Poets’ Window- International Poetry Evening
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
A Ógánaigh An Chúil Cheangailte
(Written in Gaeilge and read by Alma)
A óganaigh an chúil cheangailte
le raibh mé seal in éineacht,
chuaigh tú aréir an bealach seo
is ní tháinig tú dom fhéachant.
Shíl mé nach ndéanfaí dochar duit
dá dtiocfá agus mé d’irarridh,
is gurb é do phóigin a thabharfadh sólás dom
dá mbeinn I lár an fhiabhrais
Dá mbeadh maoin agamsa
agus airgead I mo phóca,
dhéanfainn bóithrin aicearrach
go doras tí mo stóirín,
mar shúil le Dia go gcluinfinnse
torann binn a bhróige,
’s is fada an lá nár chodail mé
ach ag suil blas do phóige.
Agus shíl mé, a stóirín,
go mba gealach agus grian tú,
agus shíl mé ina dhiaidl sin
go mba sneachta ar an sliabh tú,
agus shíl mé ina dhiaidh sin
go mba lóchrann ó Dhia tú
nú go mba tú an réalt eolais
ag dul romham is ’mo dhiaidh tú.
Gheall tú síoda is saitin dom
callaí agus bróga arda,
is gheall tú tar a éis sin
go leanfá tríd an snámh mé.
Ní mar sin atá mé
ach ’mo seach í mbéal bearna
gach nóin agus gach maidin
ag féachaint tí mo mháthar.
Young Man with hair done
up in curls
Read by Alma
(Translation by Thomas Kinsella)
Young man, with hair done up in Curls,
my partner for a time,
you passed along this way last night,
and never came to see me.
I thought it wouldn’t do you harm
to come and make inquiry
— O your little kiss would comfort me
though I were deep in fever.
If I had wealth in my own right
and money in my pocket
the shortest road I’d undertake
up to my darling’s door
hoping to God that I might hear
the sweet sound of his shoes
— O it’s long the day since last I slept
in need to taste his kiss
For it seemed to me, my darling one,
you were the sun and moon,
and after that it seemed to me
you were snow upon the hill,
and after that it seemed to me
you were a lamp from God
or that you were the star of knowledge
before me and behind
Silk and satin you promised me,
high shoes and finery,
and after that you promised
you’d follow through the flood.
Now it is otherwise with me
— I’m a bush to stop the gap,
seeing nothing, noon and morn,
only my mother’s house.
EARLS COURT ARTS HUB
Theme for September 2013 - TRUST
-----------------------------------------------------------
POEMS WILL BE DISPLAYED ONLINE ON OUR BLOG AND ON OUR WALL AT:
EARLS COURT ARTS HUB
1A NEVERN PLACE
EARLS COURT
LONDON
SW5 9NR
-----------------------------------------------------------
poetswindow@yahoo.co.uk
Theme for October 2013 - MOTIVES
-----------------------------------------------------------
POEMS WILL BE DISPLAYED ONLINE ON OUR BLOG AND ON OUR WALL AT:
EARLS COURT ARTS HUB
1A NEVERN PLACE
EARLS COURT
LONDON
SW5 9NR
-----------------------------------------------------------
poetswindow@yahoo.co.uk
Showing posts with label zzzz1st Poetry Evening. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zzzz1st Poetry Evening. Show all posts
Encounter
Poets’ Window- International Poetry Evening
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Polish poem, read by Elizabeth
Spotkanie
By Czeslaw Milosz
Jechaliśmy prezed świtem po zamarłych polach,
Czerwone skrzydło wstawało, jeszcse noc,
I zając przebiegł nagle tuz przed nami,
A jeden z nas pokazał go ręką
To było dawno. Dzisiaj już nie żyją
Ni zając, ani ten co go wskawywał
Miłości moja, gdzież są, dokąd idą,
Błysk ręki, linia biegu, szelest grud-
Nie z żalu pytam, ale z zamyślenia
Encounter
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
Wilno, 1936
By Czeslaw Milosz from “The Collect ed Poems 1931-1987”, 1988
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Polish poem, read by Elizabeth
Spotkanie
By Czeslaw Milosz
Jechaliśmy prezed świtem po zamarłych polach,
Czerwone skrzydło wstawało, jeszcse noc,
I zając przebiegł nagle tuz przed nami,
A jeden z nas pokazał go ręką
To było dawno. Dzisiaj już nie żyją
Ni zając, ani ten co go wskawywał
Miłości moja, gdzież są, dokąd idą,
Błysk ręki, linia biegu, szelest grud-
Nie z żalu pytam, ale z zamyślenia
Encounter
We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.
