woman's sake, and bring her back
To drip and scatter shells upon the rug.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place.
ODE TO BROKEN THINGS by Pablo Neruda
Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.
And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.
Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.
Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.
NOCTURNE by Ruben Dario
I want to express my anguish in verses that speak
of my vanished youth, a time of dreams and roses,
and the bitter defloration of my life
by many small cares and one vast aching sorrow.
And the voyage to a dim orient in half-seen ships,
the seeds of prayer that flowered in blasphemies,
the bewilderment of a swan among the puddles,
the false nocturnal blue of a sick Bohemia.
Far-off harpsichord, silent and forgotten,
that never gave my dreams the sublime sonata;
orphan skiff, heraldic tree, dark nest
which the night made lovely with its silver light;
Hope still aromatic with fresh herbs; the trill
of the nightingale in the morning in the spring;
the white lily cut down by a fatal destiny;
the search for happiness, and evil's persecutions--
And the dismal amphora with its divine poison
that causes the inner torments of this life;
the fearful knowledge of our human mire;
and the horror of knowing that we are transitory,
the horror of walking blindly, among alarms,
toward the unknowable, toward the inevitable;
and the brute nightmares that rack our weeping sleep,
from which no one but She can wake us up!
Extinguish Thou My Eyes by Rainer Maria Rilke
Extinguish Thou my eyes:I still can see Thee,
deprive my ears of sound:I still can hear Thee,
and without feet I still can come to Thee,
and without voice I still can call to Thee.
Sever my arms from me, I still will hold Thee
with all my heart as with a single hand,
arrest my heart, my brain will keep on beating,
and Should Thy fire at last my brain consume,
the flowing of my blood will carry Thee.
Rose of All the World by DH Lawrence
I am here myself; as though this heave of effort
At starting other life, fulfilled my own;
Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core
Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown
By all the blood of the rose-bush into being -
Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly
To bring together two strange sparks, beget
Another life from our lives, so should send
The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning
And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!
That my completion of manhood should be the beginning
Another life from mine! For so it looks.
The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
The seed is all in all, the blossom lent
To crown the triumph of this new descent.
Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire
Fans out your petals for excess of flame,
Till all your being smokes with fine desire?
Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
One rose of wonderment upon the tree
Of perfect life, and is our possible seed
But the residuum of the ecstasy?
How will you have it? - the rose is all in all,
Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?
The sharp begetting, or the child begot?
Our consummation matters, or does it not?
To me it seems the seed is just left over
From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;
Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush
Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.
Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose
Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose
For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;
For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose.
