"Take this flight,  of a Swan's Song," said the Wind as he met my anticipation with a fantasy  that would take much courage.  "Meet the fragrance of the lilac, the rose and forget-me-not.  Meet the day and feel its presence, for look it's another new age.  Breathe in life and remember dear fantasy fairies and the hidden inner child.  Fantasy fairies; mermaids; tiny innocent angels; ' everyone' has been waiting for you!  Look it's another new age!"

"I will hold the map you gave me for all my life dear Wind!  I am neither mortal nor legend in your pathway.  I am the tear of ahhh and the lace on a whisper in your presence.  You bring me the moon, the teller of moods and soften the suns rays on my shoulder."  I spoke with commitment, then taking up my brush and oil paints  I did indeed meet with the Wind's plan.  I grabbed hold of the "Swan's Song" and melted into his music.  The journey ahead was  exciting yet remarkably smooth.  I rode on the back of a great white and golden swan while his companion followed along.  The Wind met my hair and kissed my cheek.  Below us the view was filled with every mountain and every sea that has ever come to be.   I could see everything from far and wide all at one time.  I embraced the magic I had thus far only imagined possible." (Kathy Ostman-Magnusen)

Between the Now and Then

 

Upon horizon, night to day ~
there between the now and then,
I often pause along the way,
to tiptoe through the moonlit glen ~
or perhaps take in sun's light,
night to day ~ day to night.

Upon horizon, day to day ~
there between the then and now,
as seasons grow along the way,
to crease the face of timely brow ~
or perhaps steal time away,
day to day ~ day to day.

Upon horizon, day to night ~
there between the now and then,
I stand beneath my autumn light,
bereft as memory calls again ~
to pain the heart with bygone sight,
Night to day ~ day to night.

Upon horizon, night to night ~
there between the then and now,
I know that winter casts its sight,
on one last leaf that will not bow ~
to frost within its golden sight,
night to night ~ night to night.

Upon horizon, night to day ~
there between the now and then,
I know my spring will fade away,
and summer's soft remember when
will echo gently autumn's way ~
day to night ~ night to day....
Winter's near ~ Winter's near......

Hazelmarie Elliott

The Forever Friend

On my own, but mostly the savannah,
Where the tumbleweeds fade away and die,
Before the glassy sun burns a summer of crystals,
The glistering waters of the high seas
Of which was so far a place as of where vultures roam.
I looked around but you weren't anywhere...
You used to say that you would never die,
But I took the wrong meaning into my heart.
Now the sea is wild with despair,
Deep blue like a prairie of flowers blue,
Where all children of God rest in eternal peace.
I saw you at the end,
You and I, brother and sister of nature,
Brother and sister of heaven and earth,
Your usually calm and heavenly eyes full of tears,
Bitterly falling one after one into a river,
Then the river of life turned red in blood.
My eyes watched in horror.
Slowly and deadly your heart became poisoned,
You disappeared without saying good-bye,
Not a word came out of your mouth.
You became like desolation in its grave.
When once the skies were a realm of stars
And the sun shone brightly in summer skies,
You were there to share the calmness;
But now I stand here in midst of the tall grass
And only the savannah remains.

by Artur Hawkwing

Insomnia 4 AM

The great black horse racing through my mind,
Expanding space, denying time
Keeping me awake, not allowing me to sleep
Head keeps pounding--wish I could weep
Sleeplessness, Tearlessness
Bells in my head
My heart starts to pound as I head for bed
"No-Go back-Don't climb up the stairs,
You'll stay awake absorbed by your cares."
Thus says the Black Horse
As he denies me my rest, makes my thoughts race,
He does his best to keep me awake,
Not allow me to sleep, not to clear my mind--
Wish I could weep.

Gone without rest for four long days,
He'll keep me awake as long as he stays.
Go away Black Horse, Please leave my head--
No torture, no longer, Let's go to bed--
Let's go to sleep--Perhaps shall we dream?
"Of course," says the horse, "and then you shall scream,
You'll scream through the dark and then wake the dead--
That's what you'll get for going to bed!"
So awake I shall stay,
Damn that Black Horse!
He wins this battle as a matter of course
But will he win always or shall I succeed
In getting some sleep--what must I concede?
I'll give him his due, he's done his best,
Robbed me of sleep, denied me my rest.
Awake against time--how can this be bad?
I'll just go insane instead of just sad.

