deia three times born

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

by Alan Poe

124

"The more a man cultivates the arts, the less randy he becomes... Only the brute is good at coupling, and copulation is the lyricism of the masses. To copulate is to enter into another–and the artist never emerges from himself."
Charles Baudelaire

one old Memory

ANDROMACHE, I think of you! The stream,

The poor, sad mirror where in bygone days
Shone all the majesty of your widowed grief,
The lying Simoïs flooded by your tears,
Made all my fertile memory blossom forth
As I passed by the new-built Carrousel.
Old Paris is no more (a town, alas,
Changes more quickly than man's heart may change);
Yet in my mind I still can see the booths;
The heaps of brick and rough-hewn capitals;
The grass; the stones all over-green with moss;
The débris, and the square-set heaps of tiles.


There a menagerie was once outspread;
And there I saw, one morning at the hour
When toil awakes beneath the cold, clear sky,
And the road roars upon the silent air,
A swan who had escaped his cage, and walked
On the dry pavement with his webby feet,
And trailed his spotless plumage on the ground.
And near a waterless stream the piteous swan
Opened his beak, and bathing in the dust
His nervous wings, he cried (his heart the while
Filled with a vision of his own fair lake):
"O water, when then wilt thou come in rain?
Lightning, when wilt thou glitter?"

Sometimes yet
I see the hapless bird -- strange, fatal myth--
Like him that Ovid writes of, lifting up
Unto the cruelly blue, ironic heavens,
With stretched, convulsive neck a thirsty face,
As though he sent reproaches up to God!

II.

Paris may change; my melancholy is fixed.
New palaces, and scaffoldings, and blocks,
And suburbs old, are symbols all to me
Whose memories are as heavy as a stone.
And so, before the Louvre, to vex my soul,
The image came of my majestic swan
With his mad gestures, foolish and sublime,
As of an exile whom one great desire
Gnaws with no truce. And then I thought of you,
Andromache! torn from your hero's arms;
Beneath the hand of Pyrrhus in his pride;
Bent o'er an empty tomb in ecstasy;
Widow of Hector -- wife of Helenus!
And of the negress, wan and phthisical,
Tramping the mud, and with her haggard eyes
Seeking beyond the mighty walls of fog
The absent palm-trees of proud Africa;
Of all who lose that which they never find;
Of all who drink of tears; all whom grey grief
Gives suck to as the kindly wolf gave suck;
Of meagre orphans who like blossoms fade.
And one old Memory like a crying horn
Sounds through the forest where my soul is lost . . .
I think of sailors on some isle forgotten;
Of captives; vanquished . . . and of many more.

THE SWAN

by: Charles Baudelaire

...of Lawlessness Logos!

Tomorrow becomes the past of yesterday's future... in a myriad of moments, thoughts drunk with feeling dream they are reality, like memories awaken by the whispers of passing time, floating words weaved together by mind’s gravity ...

AMOR

...Dea Latuisset in blue Tiber marshes ... of Venus and Mars salt ... ROMA on Earth mirrored

...where u see ideals, i see all that is human...

The sum of some is quite different than most. ...the sum of some, which is all we see, is some of the sum, that created you and me. Thus, for some, the sum will never reach infinity...

Numbers passed down to us as a tool, are understood as a constant...but in a world of change how can sums stay the same? I wonder ... do numbers re re-arrange or are the sum of some as shown in quantum mechanics, from the sanctum of saintdom or a far off quaser?

"Ah, quanto mais ao povo a alma falta, mais a minha alma Atlântica se exalta..."
...Ah, the more to the populace the soul fails, the more my Atlantic soul becomes enraged...

"Sem a loucura que é o homem mais que a besta sadia, cadáver adiado que procria?"
...Without madness what more is man than a beast in health, depleted cadaver that procreates?...

words of Fernando Pessoa
translated by me

Remember ... Camões

... a goldsmith of words that weaved with forever the eternal dreams of a wandering soul shipwrecked in the realm of mortals ...

poem by Portuguese poet Luís de Camões.

Let Love search for new arts, a new talent

to kill me, and new indifference;
for it cannot take away my hopes,
for it will have difficulty in taking from me what I do not have.

