Authors

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

December 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)


Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.


I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.


When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.


Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

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Il neige

December 25, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

C'est un après-midi du Nord.
Le ciel est blanc et morne. Il neige ;
Et l'arbre du chemin se tord
Sous la rafale qui l'assiège.


Depuis l'aurore, il neige à flots ;
Tout s'efface sous la tourmente.
A travers ses rauques sanglots
Une cloche au loin se lamente.


Le glas râle dans le brouillard,
Qu'aucune lueur n'illumine...
Voici venir un corbillard,
Qui sort de la combe voisine.


Un groupe, vêtu de noir, suit,
Muet, le lourd traîneau funèbre.
Déjà du ciel descend la nuit,
Déjà la route s'enténèbre.


Et toujours du bronze éploré
Tombe la lugubre prière;
Et j'entends dans mon coeur navré
Tinter comme un glas funéraire.


Je me souviens... Je me revois,
Sur le blanc linceul de la terre,
Dans la bise, en pleurs, aux abois,
Suivant le cercueil de mon père.


Je ne puis détacher mon oeil,
Voilé d'une larme dernière,
Du silencieux groupe en deuil
Qui marche vers le cimetière.


Je sens, saisi d'un vague effroi,
Qui me retient à la fenêtre,
Qu'en la marche du noir convoi
Fuit quelque chose de mon être.


Soudain dans le champ de la mort
Disparaît le sombre cortège...
C'est un après-midi du Nord.
Le ciel est blanc et morne. Il neige.


William CHAPMAN (1850-1917)

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Present

December 22, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Je voudrais ramasser toutes les fleurs des champs,
Je voudrais receuillir tous les parfums des bois
Je voudrais rassembler tous les rêves d'amour,
Et puis fleurs, parfums, rêves, tout, te le donner,
Tout cela que n'ont pas les autres bien-aimées,
Je te t'aurais donné, fleurs, parfums, tout
Ce qui ne peut s'acheter à prix d'or, mais bien
Avec l'amour qu'on a dans son coeur pour sa mie...


Et lorsque tu les aurais assez savourés,
Tu jetterais au loin en les éparpillant,
Déesse bienfaisante et chère aux amoureux,
Tous les parfums, les fleurs, et les rêves aussi,
Afin que se penchant sur ces trésors d'un jour,
Le monde soit heureux grâce à toi, grâce à moi,
Grâce à nous deux et grâce à notre amour,
Fleur la plus parfumée, rêve immatériel...
Et blotti contre toi sans plus penser à rien,
D'un sommeil rajeuni je dormirais heureux.


Charles Oulmont (1883 - 1984)


Extrait du livre "Message personel - Traduit de moi-même "
(Nouvelle edition)
ISTRA- Strasbourg

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First Rhymes

November 16, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

We walked by the sea
and caught a bee


I eat a peach
by the beach


Georgina (7 years old) Gorleston


16 November 2011


pdm

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Les séparés (N'écris pas...)

November 12, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)


N'écris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m'éteindre.
Les beaux étés sans toi, c'est la nuit sans flambeau.
J'ai refermé mes bras qui ne peuvent t'atteindre,
Et frapper à mon coeur, c'est frapper au tombeau.
N'écris pas !


N'écris pas. N'apprenons qu'à mourir à nous-mêmes.
Ne demande qu'à Dieu... qu'à toi, si je t'aimais !
Au fond de ton absence écouter que tu m'aimes,
C'est entendre le ciel sans y monter jamais.
N'écris pas !


N'écris pas. Je te crains ; j'ai peur de ma mémoire ;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m'appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l'eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N'écris pas !


N'écris pas ces doux mots que je n'ose plus lire :
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur ;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire ;
Il semble qu'un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.
N'écris pas !


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The Bed By The Window

November 08, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Robinson Jeffers


I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting,
Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its latter purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equalled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish;
And then it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thumps with his staff, and calls thrice: "Come, Jeffers."

