May 17, 2010
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...
May 11, 2010
"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.
May 06, 2010
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...
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
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/
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
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
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/
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