See with what hopes I maintain myself
See how dangerous my safety is!
For I do not fear contrasts or changes,
sailing on the rough sea, my vessel lost.

But, although there cannot be any grief
where there is no hope, Love hides
from me an evil that kills and cannot be seen.

For there are days that have placed in my soul
an I know not what, that is born I know not where,
appears I know not how and hurts I know not why

Beware

...and when your thoughts are filled with the rotten greed of lifeless riches, remember the treasures bestowed upon this fertile land where gods tread, for no diamonds nor gold and certainly not money will matter, when the waters are tainted red...

"Look into the Past"

...coincidences are inevitable and often less remarkable than they may appear intuitively...

Requiem of an Unrequited Memory

sound like the delicate taste of a salty breeze smell one can feel in the wind's breath as it froths the sea...

"dimidium facti qui coepit habet: sapere aude, incipe"

... it's as if we have forgotten the causality of fate that has brought down every great civilization...

My Enlightment

Achievement of comprehensive consciousness accomplished through the understanding of causality derived from thought and deed.

Ventania ...

São os olhos de um poeta louco que contempla a noite, na palavra certa de um pensamento, Só, por um momento de inspiração...

I WANT one ...

...wondering if it would be possible to put all books ever written in a tiny nanochip ...and connect it to the brain?...

watching the world go by

Contemplating the persistence of instinctive life in the guise of human intelligence I see how in everything common men are slaves of a subconscious temperament, of extraneous circumstances, and of their social and anti-social impulses in which, with which and over which they clash like petty objects...

Aša

...void is the edge of the precipice overlooking the abyss at the limbo of everything...

This Biography - Anjun Hasan

My heart beat fast or did not beat at all;

I could not say all that I thought and thought
till words deserted me. I loved too abstractly.
I dreaded how all there was to give me was me—
like water, this biography. I unravelled far too easily
then fled to selfish deserts and slept on the hardest rocks.
I couldn't make what others made and broke and broke
and made, that sweet choreography. I went alone
and missed the world continually. I misread smiles;
I stuttered before open arms, but time passed too fast
for disappointment's imprint on the glass of memory.
I sought the future even when the blood swirled now,
I let the past decide too greedily. I kept searching out
the window, I tried to stay half hidden by the light.


Poem by Anjun Hasan
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anjum_Hasan

Houses (after Kavafy)

Relentlessly, a dream has hemmed me in these hills

While the future has cast me as a bleak interpreter of signs.
And so many things to finish
That I did not pay attention to their birth,
There were no labor pains,
And they have shut me off from their hearths.

...scrap from"Houses" afer Kavafy - poems by Ngangom
http://middlestage.blogspot.com/

In the Wood's Desolation, the Tiger is Wild

In the wood's desolation, the tiger is wild.
Hungrier it goes without prey.
Whoevergoes to the Yamuna for water,

waiting and watching, He carries her away.
Into the womb of the wood, fast he flees.
Child-like, the tiger, yet it is wild.

It spreads fast the snares of its vigil
to all the serpentine bylanes
leading to the lyric bend of the river.

Into the waters deep He dives
at the sight of bathing gopis.
And softly he tears out the sheath

of their ululant hearts with His nails
obstinate, gleaming and sharp.
His wide gape wears moon-like glitter.

His lips are pretty and aquiver.
His body dark and the broad forehead
speckled and sprinkled with sandalwood;

and his eyes so rare, huge and globe-like.
No one knows whence came this tiger, Kanhai.
Thus sings Salabega, the lowborn.

Poem by Salabega "In the Wood's Desolation, the Tiger is Wild"
http://middlestage.blogspot.com/2007/01/tigers-in-poetry-of-william-blake-and.html

Mais où sont les neiges d'antan!

Some for the pleasures here below

Others yearn for The Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the cash and let the credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum

And much as Wine has played the Infidel
And robbed me of my robe of Honour, well ...
I often wonder what the vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell

For some we loved, the loveliest and best
That from His rolling vintage Time has pressed,
Have drunk their glass a round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest

But helpless pieces in the game He plays
Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days
He hither and thither moves, and checks ... and slays
Then one by one, back in the Closet lays

"The Moving Finger writes: and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."


Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam - Edward FitzGerald
note title does not represent the actual title of the poem

Regiment of the Senses

Speak not of guilt, speak not of responsibility. When the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners; when the senses shiver and shudder, it is only a fool and and an irreverent person that will keep his distance, who will not embrace the good cause, marching towards the conquest of pleasures and passions.

All of morality’s laws – poorly understood and applied – are nil and cannot stand even for a moment, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.

Do not permit any shadowy virtue to hold you back. Do not believe that any obligation binds you. Your duty is to give in, to always give in to Desires, these most perfect creatures of the perfect gods. Your duty is to enlist as a faithful footman, with simplicity of heart, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.

Do not confine yourself at home, misleading yourself with theories of justice, with the preconceptions of reward, held by an imperfect society. Do not say, Such is my toil’s worth and such is my due to savor. Just as life is an inheritance, and you did nothing to earn it as a recompense, so should Sensual Pleasure be. Do not shut yourself at home; but keep the windows open, open wide, so as to hear the first sound of the passing of the soldiers, when the Regiment of the Senses arrives, with music, and with banners.

Do not be deceived by the blasphemers who tell you that the service is dangerous and laborious. The service of sensual pleasure is a constant joy. It does exhaust you, but it exhausts you with inebriations sublime. And finally, when you collapse in the street, even then your fortune is enviable. When your funeral will pass by, the Forms to which your desires gave shape will shower lilacs and white roses upon your coffin, young Olympian Gods will bear you on their shoulders, and you will be buried in the Cemetery of the Ideal, where the mausoleums of poetry gleam conspicuously white.

Poem by Kavafy
http://www.cavafy.com/

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
When once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die

by Alfred Tennyson

Otherness watches us from the shadows ...

"...to be able to have dreams, it's crucial that you have no illusions.

In this way you'll reach the summit of dreamy abstention, where senses blend, feelings overflow, and ideas intermingle. There colours and souls taste like each other, hatreds taste like loves, and concrete things like abstracts things, abstract things like concrete. The ties that joined everything but also separated everything - because they isolated each element - are broken. Everything melds and merges.

... To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that's really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.

Life and the Universe - be they reality or illusion belong to everyone. Everyone can see what I see and have what I have, or can at least imagine himself seeing it and having it...

But no one besides me can see and have what I dream. And if I see the outer world differently from how others see it, it's because I inadvertly incorporate, into what I see, the things from my dreams that have stuck to my eyes and ears.

... To kill our dream life would be to kill ourselves, to mutilate our soul. Dreaming is the one thing we have that's really ours, invulnerably and inalterably ours.

Every day things happen in the world that can't be explained by any law of things we know...the same mystery that brought them takes them away, transforming their secret into oblivion. Such is the law by which things that can't be explained must be forgotten...

Fictions of the Interlude colourfully covering the torpor and sloth of our underlying disbelief.

What kills the dreamer is to not live while he dreams..."

Words of Fernando Pessoa

(feelings that could be mine)

Evasion! - Yet even that doesn't make the dream worthless...

" Sometimes snakes can't slough. They can't burst their old skin.

Then they go sick and die inside the old skin, and nobody ever sees the new pattern.

It needs a real desperate recklessness to burst your old skin at last.
You simply don't care what happens to you, if you rip yourself in two, so long as you do get out.

It also needs a real belief in the new skin. Otherwise you are likely never to make the effort. Then you gradually sicken and go rotten and die in the old skin. "


...by D.H.Lawrence

Patria Alma

Unworthy barbarians whom you love as sons even as they defile your divine essence with the unconscious words of filth they have become ……with seven demons in their hearts they are but shameful disreputable vermin of decrepit existences who sully thy blood by claiming it in their veins, dishonoring your legacy and disgracing your name… they may disguise you in rags as a pauper and scent you with their gutter breath but you will forever shine as a womb of thought long after their putrid souls have rotten in decaying distended bellies...Eternal Greece.