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Liberté

October 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments


Sur mes cahiers d'écolier
Sur mon pupitre et les arbres
Sur le sable sur la neige
J'écris ton nom


Sur toutes les pages lues
Sur toutes les pages blanches
Pierre sang papier ou cendre
J'écris ton nom


Sur les images dorées
Sur les armes des guerriers
Sur la couronne des rois
J'écris ton nom


Sur la jungle et le désert
Sur les nids sur les genêts
Sur l'écho de mon enfance
J'écris ton nom


Sur les merveilles des nuits
Sur le pain blanc des journées
Sur les saisons fiancées
J'écris ton nom


Sur tous mes chiffons d'azur
Sur l'étang soleil moisi
Sur le lac lune vivante
J'écris ton nom


Sur les champs sur l'horizon
Sur les ailes des oiseaux
Et sur le moulin des ombres
J'écris ton nom


Sur chaque bouffée d'aurore
Sur la mer sur les bateaux
Sur la montagne démente
J'écris ton nom


Sur la mousse des nuages
Sur les sueurs de l'orage
Sur la pluie épaisse et fade
J'écris ton nom


Sur la vitre des surprises
Sur les lèvres attentives
Bien au-dessus du silence
J'écris ton nom


Sur mes refuges détruits
Sur mes phares écroulés
Sur les murs de mon ennui
J'écris ton nom


Sur l'absence sans désirs
Sur la solitude nue
Sur les marches de la mort
J'écris ton nom


Sur la santé revenue
Sur le risque disparu
Sur l'espoir sans souvenir
J'écris ton nom


Et par le pouvoir d'un mot
Je recommence ma vie
Je suis né pour te connaître
Pour te nommer


Liberté.


Paul Eluard
in Poésies et vérités , 1942


0 comments:

Yearning

October 26, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp


Summertime has been the blossom over
Autumn chill has seen off meadow clover
A circling flock of starlings I can see
Come roosting on the rowan berry tree
I do so yearn for days of early spring


I contemplate the cold October sky
A starlit night with frost descending
I shiver at the moon so bright on high
While deep within a sigh ascending
I do so yearn for days of early spring


Considering the snowy winter scene
The furry squirrel darting on the green
A flurrying of snowflakes in the wake
The icing on my frosted Christmas cake
I do so yearn for days of early spring


Aware of the advancing march of time
Awakening I stretch my limbs and yawn
A serenade of melodies sublime
Blackbirds sing in chorus at the dawn
I do so yearn for days of early spring


With disregard of frequent April showers
I fond regard a feathered friend I made
Flitting to and fro among the bowers
Now perching on the handle of my spade
A fine return for days of early spring


0 comments:

Renascence

October 18, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Edna St. Vincent Millay


The room is full of you! -- As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick! --


Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room's dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers, --
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death --
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.
Save here.  Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"


You are not here.  I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door. -- So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key! --
The room is as you left it; your last touch --
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly -- hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.


There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table, -- I cannot believe
That you are gone! -- Just then it seemed to me
You must be here.  I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end";
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.


Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro. . .


And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t",
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric "e's".  You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again.  If you had known --
But then, it does not matter, -- and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day."
To-day!  Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow? -- O my love,
The things that withered, -- and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty.  (O my empty life!)
That day -- that day you picked the first sweet-pea, --
And brought it in to show me!  I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.)  And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew.  (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.)  What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet? -- If only God
Had let us love, -- and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea!  I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet, -- I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
'Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first.  I did not know,
Then, that it was the last.  If I had known --
But then, it does not matter.  Strange how few,
After all's said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
Few indeed!  When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
"I had you and I have you now no more."
There, there it dangles, -- where's the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down!  I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!


"*I had you and I have you now no more*."


O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified? -- Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on!  Would God -- O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery!  O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer?  'Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!


We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart.  I had not thought
That I could move, -- and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak, -- and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre.  And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you.  I have been torn
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me?  And what am I
To life, -- a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?


Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast, -- save that contrast's wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms.  What now -- what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world?  You were my song!
Now, let discord scream!  You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds!  For I shall not
Plant things above your grave -- (the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.


I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";
I know not where you are, I do not know
If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know: -- not for one second's space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.
Let the world wail!  Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!


-- What do I say?
God! God! -- God pity me!  Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken?  Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting!  Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead!  Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive.  If all at once
Faith were to slacken, -- that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing, -- birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!


O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons!  How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant -- looking over -- and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight --


*    *    *    *    *


Ah, I am worn out -- I am wearied out --
It is too much -- I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep.  Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.