Anon

A poem from

The negatives of silence

by

E p i l o g u e

Please cherish my memory - he said. I walked for thousand miles on end without bread and without water, along rocks and through thorns I walked, to fetch you bread, water and roses. I was always faithful to beauty. With fair mind I gave out all my fortune. I did not keep my lot. I am poor. With a tiny lily from the fields I brightened our harshest nights. Please cherish my memory.  And forgive this last sorrow of mine:  I would like - once again - to reap a ripe corn with the slender sickle moon. To stand at the threshold, to stare away and to chew with my front teeth the wheat admiring and blessing this world that I leave behind, admiring also Him who climbs up the hill in the golden rain of a sinking sun. There is a purple square patch in his left sleeve. It is not easy to see. It was this, more than anything else, that I wanted to show you. And probably, more than anything else, it would be worth remembering me for this.

Karlovasi, 30.VII. 87

 

There is no justice in curse

like beauty and love.

There is no wording of the oath

to people and herd,

they have just silence to rule

and wisdom to give.

Tribe lives with gravies and rites,

glorified fears and reflexes.

It is a machine to maintain or murderer.

Passivity is pleasure.

His language entitles to continue,

Poet creates his words

to tribes and their leaders

to orators and their arbitrators... 

   

 

Mr. Cogito never trusted / tricks of the imagination

the piano at the top of the Alps / played false concerts for him

he didn't appreciate labyrinths / the Sphinx filled him with loathing

he lived in a house with no basement / without mirrors of dialectics

jungles of tangled images / were not his home

he would rarely soar / on the wings of metaphor

and then he fell like Icarus / into the embrace of the Great Mother

he adored tautologies / explanations / idem per idem

that a bird is a bird / slavery means slavery

a knife is a knife / death remains death

he loved / the flat horizon

a straight line / the gravity of the earth

Zbigniew Herbert (1924; Lwow-1998;Warsaw) was a poet, essayist and moralist. He studied law, economy and philosophy in Krakow, Torun and Warsaw. He fought agains the nazis with Polish Resistance Movement during World War II.

While I write this entry, I searched a passage from The Barbar in the Garden in Google but couldn't find it in English. Now I don't feel up to translate it here. Maybe you know Fortinbras's Elegy...

I don't feel up to write my associations too.

 T h i s   M o m e n t

A neighbourhood. / At dusk. / Things are getting ready / to happen / out of sight. / Stars and moths. / And rinds slanting around fruit. / But not yet. / One tree is black. / One window is yellow as butter. / A woman leans down to catch a child / who has run into her arms / this moment. / Stars rise. / Moths flutter. / Apples sweeten in the dark.

 - from In a Time of Violence, 1994 -

from now on

there will be a branch

which will crunch under the foot.

there will be

malars

eyes

a mouth which will cry.

Let me alone.

Let me die.

 - translated by me -

 

E u g e n e   O n e g i n

My old uncle, an upstanding don,

Lay on his deathbed like a king.

And we, like poor servants, waited on

His whim... 'twas such a clever thing.

He so nobly knocked on Heaven's door,

Yet, my God! It was an awful bore,

To hover o'er him day and night

Without the chance of rest of flight

And it was low treachery laid bare

As we, for his half-dead delight

Would set his every pillow right

And, solemn, tote elixers there

While wondering, with a whispered rue:

"When will the Devil come for you?"

 

"how a root of willow drinks the pearly flood water,

 

I drink the wine just like that!

 

So you are saying "God is one and knows everything,

 

He knew that I would drink, when he created me...

 

So if I am drinking now, God is not mistaken!"

 

 

- translated by me -

 

before you caress a rosy face...

look at this comb: it was a piece of wood

it is cut, broken into pieces, suffer and suffer again...

but now, it is between a dish's sweet smelling hair."

- translated by me -

 

Of you and no regret. For you do not share

The Pierian roses, but unseen in the house of Hades

You will stray, breathed out, among the ghostly dead."

(Fragments, on the Muses) 

"we will savour...

if there is anyone who belittles us

may the hex always be on his head."

 (*) Zeynep Ankara critical book essays, abridged edition. Milliyet Art Review, March 1, 1996.

When that I was and a little tiny boy

When that I was and a little tiny boy

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came to man's estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came, alas, to wive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

With toss-pots still 'had drunken heads,

For the rain it raineth every day.

 

A great while ago the world began,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

But that's all one, our play is done,

And we'll strive to please you every day. 

WILLIAM SHEAKESPEARE