V

Hidden things…

From all I did and all I said
let no one try to find out who I was.
An obstacle was there that changed the pattern
of my actions and the manner of my life.
An obstacle was often there
to stop me when I’d begin to speak.
From my most unnoticed actions,
my most veiled writing—
from these alone will I be understood.
But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,
so much effort to discover who I really am.
Later, in a more perfect society,
someone else made just like me
is certain to appear and act freely.

poem by Kavafy

Chez Moi Je Suis La Reine

Searching for FOREVER...beyond eternity if I have too...because I know it's somewhere out there...and I really don't care if it means nothing to you all

It's all about believing…

...when you hurt without wounds to heal and reality is filled with empty promises and flawed expectations, life can bring you to your knees…. Just don't let it dissipate your soul into the 4 winds … and spread your salt in water and pies. For only ancient wisdom seems true….And I rather hold to mythic fairytales than contemporary lies…

...word

…word, who can be so delightfully perverse… to thee,
shadows of conscience, in the abyss of my existence,
shut the fuck up… and listen to silence screaming ...
your armor means nothing against my being!
My breastplate in goat skin lined, wisdom's cup
will safely keep filled with blood and tears sublime,
seed to sow the earth divine, essence void of time.
Words like honey, crawl up the soul from the deep
poem that makes this mead complete.
...word,
you can be delightfully perverse... to thee,
shadows of conscience, from the abyss of my existence
you will hear silence screaming ... shut the fk up...
your armour means nothing against my being!
My breastplate sown with goat skin line,
wisdom's cup will safely keep, filled with blood and tears divine
until next time we meet.
that's why ... my misanthropic essence,
drink the soul and spit out the body
so that the flesh can leave anytime it may wish.
Form, that across time and void will perish.

Salt More Precious Than Gold

More Powerful than SALT only the Salt of Life Around the world and throughout history, salt has been cherished both as a healer, preserver and vital symbol of life and blood. It has been considered a token of love and a guard against evil. The Native Americans considered salt a gift of the deity and by keeping it safely in a box, it had the power to ward off evil; in Andalusia, salt is synonymous with grace and charm and to pay a lover a high compliment you call her your "salt box"; and in Morocco people carry salt on them for protection against evil spirits. The great historic value of salt is also depicted in the following Czech fairytale: The story begins with a king who had three daughters, each of whom were to seek suitors. The two oldest daughters found wealthy and powerful men who could show their wealth to the king. The youngest, however, had met and fallen in love with a young man in secret, who found her one day crying that she needed a man to show her father. When she explained, he said that she was not to worry, that he would appear before her father and show his wealth, she was very relieved. On the fateful day, the two older girls presented their suitors and the king was very pleased. When he began to question his younger daughter, he was very upset to learn that she did not even know his name or where he came from. Suddenly he appeared, dressed well and presented himself to the king. When asked who he was, he said he was the Prince of Salt and he would inherit his father's kingdom of salt. When the father heard this, he grew very angry and yelled that salt was worthless and his daughter could not marry him. At that instant, the prince's father appeared and laid a curse on the kingdom because the king did not know the value of salt. From henceforth, there would be no salt in the land and every bit of salt would turn to gold. The prince would never be allowed to see the daughter of someone who did not value salt. In a whirl they both disappeared. At first the king thought nothing of the curse, but slowly the fields withered without salt, the people grew ill and left the kingdom in droves. The food had no flavor, and illness spread. In vain they tried to import salt from a neighboring kingdom, but the minute the wagons of salt crossed the border, the salt would turn into gold, which was now worthless. The wealth of the king's sons-in-law was to no avail. Meanwhile, the youngest daughter was stricken with grief at the loss of her beloved. She vowed to try and find him. She left the castle and began her wanderings, searching everywhere for the kingdom of salt. After many trials, she finally found a deep cave and discovered the location of the kingdom of salt. The King of Salt was still very angry and at first refused to see her. Finally, when she begged enough, he told her that his son had become a pillar of salt. And sure enough, in the cave there she saw a life-sized pillar of salt. At first horrified, she finally succeeded in finding out that only the dew drops of all the flowers in the kingdom, which were in fact the tears of all the people who had suffered from her father's outburst and discounting of salt, had to be collected and brought back to the cave and poured over the pillar of salt to rescue the prince. So the daughter went out and tirelessly collected the drops in a pitcher, working until she could not stay awake, falling asleep in the fields, and again and again persevering, until finally she collected all the drops in her pitcher and sneaked inside the cave. The king tried to stop her, but she was finally able to pour the pitcher over the pillar of salt and her loved one emerged. Finally, the king was convinced of her devotion to his son and salt, and he lifted the curse. When they both returned to the castle with some salt, they found father and courtiers all ailing. When she handed her father the salt, he told her he had been mistaken, that "salt was more precious than gold," and with that, ... and they all lived happily ever after.