O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
Wilno, 1936
By Czeslaw Milosz from “The Collect ed Poems 1931-1987”, 1988
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee
The Dancing Serpent
Poets’ Window- International Poetry Evening
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
French poem, read by Marianne
Le Serpent qui danse
Charles Baudelaire
Que j’aime voir, chère indolente,
De ton corps si beau,
Comme une étoffe vacillante
Miroiter la peau!
Sur ta chevelure profonde
Aux âcres parfums,
Mer odorante et vagabonde
Aux flots bleus et bruns,
Comme un navire qui s’éveille
Au vent du matin,
Mon âme rêveuse appareille
Pour un ciel lointain
Tes yeux, où rien ne se révèle
De doux ni d’amer,
Sont deux bijoux froids où se mêle
L’or avec le fer
À te voir marcher en cadence,
Belle d’abandon,
On dirait un serpent qui danse
Au bout d’un bâton.
Sous le fardeau de ta paresse
Ta tête d’enfant
Se balance avec la mollesse
D’un jeune éléphant,
Et ton corps se penche et s’allonge
Comme un fin vaisseau
Qui roule bord sur bord et plonge
Ses vergues dans l’eau.
Comme un flot grossi par la fonte
Des glaciers grondants,
Quand l’eau de ta bouche remonte
Au bord de tes dents,
Je crois boire un vin de Bohême,
Amer et vainqueur,
Un ciel liquide qui parsème
D’étoiles mon coeur!
English translation
The Dancing Serpent
Charles Baudelaire
Indolent darling, how I love
To see the skin
Of your body so beautiful
Shimmer like silk!
Upon your heavy head of hair
With its acrid scents,
Adventurous, odorant sea
With blue and brown waves,
Like a vessel that awakens
To the morning wind,
My dreamy soul sets sail
For a distant sky.
Your eyes where nothing is revealed
Of bitter or sweet,
Are two cold jewels where are mingled
Iron and gold.
To see you walking in cadence
With fine abandon,
One would say a snake which dances
On the end of a staff.
Under the weight of indolence
Your child-like head sways
Gently to and fro like the head
Of a young elephant,
And your body stretches and leans
Like a slender ship
That rolls from side to side and dips
Its yards in the sea.
Like a stream swollen by the thaw
Of rumbling glaciers,
When the water of your mouth rises
To the edge of your teeth,
It seems I drink Bohemian wine,
Bitter and conquering,
A liquid sky that scatters
Stars in my heart!
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
French poem, read by Marianne
Le Serpent qui danse
Charles Baudelaire
Que j’aime voir, chère indolente,
De ton corps si beau,
Comme une étoffe vacillante
Miroiter la peau!
Sur ta chevelure profonde
Aux âcres parfums,
Mer odorante et vagabonde
Aux flots bleus et bruns,
Comme un navire qui s’éveille
Au vent du matin,
Mon âme rêveuse appareille
Pour un ciel lointain
Tes yeux, où rien ne se révèle
De doux ni d’amer,
Sont deux bijoux froids où se mêle
L’or avec le fer
À te voir marcher en cadence,
Belle d’abandon,
On dirait un serpent qui danse
Au bout d’un bâton.
Sous le fardeau de ta paresse
Ta tête d’enfant
Se balance avec la mollesse
D’un jeune éléphant,
Et ton corps se penche et s’allonge
Comme un fin vaisseau
Qui roule bord sur bord et plonge
Ses vergues dans l’eau.