0 comments:

Twas such a little—little boat

October 01, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

'Twas such a little—little boat
That toddled down the bay!
'Twas such a gallant—gallant sea
That beckoned it away!


'Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast—
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!


Emily Dickinson

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Lotus

September 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

J’ai passé beaucoup de nuits calmes et sans espoir
Croisant mes pieds pour prier
J’aspire et expire comme tout le monde
Oh le monde ? Il existe à peine


Mais l’autre monde existe
L’autre vent, les autres agneaux sacrifiés
Et les autres visages pas sûrement vivants
En un mot ils appartiennent à l’autre monde


Mes mains ouvertes sont le seul lotus que je possède
Vous dites qu’elles poussent mais dans quelle direction ?
Vous dites qu’elles suivent leur chemin mais pour quelle Destination ?


Ce que je fais c’est apprendre à oublier
Sur quel chemin l’immense univers cesserait
D’être perçu par des yeux humains


Shu Cai


Version française Henri Deluy, Liliane Giraudon,
Audrey Jenkinson, Jean-Jacques Viton


Avec l aimable autorisation de l’auteur Shu Cai


Né en 1965 à Zhejiang. Diplomé de l’Université des Langues Etrangères de Beijing (langue et littérature française). Il a été diplomate de 1990 à 1994 à l’Ambassade de Chine au Sénégal. Vit et travaille actuellement à Beijing. Traducteur de Pierre Reverdy, Réné Char, Arthur Rimbaud, Saint-John Perse et Yves Bonnefoy. Recueil de poèmes : ‘’Le Seul’’ (Editions de Hua Xia, 1997). Essais :’’Guetter’’(Editions de Bei Yue, 2000).


0 comments:

There was a naughty boy

September 15, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.


John Keats (1795 –  1821)

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Come not when I am dead

September 09, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie:
Go by, go by.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

0 comments:

L'Homme et la mer

September 03, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.
Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!


Charles Baudelaire , (1821 –1867)

0 comments:

La Gare

August 31, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans une gare.
Pareille à toutes. Lente, oppressante,
paisible parfois, submergée
au tréfonds des sortilèges de l’horloge.
Et je me suis pris pour une taupe, bestiole fourbue
dans un recoin,
les regardant passer, courir, renoncer,
et comme dévorant les guichets,
demander un billet, des horaires,
puis courir.


Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans la gare
et je n’ai pas voulu me remémorer cette autre, la miniature,
battue des vents et secouée
comme peuplier transi.
Je me revois en elle, à peine extirpé du train,
rendu à la multitude,
cherchant sur les murs hors d’usage
la nuit de veille, le mitan du tour, une couleur,
un acacia tissant ses énigmes
dans les délires de mon corps. Dès lors
tout était terre ombreuse, une crainte
renversée entre col et ceinture, et la haine
du crieur annonçant la pluie impénitente.


Cette nuit j’ai débarqué
et renoncé à cet air emmuré
à la colère des cloîtres
à la radicelle amère qui cherchait
l’ombre et la vase.
Les trains passent. Comment ne pas épier
en eux une peine fugitive
un vestibule aux ronces, une promesse
du vieux territoire de l’amour.
Moi, je regarde la taupe, vautrée, jetée
à ce zig zag de cris et de figures,
indécise, accusatrice et comme déchiffrant
l’horaire et les vestiges
d’une vielle musique.


Je vois courir la nuit,
et le ciel dans mes souliers, et le profil
de mon corps pèlerin
par cette galerie d’anges se télescopant
pour ne pas manquer le train,
pour être chanceux, pour toucher le fond
de cette carte sans gloire.


(Traduit de l’espagnol par Jean-Claude Duthion)©


THE STATION


Tonight I arrived at a train station.
Same as the rest. Lingering, suffocating,
serene at times, submerged
under the magic spell of the clock.
And I played the mole, tired little beast
crouched in a corner,
watching them go by, running, giving up,
or devouring the teller’s little window
to ask for a ticket, a schedule,
and running again.


Tonight I arrived at the station,
and I refused to remember the other one, the very short one,
blown and shaken
like a freezing poplar.
I remember myself there, torn from the train,
returned to the crowds,
searching the useless walls
for light, noon, some color,
a locust tree spinning its enigmas in the delusions of my body. Then
everything was darkened earth,
a bolt of fear from my neck to my waist,
and hatred for the unrepentant rain’s proclamation.