Clown in the Clouds

Kneeling On The Pavement, You Can’t Say Shit Your Mouth Is Gagged, You Surrounded By A Thousand Guys Totally Under Your Spell They All Totaly Scared Of The Power You Hold You Can Change The Rules Of The Game And Devour Their Souls Now’s The Time Girl ...artist Zef Antwood

yawehtSISIsksatsolnoshtneves

In the infinity of space... you'll find my resting place... across the abyss of imagination... a star will show your destination...

Nocturnal Silences

I think I know now, why the nocturnal silence in this illustrious place is such a bad silence. The words, all of them destined to oblivion, have died out. That shouldn’t matter as they died out in the street too. But outside of this enclosed gray frame, no one pretends that it’s more than talk, people talk and enjoy talking, as they enjoy licking ice cream, so the tongue can take a break from the words. While here, everyone always acts as if it were different. As if it were enormously important, what they “said”. But they too, have to sleep in their self-importance, and then a silence remains that smells rotten because cadavers of pomposity are lying around everywhere and stincking without words. People say they understand each other, answer each other. But it isn’t so. No one, not a single one of the discussions shows the slightest indication of a change of mind in view of the reasons presented. With a heavy heart I realize: that’s how it always is! Saying something to another, or plethora of others, how can we expect it to affect anything? Really…?! The current of thoughts, images and feelings that flows through us, on every side, has such force, this torrential current, that it would be a miracle if it didn’t simply sweep away and consign to oblivion all words anyone else says to us, if they didn’t by accident, sheer accident, suit our own words. It’s sad, such sign of putrid minds; how everybody just goes around talking only to themselves. Well, I guess, it’s just talking. People like to talk. Basically, that’s it: just talking. No meeting of minds! Meeting of Minds? What? Why? The mind is not a bicep or broad chest nor a firm ass or perky breast, you can suckle on or feel … flaunt it to be admired and groped. It can’t be seen or possessed …so who cares? What an irrational expectation in today’s fleeting lives. How disdainful. I wonder…Is it different with me? Do I really listen to anybody else? Let them into me, with their words so that my internal current might be diverted? Why does this nocturnal silence, my sole companion, as I wander this insipid city streets at night, seem so lifeless to me? So queasy and desolate, so completely vapid and without charm? So completely different from those rooms of dusty velvet silence, which flash with life even in the early hours of the morning, when no human souls are out and about. Where the bright unearthly shining encloses buildings with sacred names, cells of scholarship, exquisite libraries, where perfectly shaped sentences are spoken, weighed pensively, refuted, and defended. V

Fight!

Your sons have come to kill you... Those, whom you birthed, of Hellene and Barbarian mother, who once worshiped you as Gods, now desecrate your name. Bastards, they are the enemies at your gate, rejoicing in your slaughter. You raised them from dust and taught them everything…quenched their thirst in the Pierian Spring, and inebriated yourself in fame. Treacherous and frothing scum, they rebel in desire to possess your eternal glory and extinguish your flame. Your sons have come to kill you … dedicated to my soul's eternal lover...greece

para o Grego

why should it be? search not for ithaka on your voyage... for ithaka is but of the past memory. to there return, all your springs you'll exhaust, tame in feeling, wild summers lost. A thousand unborn eyes will weep your misery Lamenting your broken soul’s destiny. For the gods take away the life they give and spoil the beauty they made live. The ashes of a fire no flame can burn… so why a lifeless color should you become, that leaving Xaros hauls on his back, leaving the world hollow with thy lack? A wild tiger’s fate can not be that! May Thetis guide you to Delos without delay, Far from the gloomy whirlwinds of hurt’s dismay That since ever, you captive in exile hold, And from her divine waters a new heart mold. When you set off on your journey home, In the soothing embrace of Thetis foam let your heart guide you and behold. For Poseidon shall lead our ships to cross at sea So I may catch a glimpse of thee... whole." ....A Portuguesa

Quantum Theory of Myth...