Comme un flot grossi par la fonte
Des glaciers grondants,
Quand l’eau de ta bouche remonte
Au bord de tes dents,
Je crois boire un vin de Bohême,
Amer et vainqueur,
Un ciel liquide qui parsème
D’étoiles mon coeur!
English translation
The Dancing Serpent
Charles Baudelaire
Indolent darling, how I love
To see the skin
Of your body so beautiful
Shimmer like silk!
Upon your heavy head of hair
With its acrid scents,
Adventurous, odorant sea
With blue and brown waves,
Like a vessel that awakens
To the morning wind,
My dreamy soul sets sail
For a distant sky.
Your eyes where nothing is revealed
Of bitter or sweet,
Are two cold jewels where are mingled
Iron and gold.
To see you walking in cadence
With fine abandon,
One would say a snake which dances
On the end of a staff.
Under the weight of indolence
Your child-like head sways
Gently to and fro like the head
Of a young elephant,
And your body stretches and leans
Like a slender ship
That rolls from side to side and dips
Its yards in the sea.
Like a stream swollen by the thaw
Of rumbling glaciers,
When the water of your mouth rises
To the edge of your teeth,
It seems I drink Bohemian wine,
Bitter and conquering,
A liquid sky that scatters
Stars in my heart!
City
Poets’ Window- International Poetry Evening
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Spanish poem, read by Mario
La Ciudad
Gabriel Aresti (1963)
Se hacen de hormigón y de cristal, / de extraños lugares y gentes ocupadas.
/ En todas crece un arbol / delante de la casa de un suicida / y hay niños que
acostumbran a dormirse / soñando con un perro. / No faltan desayunos en hoteles
lujosos, / ni tampoco familias con jardín, / pero son más frecuentes / los portales
oscuros con parejas de novios, / el beso frio, / la rosa de cemento en la ventana.
Las calles desembocan en plazas descompuestas, / las tardes de domingo en
cafeterías / y el humo de los coches en los ojos del loco / que murmura sus años /
y los cuenta sin fin / de metro en metro./ Al salir de los tuneles sentimos /que los
cielos de agua /son igual que una carta del pasado, /y suele comprenderse/que la
vida es un arma lenta y de doble filo /en lo pasos sin nadie,/ en las noches vacías /
o en la debilidad que tienen las ciudades /por los cines de barrio,/ o las taquilleras
muy pintadas.
A pesar de los platanos, los olmos y los tilos, / a pesar la hierba, si hablamos del
norte, / la gente que nos mira, / la gente que se salta los semáforos, / la que fluye
delante de las tiendas, / necesita el amparo / de otra vegetación, / un sigilo de
números y tarjetas de crédito / que extiende sus raices por los sótanos / y busca
soledad en los desvanes / como los muebles y las ratas viejas.
No es inútil viajar, / porque es cierto que todas las ciudades / amanecen de un
modo parecido / pero la noche llega en cada una / de manera distinta. / De día
pueden verse / secretarias, conserjes, policías, / musicos callejeros y soldados,
/ dependientas que escuchan y sonríen, / oficinistas con olor a instancia, /
conductores, extraños sacerdotes, / ejecutivos humillados. / Igual en todas partes,
/ porque apenas existen los kilómetros. / Pero existe la noche, / la soledad que
borra los oficios / en un mundo habitado solamente / por hombres y mujeres,/
confidencias de amarga valentía.
En las ciudades pueden encontrarse / relojes que se paran en la última copa, /
la luna sobre un taxi / y todos los poemas que te escribo.
The City
read by Chris
They are made of concrete and glass /of strange places and busy people. /Within every
one grows a tree / in front of the house of the suicidal / and there are children who are
used to falling asleep / dreaming of a dog. / No lack of breakfasts in luxury hotels, /
nor families with a garden, / but more often / dark doorways with couples, / the cold
kiss, / the cement rose on the window.
The streets spill into distorted squares,/ Sundays afternoons into coffee houses,/ car
fumes into the eyes of the mad/ who murmurs the years / counting them with no end/
from tube to tube./ As we exit the tunnels we feel / that the watery skies / are the same
as a letter from the past / and it’s usually understood/ that life is a slow weapon and is
double edged / in pace with no-one,/ in the empty nights,/ or in the weaknesses that
cities have for/ local cinemas / and painted clerks.
