To be alive: not just the carcass
But the spark.
That's crudely put, but…
If we're not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
A Community of the Spirit, Rumi.
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street
and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in the circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd's love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.
You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street
and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in the circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd's love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.
You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Hm...
How funny that all I remember of you is your belt, fine leather, and hair
Oh, and your backside, that poise extending out to your elbows
Hinting and hiding something that runs in you.
And with your backside and your leather belt and hair... You fade.
How funny that the first thing I think of you is your smell
like the juice of crushed onions that pierce through my nostrils
And all the beautiful glowing gems of you come second. Or last.
Leaving a bittersweet light silently dancing in the shade of that year.
How stupid that I should think of intersections now
And parallel lives,
Biting my nails and pushing up my glasses.
Oh, and your backside, that poise extending out to your elbows
Hinting and hiding something that runs in you.
And with your backside and your leather belt and hair... You fade.
How funny that the first thing I think of you is your smell
like the juice of crushed onions that pierce through my nostrils
And all the beautiful glowing gems of you come second. Or last.
Leaving a bittersweet light silently dancing in the shade of that year.
How stupid that I should think of intersections now
And parallel lives,
Biting my nails and pushing up my glasses.
Чиний дурлал, Б. Явуухулан
Хавирган сар нэмэн нэмсээр дvvрдэг шиг
Хайрын сэтгэл минь улам чамд дасаад байх юм.
Сарны гэрэлд лянхуа навчсаа хумьдаг шиг
Сайхан чиний хайрын илч чинь буураад байх юм.
Өвсөнд буусан vvрийн шvvдэр хийсдэг шиг
Арилах болов уу,
Усанд унасан борооны дусал хатдаггvй шиг
Амьдрах болов уу?
Чиний дурлал.
1958 он
___
A beautiful poem called "Your Love" by Mongolian poet B. Yavuuhulan (1929-1982), written in 1958. I thought I'd post it considering it's Valentine's Day. A rough and questionable translation by me:
Like the new moon adds and adds to become full
My feelings of love are getting more used to you.
Like the lotus closes its petals in the moonlight
The warmth of your love, beautiful, is fading.
Like the morning dew on grass blows away
Will it disappear?
Like raindrops that fall in water never dry
Will it live on?
Your love.
___
He has many beautiful poems and the first one I read was when I was 12, called "Tehiin Zogsool". I had such a hard time just paying attention and reading it, mainly because my Mongolian was pretty bad and I had to read it for Literature class. Last winter, I read the poem again online and actually cried.
Another poem I like by B. Yavuuhulan is "Tuulyn ursgal shunuduu saikhan", which translates into "The flow of Tuul (river) is beautiful by night". But I'll save that for another day.
Хайрын сэтгэл минь улам чамд дасаад байх юм.
Сарны гэрэлд лянхуа навчсаа хумьдаг шиг
Сайхан чиний хайрын илч чинь буураад байх юм.
Өвсөнд буусан vvрийн шvvдэр хийсдэг шиг
Арилах болов уу,
Усанд унасан борооны дусал хатдаггvй шиг
Амьдрах болов уу?
Чиний дурлал.
1958 он
___
A beautiful poem called "Your Love" by Mongolian poet B. Yavuuhulan (1929-1982), written in 1958. I thought I'd post it considering it's Valentine's Day. A rough and questionable translation by me:
Like the new moon adds and adds to become full
My feelings of love are getting more used to you.
Like the lotus closes its petals in the moonlight
The warmth of your love, beautiful, is fading.
Like the morning dew on grass blows away
Will it disappear?
Like raindrops that fall in water never dry
Will it live on?
Your love.
___
He has many beautiful poems and the first one I read was when I was 12, called "Tehiin Zogsool". I had such a hard time just paying attention and reading it, mainly because my Mongolian was pretty bad and I had to read it for Literature class. Last winter, I read the poem again online and actually cried.
Another poem I like by B. Yavuuhulan is "Tuulyn ursgal shunuduu saikhan", which translates into "The flow of Tuul (river) is beautiful by night". But I'll save that for another day.
We Real Cool, by Gwendolyn Brooks
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
RIP Alexander McQueen.
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
RIP Alexander McQueen.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Scissors
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
perception from vision
to receive art.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
rationale from feeling
to receive love.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
dreams from reality
to receive today.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
throat and wrist
when I get pissed.
with which to cut
perception from vision
to receive art.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
rationale from feeling
to receive love.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
dreams from reality
to receive today.
Sharp scissors
with which to cut
throat and wrist
when I get pissed.
Alcohol is good.
It was pretty.
You smelled good.
And I no longer me.
Mind was gone.
All else was on
But clarity cowers at the feet of reason
And I left you alone.
A rose was lifted.
The alcohol had drifted.
Smell was fading.
And I was coming back.
Devil mind was home.
I nervously shifted.
Rationale went ballistic.
And I quickly stomped the rose.
Dreams are ugly.
Thoughts of a lunatic.
Reality shades on eyes
And I unplug the cord.
Nothing is peace.
Mind was alcohol.
All day, on my shoulders,
I carry a bleeding poison snake.
Feelings should drown
Calculations prove it.
Sense governs all.
And I am a most loyal slave.
All day, on my shoulders,
A bleeding poison snake.
It was pretty.
You smelled good.
And I no longer me.
Mind was gone.
All else was on
But clarity cowers at the feet of reason
And I left you alone.
A rose was lifted.
The alcohol had drifted.
Smell was fading.
And I was coming back.
Devil mind was home.
I nervously shifted.
Rationale went ballistic.
And I quickly stomped the rose.
Dreams are ugly.
Thoughts of a lunatic.
Reality shades on eyes
And I unplug the cord.
Nothing is peace.
Mind was alcohol.
All day, on my shoulders,
I carry a bleeding poison snake.
Feelings should drown
Calculations prove it.
Sense governs all.
And I am a most loyal slave.
All day, on my shoulders,
A bleeding poison snake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)