... Heuristic device to enable understanding ... ὅπερ ἔδει δεῖξαι. Thus Epic Poetry... ὅπερ ἔδει ποιῆσαι. ... can be thought...oxalá...can be possible...

Remember me...

I plee ... for tonight on Cecropia, at the foot of your tomb I shall lay ... Unknown.

...looking for diamonds amongst rubbish and dreams...

....from the latest hit to the wisdom of old...it's crowded and cold ......apparently the basics have become the exception that confirms the rule. Fundamental Perversion of men....guarantors of moral order in a reality made from an obsessive mix of dream and nightmare. Innocense that kills to not be killed...the POWER of the BULL...

...journey with no destination and without return...

...standing on the precipice of the vast unknown, where the sands of time dance in the winds of confusion...wild tide of an untammed soul wrought with memory...long forgotten at the end of a world of sea without shore. Hades above and the ravenous Adamastor...

Monologues of Silence

Thus they would be like a Poem, plaited by a goldsmith of Words...words, destined to oblivion in the nocturnal silence settling over this illustrious place. Understanding...we erase it from our memory but the imprint is always there. Time will help me through, but it doesn't have the time to give me all the answers to the never ending why...

The New Century's Goddess

The New Century' s Goddess - whom our great-grandchildren or perhaps a still later generation will know, but we shall not - when and how does she reveal herself? What does she look like? What is the theme of her song? Whose heartstrings will she touch? To what heights will she lift her century?

Why so many questions, in a busy day like ours, when poetry is very nearly superfluous, when it is agreed that the many "immortal" productions of today' s poets will, in the future, perhaps exist only in the form of charcoal tracings on a prison wall, seen and read only by a few curiosity seekers? Poesy is required to serve in the ranks - at least to accept the challenge in party wars, whether it be blood or ink that flows. But this is only one-sided talk, many will say; poesy has not been entirely forgotten in our time. No, there are still people who, when they are not busy, are conscious of a desire for poetry, and no sooner do they feel that spiritual rumbling in their respective nobler parts than they promptly go to a bookstore and buy four shillings' worth of poetry of the most approved styles. Others take much pleasure from whatever they can get at a bargain; they are contended with reading the scrap that is on the grocer' s wrapping paper; it is much cheaper, and in our busy time we must take notice of that. There is demand for whatever is supplied, and that is enough!

The poetry of the future, as well as the poetry of music, is reckoned with the Don Quixotiana; to speak of it is much like speaking of a voyage of discovery to Uranus. Time is too short and precious for the mere plays of fantasy, and, to speak seriously for once, what is poetry? These resonant outpourings of feeling and thought, they are only the offspring of nervous vibrations.

Enthusiasm, joy, pain, all the movements of the organism, the wise men tell us, are but nerve vibrations. Each of us is but a string instrument. But who touches the strings? Who causes them to vibrate into sound? The Spirit, the unseen Heavenly Spirit, who echoes in them His emotion, His feelings; and these are understood by other string instruments, which respond in melting harmonies or clashing dissonances. So it was, and so it will be, in mankind' s mighty onward march in the consciousness of freedom.

Each century, each thousand years, one might even say, has its chief expression in its poetry. Born in the passing era, it comes forth and reigns in the new, succeeding era. Thus she is already born, this Goddess of the New Century, amid the roar of today' s machinery. We send her our greetings! May she hear this, or sometime read it, perhaps among the charcoal tracings we just mentioned. The rocker of her cradle extended from the farthest point reached by the foot of man on polar voyages, as far as the living eye can gaze into the jet depth of the polar sky. We would never hear the rocking for the clatter of engines, the screams of locomotives, the thunder of quarry blasts, and the bursting of the Spirit' s old bonds.