Despite the banana trees, the elm and the lime / despite the grass, if we speak about the
north / the people who stare at us,/ the people who run red lights,/ the people who pass
in front of the shops, / need the shelter of other vegetation:/ a stealth of numbers and
credit cards/ its roots enter basements/ and look for solitude in attics/ like furniture and
old rats.
Travelling is not pointless,/ it’s true that all cities/ wake in similar ways,/ but the
night comes to everyone/ in different ways./ During the day can be seen/ secretaries,
doormen, policemen, / street musicians and soldiers, / shop assistants who listen and
smile,/ office workers smelling like application forms,/ drivers, odd priests,/ humiliated
executives./ The same as everywhere,/ because the miles between hardly exist,/ but the
night it exists,/ solitude erases all professions/ in a world inhabited solely/ by men and
women,/ confessions of bitter courage.
In all cities can be found / clocks that stop at last orders,/ the moon over a cab/
and all the poems I write for you.
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Spanish poem, read by Mario
La Ciudad
Gabriel Aresti (1963)
Se hacen de hormigón y de cristal, / de extraños lugares y gentes ocupadas.
/ En todas crece un arbol / delante de la casa de un suicida / y hay niños que
acostumbran a dormirse / soñando con un perro. / No faltan desayunos en hoteles
lujosos, / ni tampoco familias con jardín, / pero son más frecuentes / los portales
oscuros con parejas de novios, / el beso frio, / la rosa de cemento en la ventana.
Las calles desembocan en plazas descompuestas, / las tardes de domingo en
cafeterías / y el humo de los coches en los ojos del loco / que murmura sus años /
y los cuenta sin fin / de metro en metro./ Al salir de los tuneles sentimos /que los
cielos de agua /son igual que una carta del pasado, /y suele comprenderse/que la
vida es un arma lenta y de doble filo /en lo pasos sin nadie,/ en las noches vacías /
o en la debilidad que tienen las ciudades /por los cines de barrio,/ o las taquilleras
muy pintadas.
A pesar de los platanos, los olmos y los tilos, / a pesar la hierba, si hablamos del
norte, / la gente que nos mira, / la gente que se salta los semáforos, / la que fluye
delante de las tiendas, / necesita el amparo / de otra vegetación, / un sigilo de
números y tarjetas de crédito / que extiende sus raices por los sótanos / y busca
soledad en los desvanes / como los muebles y las ratas viejas.
No es inútil viajar, / porque es cierto que todas las ciudades / amanecen de un
modo parecido / pero la noche llega en cada una / de manera distinta. / De día
pueden verse / secretarias, conserjes, policías, / musicos callejeros y soldados,
/ dependientas que escuchan y sonríen, / oficinistas con olor a instancia, /
conductores, extraños sacerdotes, / ejecutivos humillados. / Igual en todas partes,
/ porque apenas existen los kilómetros. / Pero existe la noche, / la soledad que
borra los oficios / en un mundo habitado solamente / por hombres y mujeres,/
confidencias de amarga valentía.
En las ciudades pueden encontrarse / relojes que se paran en la última copa, /
la luna sobre un taxi / y todos los poemas que te escribo.
The City
read by Chris
They are made of concrete and glass /of strange places and busy people. /Within every
one grows a tree / in front of the house of the suicidal / and there are children who are
used to falling asleep / dreaming of a dog. / No lack of breakfasts in luxury hotels, /
nor families with a garden, / but more often / dark doorways with couples, / the cold
kiss, / the cement rose on the window.
The streets spill into distorted squares,/ Sundays afternoons into coffee houses,/ car
fumes into the eyes of the mad/ who murmurs the years / counting them with no end/
from tube to tube./ As we exit the tunnels we feel / that the watery skies / are the same
as a letter from the past / and it’s usually understood/ that life is a slow weapon and is
double edged / in pace with no-one,/ in the empty nights,/ or in the weaknesses that
cities have for/ local cinemas / and painted clerks.
