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