She is born in the vast factory of the present, where steam sets in action its power, and where Master Bloodless and his crew toil night and day. She bears the womanly heart of love, the vestal' s flame, and the furnace of passion. Hers is the lightning ray of intellect, in all its endless, shifting, prismatic hues of the ages. Fantasy' s vast, swanfeathered tunic is her strength and pride; science wove it; the "elemental forces" gave it power of wing. On her father' s side, she is a child of the people, sound in sense and heart, with an earnest eye, and with humor on her lips. Her mother is the highborn, academy-trained emigrant' s daughter, with gilded rococo reminiscences.

The Goddess of the New Century has in her the blood and soul of both. Upon her cradle were laid splendid birthday gifts. Plentiful as bonbons, the occult riddles of nature, with their solutions, are strewn there. The diver' s bell gives mystic souvenirs from the deep. The map of the heavens, that high-hung Pacific Ocean with its countless isles, each a world in itself, is embroidered on the cradle cloth. The sun paints her pictures; photography has given her toys to play with. The nurse has sung to her of Eivind Skalde-spiller and Firdausi, of the minnesingers, and what Heine, bold as a boy, sang from his poetic soul. Much, far too much, has the nurse told her; she knows the Edda, the old great-grandmother' s frightful tales, where horrors sweep the air with bloody wings. The whole of the Oriental Thousand and One Nights she heard in the quarter part of an hour.

The Goddess of the New Century is still a child, but she has sprung forth from her cradle and is governed by will, though she still doesn't know what she wants. She is still at play in her vast nursery packed with treasures of art and the rococo. Greek tragedy and Roman comedy are carved there in marble. The folk songs of the nations cover the walls like withered vines; a kiss from her, and they blossom forth with freshness and sweet vapor. The mighty tones and thoughts of Beethoven, Mozart, Glück, and the other great masters surround her with eternal chords. On her bookshelves are many laid to rest who in their day were immortal; and there is yet room for many another whose name we hear clicking from the telegraph of immortality but who dies with the telegram. She has read an awful lot, far too much, for is she not born in our time? And all too much must again be forgotten; but the Goddess will know how to forget.

She doesn't think of her song, which will flourish in thousands of years to come, beside the legends of Moses and Bidpai's golden fable about the craft and luck of the fox. She doesn't think of her mission or of her melodious future; she is still playing, while the struggles of nations shake the air and sound figures of pen and cannon rush to and fro - runes of mystic reading. She wears a Garibaldi hat, and when she reads her Shakespeare she stops for a moment to think; he can still be played when I am grown! Calderón rests in the tomb of his works, beneath the tablet of his glory.

The Goddess is cosmopolitan, for she has bound together Holberg with Molière, Plautus, and Aristophanes; but most she reads her Molière. She is free from the turbulence that drives the goats of the Alps, but still her soul yearns for the salt of life, as the goats pant for the mountain salt. There is calm in her heart as in the ancient Hebrew songs the voice of the nomad drifts over green pastures beneath starry skies; and yet in song her heart swells mightier than the heart of the inspired warrior from the Thessalonian mountains in the old days of Greece.

How goes it with her Christendom? She has learned the ins and outs of philosophy; the elements broke one of her milk teeth, but a new one grew. While yet in the cradle she ate of the fruit of knowledge and grew wise, so that Immortality flashed forth before her as mankind' s happiest thought.

When begins the New Age of Poesy? When will the Goddess be known? When will she be heard? On a wonderful spring morning she will come on the locomotive dragon, thundering over bridges and through dark tunnels; or on the back of the puffing dolphin across the calm but surging sea; or high in the air, carried by Montgolfier's bird, Roc, descending in the land where first her God-given voice shall greet the race of man.

When? Will she come from the newfound land of Columbus, the land of freedom, where the native is hunted and the African is a beast of burden, the land from where we heard The Song of Hiawatha? Or from the antipodes, that golden nugget in the southern sea, the land of opposites, where our nighttime is their daytime, and where the black swans sing in mossy forests? Or maybe from the land where Memnon' s pillar rings but we never understood the song of the Sphinx in the desert from the isle of the coalpit, where, since the age of the great Elizabeth, Shakespeare has reigned? Or from Tycho Brahe's home, where he wasn't wanted; or from California's fairyland, where the redwood holds high its crown as king of the earth' s forests?