Despite the banana trees, the elm and the lime / despite the grass, if we speak about the
north / the people who stare at us,/ the people who run red lights,/ the people who pass
in front of the shops, / need the shelter of other vegetation:/ a stealth of numbers and
credit cards/ its roots enter basements/ and look for solitude in attics/ like furniture and
old rats.
Travelling is not pointless,/ it’s true that all cities/ wake in similar ways,/ but the
night comes to everyone/ in different ways./ During the day can be seen/ secretaries,
doormen, policemen, / street musicians and soldiers, / shop assistants who listen and
smile,/ office workers smelling like application forms,/ drivers, odd priests,/ humiliated
executives./ The same as everywhere,/ because the miles between hardly exist,/ but the
night it exists,/ solitude erases all professions/ in a world inhabited solely/ by men and
women,/ confessions of bitter courage.
In all cities can be found / clocks that stop at last orders,/ the moon over a cab/
and all the poems I write for you.
Tags: City, zzPoet Mario, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
The House of My Father - Basque Poem
Poets’ Window- International Poetry Evening
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Basque poem, read by Eleder
Nire Aitaren Etxea
Gabriel Aresti
Nire aitaren etxea
defendituko dut.
Otsoen kontra,
sikatearen kontra,
lukurreriaren kontra,
justiziaren kontra,
defenditu
eginen dut
nire aitaren etxea.
Galduko ditut
aziendak,
soloak,
pinudiak;
galduko ditut
korrituak,
errentak,
interesak,
baina nire aitaren etxea
defendituko dut.
Harmak kenduko dizkidate,
eta eskuarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea;
eskuak ebakiko dizkidate,
eta besoarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea;
besorik gabe,
sorbaldik gabe,
bularrik gabe
utziko naute,
eta arimarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea.
Ni hilen naiz,
nire arima galduko da,
nire askazia galduko da,
baina nire aitaren etxeak
iraunen du
zutik.
English translation
I shall defend the house
of my Father
I shall defend
the house of my father,
against wolves,
against drought,
against usury,
against the law,
I shall defend
the house of my father.
I shall lose
cattle,
orchards,
pine groves;
I shall lose
interests
income
dividends
but I shall defend the
house of my father.
They will take away my weapons
and with my hands I shall defend
the house of my father;
they will cut off my hands,
and with my arms I shall defend
the house of my father;
they will leave me armless,
without shoulders,
without chest,
and with my soul I shall defend
the house of my father.
I shall die,
my soul will be lost,
my descendents will be lost;
but the house of my father
will endure
on its feet.
International Poetry Evening at Ashbees Wine Bar in Earls Court. In addition to the
‘Poets’ Window’ poem’s being read, we had poems written by acclaimed Poets from
around the world read by native speakers, followed by the English translation.
Basque poem, read by Eleder
Nire Aitaren Etxea
Gabriel Aresti
Nire aitaren etxea
defendituko dut.
Otsoen kontra,
sikatearen kontra,
lukurreriaren kontra,
justiziaren kontra,
defenditu
eginen dut
nire aitaren etxea.
Galduko ditut
aziendak,
soloak,
pinudiak;
galduko ditut
korrituak,
errentak,
interesak,
baina nire aitaren etxea
defendituko dut.
Harmak kenduko dizkidate,
eta eskuarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea;
eskuak ebakiko dizkidate,
eta besoarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea;
besorik gabe,
sorbaldik gabe,
bularrik gabe
utziko naute,
eta arimarekin defendituko dut
nire aitaren etxea.
Ni hilen naiz,
nire arima galduko da,
nire askazia galduko da,
baina nire aitaren etxeak
iraunen du
zutik.
English translation
I shall defend the house
of my Father
I shall defend
the house of my father,
against wolves,
against drought,
against usury,
against the law,
I shall defend
the house of my father.
I shall lose
cattle,
orchards,
pine groves;
I shall lose
interests
income
dividends
but I shall defend the
house of my father.
They will take away my weapons
and with my hands I shall defend
the house of my father;
they will cut off my hands,
and with my arms I shall defend
the house of my father;
they will leave me armless,
without shoulders,
without chest,
and with my soul I shall defend
the house of my father.
I shall die,
my soul will be lost,
my descendents will be lost;
but the house of my father
will endure
on its feet.
Change by Sophie
We change our lives
And change our minds
We change our feelings
And change the times.
A change can be
A short term thing,
Or a change can be forever.
I don’t think there’s anything
Wrong in changing,
To try and be somebody better.
But I think with change
Comes a lot of blame.
A lot of courage,
But a lot of pain.
Afraid to be somone
Who's always the same.
Boring, plain,
Predictable, mundane.
I think a change is a push
To help you move on.
Whether it's what you want
Or life’s gone wrong.
Coz change is what keeps us going
To strive for something more.
We spend a lifetime asking questions
That we have no answers for.
A change can be a make or break,
A risk to take, or a big mistake!
But who cares anyway?
If the change wasn’t what you saw,
The beauty of change is that
You can change back-
To the Life you had before! Change
And change our minds
We change our feelings
And change the times.
A change can be
A short term thing,
Or a change can be forever.
I don’t think there’s anything
Wrong in changing,
To try and be somebody better.
But I think with change
Comes a lot of blame.
A lot of courage,
But a lot of pain.
Afraid to be somone
Who's always the same.
Boring, plain,
Predictable, mundane.
I think a change is a push
To help you move on.
Whether it's what you want
Or life’s gone wrong.
Coz change is what keeps us going
To strive for something more.
We spend a lifetime asking questions
That we have no answers for.
A change can be a make or break,
A risk to take, or a big mistake!
But who cares anyway?
If the change wasn’t what you saw,
The beauty of change is that
You can change back-
To the Life you had before! Change
Tags: Change, zzPoet Sophie, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
Joy by Erato
Precious as a jewel
Easy to create as a jingle
I have my everyday joys
Simple collections of different elements
Cappuccino cig trees air in motion sun
But there is the joy
The unique fragile ephemeral unexpected one
The same that raptures all my senses
Comme une vague sur la mediterrannee
Inattendue mais tellement esperee
Elle froisse ma tranquillité
Et a l intense sensation me fait gouter
It is an art
Knowing how to grab this surreal fleeting
Delicious moment
When I can feel I am not dead
My joy is aquatic
Soft as the blue colour
But electric
It is as an unforgettable gift
To life
Easy to create as a jingle
I have my everyday joys
Simple collections of different elements
Cappuccino cig trees air in motion sun
But there is the joy
The unique fragile ephemeral unexpected one
The same that raptures all my senses
Comme une vague sur la mediterrannee
Inattendue mais tellement esperee
Elle froisse ma tranquillité
Et a l intense sensation me fait gouter
It is an art
Knowing how to grab this surreal fleeting
Delicious moment
When I can feel I am not dead
My joy is aquatic
Soft as the blue colour
But electric
It is as an unforgettable gift
To life
Tags: Joy, zzPoet Erato, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
Mother by Cody
Pointed, sustaining, hanging
Mid-air, anchoring
The deepest affections of a Mother
The moon is
Pulling into soft focus
all the glory of the sun
Distributing the subtler energies
at distant points,
weaving a web, as a only a Mother could
Protecting,
giving form to
dust and space
- or, as a friend told me –
The moon is an aperture
At the month of this doomed fish-bowl
that we are at the bottom of.
And all life is cultured
by the gentle rhythms
of our mothers stretching backward
Into some distant lineage
The moon hangs in silence, and we sleep
As she works for us, tethered, cycling
-but then-
To be awoken abruptly, by the sand-
Jock hammers in the basement, shattering
Men working, sweating to deconstruct
What Mother has built in our sleep
Mid-air, anchoring
The deepest affections of a Mother
The moon is
Pulling into soft focus
all the glory of the sun
Distributing the subtler energies
at distant points,
weaving a web, as a only a Mother could
Protecting,
giving form to
dust and space
- or, as a friend told me –
The moon is an aperture
At the month of this doomed fish-bowl
that we are at the bottom of.