When shall the star be lit, the star on the brow of the Goddess, the flower on whose petals is inscribed the century's ideal of beauty in form, color, and fragrance? "What is the Goddess' new platform?" inquires the skillful politician of the day. "What does she stand for?"

Better ask what she does not stand for! She will not appear as a ghost of bygone times! She will not fashion her dramas from the discarded splendor of the stage, nor cover the lack of dramatic architecture with the dazzling colors of lyric drapery! Her flight forth among us will be as from the car of Thespis to the marble arena. She will not shatter normal human speech to fragments, to be clinked together for an artificial music box with tones from troubadour tournaments. Nor will she separate patrician Verse and plain plebeian Prose - twins are they in voice, quality, and power! Nor will she carve from the saga blocks of Iceland and ancient gods, for they are dead; no sympathy or fellowship awaits them in our day! Nor will she command her generation to occupy their thoughts with the fabric of a French novel; nor will she dull them with the chloroform of everyday history!

She will bring the elixir of life; her song, whether in verse or prose, will be brief, clear, and rich. The nations' heartbeats are but letters in the endless alphabet of mankind' s growth; she grasps each letter with equal lovingness, and ranges all in words, and weaves her words into rhythms for her Age' s Hymn.

And when shall the hour come? It will be long to us who are still here; brief to those who have flown ahead. The Chinese Wall will soon fall. The railways of Europe open old Asia' s tightly sealed culture archives, and the opposing streams of human culture meet, mayhap with a thunderous crash. The oldsters of our days will tremble at that sound and hear in it a judgment, the fall of ancient gods, forgetting that times and peoples must pass from the earth, and only a tiny image, sealed in a word casket, remain of each, floating like a lotus flower on the stream of eternity, and telling us that all were flesh of our flesh, dressed in different attire.

The Jewish image shines radiant from the Bible; the Greek from the Iliad and the Odyssey; and ours? Ask it of the coming Goddess, at judgment time, when the new heaven is lifted to light and sight at the judgment day. All the power of steam and all the pressure of modern times were levers!

Master Bloodless and his busy crew, who seem the all-powerful rulers of our day, are but its servants, black slaves to adorn the festive hall, open its treasures, set its tables, for the great feast day when the Goddess, a child of innocence, a maid of inspiration, a matron of calm wisdom, shall lift on high the wonderful Lamp of Poetry, that rich, full human heart flaming with the fire of God.

Greetings, you Goddess of Poetry' s coming age! May our salutation be heard as is heard the worm' s hymn of thanksgiving - the worm that is cut to pieces beneath the plow, while a new springtime is dawning and the plowman draws his furrow among us worms, crushing us, that your blessings may be bestowed upon the coming generation.

Greetings, you Goddess of the New Century

translation of Hans Christian Andersen's "Det nye Aarhundredes Musa" by Jean Hersholt.

http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheNewCenturysGoddess_e.html

...with limited perception trying to grasp that which is beyond...

Standing on the precipice of the vast unknown, where the sands of time dance in the winds of confusion...

...το επίμεμπτο σε εσας, ποιητές τις ψυχής μου, αυτη επιφέρωμενι ασφυξία εις μάτην ακατάσχετες επιθυμίες... É culpa de todos vós, poetas da minha alma que sufoco em desejos vãos...

artwork from Mr. Grego Theopsy

...the meaning of life is found in the perfect embrace...

...too bad reality is only in our heads...just a bunch of silly dreams...then dawn comes u wake up and the dream is gone forever, while you linger awake wishing that you had remained asleep forever. In the abyss all things exist, but are without meaning...just an impression ...time will help me through, but it doesn't have the time to give me all the answers to the never ending why... ...as if each of my dreams and each desire belongs to whoever had it, not me ... it always fascinates me to find an intimate thought in the notes of a melody, the brush strokes of a painting or the lines of a poem... Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us, what happens to the rest?