And all life is cultured
by the gentle rhythms
of our mothers stretching backward
Into some distant lineage
The moon hangs in silence, and we sleep
As she works for us, tethered, cycling
-but then-
To be awoken abruptly, by the sand-
Jock hammers in the basement, shattering
Men working, sweating to deconstruct
What Mother has built in our sleep
Tags: Mother, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
Mother by Marie
Undoubtedly burdened by your issues
Tormented by time, tears and tissues
You put me down but pick me up
You heal my wounds, yet fuck me up.
You unglue my feet if they get stuck
When life is tough and gets too much.
I’ve laughed my greatest laughs with you
And cried a lifetime of tears for you
Life is pretty mad I think
And I understand why you drink
Careless stares and blood shot eyes
We are locked in frightened silent cries.
I have a key and go inside
I feel your pain or is it mine
It hurts sometimes
Tormented by time, tears and tissues
You put me down but pick me up
You heal my wounds, yet fuck me up.
You unglue my feet if they get stuck
When life is tough and gets too much.
I’ve laughed my greatest laughs with you
And cried a lifetime of tears for you
Life is pretty mad I think
And I understand why you drink
Careless stares and blood shot eyes
We are locked in frightened silent cries.
I have a key and go inside
I feel your pain or is it mine
It hurts sometimes
Tags: Mother, zzPoet Marie, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
Yes by Fassbinder
Twenty Questions by Fassbinder
She said “no” to me
To everything
Everyday
Except to having her hand
Everytime
Whatever I asked
‘No, no, no’.
The day the bathroom was fitted
I was fired from my job at 9am
I was home before noon
The place seemed different
Cold and empty
Like me
Moments after clicking the front door to
I froze
From what I could discern
I could hear coming
From a room upstairs
… her.
But it couldn’t be her
Could it?
Because I could hear her
Saying the word “Yes”
Perhaps fifteen times
I shuffled up the stairs
Then scaled the last risers
To the landing
In one
And ran into the bathroom
From whence the sound came
They both looked at me
“Noooo!... she said.
“It’s not what you think…
We’re playing twenty questions”.
She said “no” to me
To everything
Everyday
Except to having her hand
Everytime
Whatever I asked
‘No, no, no’.
The day the bathroom was fitted
I was fired from my job at 9am
I was home before noon
The place seemed different
Cold and empty
Like me
Moments after clicking the front door to
I froze
From what I could discern
I could hear coming
From a room upstairs
… her.
But it couldn’t be her
Could it?
Because I could hear her
Saying the word “Yes”
Perhaps fifteen times
I shuffled up the stairs
Then scaled the last risers
To the landing
In one
And ran into the bathroom
From whence the sound came
They both looked at me
“Noooo!... she said.
“It’s not what you think…
We’re playing twenty questions”.
Yes by Fassbinder
She shook her head defiantly
paused and said
“Not even for a million quid no”
He looked at the ground
then back in her eyes and whispered
“I-I, just want to get you into bed, p-lease”
“I bet you do, and then in five minutes you will disappear”
his mother said.
“... and the answer’s still no!...
It’s got bugs in it and worse
I’ve tried to tell the nurse
Take me ‘ome son
let me die with me creature comforts
will you son, will you?”
“Yes, mother
yes okay”.
paused and said
“Not even for a million quid no”
He looked at the ground
then back in her eyes and whispered
“I-I, just want to get you into bed, p-lease”
“I bet you do, and then in five minutes you will disappear”
his mother said.
“... and the answer’s still no!...
It’s got bugs in it and worse
I’ve tried to tell the nurse
Take me ‘ome son
let me die with me creature comforts
will you son, will you?”
“Yes, mother
yes okay”.
Little Discoveries-Greek/Eng- by ChriStina StouRaiti
This poem was read by Christina at PW's first poetry evening at Ashbee's wine bar. The evening was international in flavour to reflect the diversity of the city of London. We had a packed house with entertainment in the form of poetry, music and comedy
"Μικρές Ανακαλύψεις"
"Μικρές ανακαλύψεις
του εαυτού μου
κ ενός άλλου.
Σαν σε καθρέφτη
τα βλέμματα
πιστά.
Και τα λόγια φυσικά,
με κορμιά που κουμπώνοv
άξαφνα, μα και όχι`
κόντρα κι αρμονικά
σ' ένα είδωλο του εαυτού
τρομακτικό
καθρέφτισμα και ηχώ.
Και μερικές συνωφρυωμένες
ματιές,
μα πιο πολύ αστραφτερά μάτια
και καρδιά που παίρνει ανάσα
μια στάλα
και τρέχει ο λογισμός επιτέλους
πάλι για αλλού."
"Little Discoveries"
"Little discoveries
of myself
and another's.
Faithful looks
like in a mirror.
With words naturally woven
and bodies buttoned together.
Suddenly, but, at the same time, not.
Against and in harmony.
Within a reflection of self
a terrifying mirroring and echo.
A few frawning looks,
but mostly
shiny eyes
and a heart that takes a breath.
Thought runs at last beyond."
ChriStina StouRaiti
"Μικρές Ανακαλύψεις"
"Μικρές ανακαλύψεις
του εαυτού μου
κ ενός άλλου.
Σαν σε καθρέφτη
τα βλέμματα
πιστά.
Και τα λόγια φυσικά,
με κορμιά που κουμπώνοv
άξαφνα, μα και όχι`
κόντρα κι αρμονικά
σ' ένα είδωλο του εαυτού
τρομακτικό
καθρέφτισμα και ηχώ.
Και μερικές συνωφρυωμένες
ματιές,
μα πιο πολύ αστραφτερά μάτια
και καρδιά που παίρνει ανάσα
μια στάλα
και τρέχει ο λογισμός επιτέλους
πάλι για αλλού."
"Little Discoveries"
"Little discoveries
of myself
and another's.
Faithful looks
like in a mirror.
With words naturally woven
and bodies buttoned together.
Suddenly, but, at the same time, not.
Against and in harmony.
Within a reflection of self
a terrifying mirroring and echo.
A few frawning looks,
but mostly
shiny eyes
and a heart that takes a breath.
Thought runs at last beyond."
ChriStina StouRaiti
Tags: zzzz1st Poetry Evening
"My Imagination" by Maddy
This poem was read by Maddy at PW's first poetry evening at Ashbee's wine bar. Afrikaans followed by the English translation.The evening was international in flavour to reflect the diversity of the city of London. We had a packed house with entertainment in the form of poetry, music and comedy.
"My Verbeeling"
Ek het gesit en gedink,
Dit is soos dit is,
Soos dit was,
Soos dit altyd sal wees.
As die laast sonstrale ondergaan,
Wanneer die bome staan en hulle blare afval,
So droom ek.
So wonder ek.
Wys my die kleur
Die kleur van jou Siel
Wys my die kleur
Die kleur van jou Hart
Ek sit en dink
Dit is soos dit is,
Soos dit was,
Soos dit altyd sal wees.
"My Imagination"
I sat and I thought,
It is like it is,
Like it was,
Like it always will be.
As the last rays of sunlight disappears,
When the trees stand tall and the leafs fall down,
I dream.I wonder.
Show me the colour
The colour of your Soul
Show me the colour
The colour of you Heart
I sit and I think
It is like it is,
Like it was,
Like it always will be.
"My Verbeeling"
Ek het gesit en gedink,
Dit is soos dit is,
Soos dit was,
Soos dit altyd sal wees.
As die laast sonstrale ondergaan,
Wanneer die bome staan en hulle blare afval,
So droom ek.
So wonder ek.
Wys my die kleur
Die kleur van jou Siel
Wys my die kleur
Die kleur van jou Hart
Ek sit en dink
Dit is soos dit is,
Soos dit was,
Soos dit altyd sal wees.
"My Imagination"
I sat and I thought,
It is like it is,
Like it was,
Like it always will be.
As the last rays of sunlight disappears,
When the trees stand tall and the leafs fall down,
I dream.I wonder.
Show me the colour
The colour of your Soul
Show me the colour
The colour of you Heart
I sit and I think
It is like it is,
Like it was,
Like it always will be.
Tags: zzPoet Maddy, zzzz1st Poetry Evening, zzzzPoets Window. Vol.I
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