Tonight I arrived
and renounced this air stifled between the walls,
the cloistered anger,
the bitter little shoot in search of
the shade and the downpour.
Trains go by. I can’t help but see in them
a fleeting sadness, a foreshadowing of the north wind,
a promise to bygone loves.
I look at the mole, being dragged along
thrown into this zigzag of shouts and shapes
looking doubtful, accusing, as if figuring out
the schedule, and the ruins
of an ancient music.


I see the night fly by,


and the sky in my shoes, and the outline
of my body traveling
through this gallery of angels tripping over each other
trying not to miss the train,
trying to be happy, trying to get to the bottom
of this inglorious journey.


(Translated from Spanish by Victor S. Drescher)©


LA ESTACIÓN


Esta noche he llegado a una estación de tren.
Igual a todas. Lenta, sofocante,
serena a veces, sumergida
entre los sortilegios del reloj.
Y me he tenido por topo, cansada bestiecilla
en un rincón,
mirándolos pasar, correr, rendirse,
y como devorando las ventanas
pedir billete, horarios
y correr.


Esta noche he llegado a la estación,
y no he querido rememorar la otra, la cortísima,
soplada y sacudida
como aterido álamo.
Yo me recuerdo en ella, arrancado del tren,
vuelto a las muchedumbres,
buscando en las paredes inservibles
la vela, el mediodía, algún color,
una acacia tejiendo sus enigmas
en los delirios de mi cuerpo. Entonces
todo era tierra umbría, un derramado
miedo entre el cuello y la cintura, y odio
al pregón de la lluvia impenitente.


Esta noche he llegado
y renunciado a este aire entre murallas,
a la ira de los claustros,
a la raicilla amarga que buscaba
la sombra y el turbión.
Pasan los trenes. Cómo no atisbar
en ellos una pena fugitiva,
una antesala al cierzo, una promesa
al viejo territorio del amor.
Yo miro al topo, a rastras, arrojado
a este zigzag de gritos y figuras,
dudoso, acusador, y como descifrando
el horario y las ruinas
de una música antigua.


Veo la noche correr
y el cielo en los zapatos, y el dibujo
de mi cuerpo viajero
por esta galería de ángeles atropellándose
por no perder el tren,
por ser dichosos, por tocar el fondo
de este mapa sin gloria.


(tomado del libro La tinta extinta)


Carlos Francisco Monge


© CFM. 2007


Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur


Nota biográfica


CARLOS FRANCISCO MONGE (1951). Poeta y ensayista costarricense. Es autor, entre otros, de Reino del latido (1978), Los fértiles horarios (1983), La tinta extinta (1990) y Enigmas de la imperfección (2002), todos de poesía. También, como ensayista y crítico literario tiene publicados : La imagen separada (1984), La rama de fresno (1999) y El vanguardismo literario en Costa Rica (2005), y dos antologías : Antología crítica de la poesía de Costa Rica (1993) y Costa Rica : Poesía escogida (1998).
Es profesor de Literaturas Hispánicas en la Universidad Nacional (Heredia, Costa Rica). Es Premio Nacional de Poesía, de su país.

0 comments:

The bridge of Avignon.

August 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 1 Comments

Joe Sharp


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Young men they are dancing
They carry on romancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Fair ladies they are dancing
The young men are advancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Gardeners they are dancing
Muddy boots are prancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Dressmakers they are dancing
With colours so entrancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Winegrowers they are dancing
Giggling wiggling glancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Laundrymaids they are dancing
Aprons white from blanching


On the bridge of Avignon
All were really going to town
Leaping up and jumping down
Would you believe it, the bridge fell down.

1 comments:

Camomile Tea

August 27, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Katherine Mansfield (1888 - 1923)


Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.


How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomiletea.


Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.


We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.


Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.


0 comments:

When you are old

August 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;


How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;


And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Butler Yeats

0 comments:

A Patient Man

August 17, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp

A patient man is a priceless pearl
A proper prince among paupers
Slow to ponder time to dwell
A fragrant meadow for green grasshoppers


A happy man is a fertile furrow
A hayfield buzzing in Mother Nature’s hold
A bunny rabbit beside the warren’s burrow
Sifting sand to find the pot of gold


A gentle man is a God sent medallion
An imaginary halo around his humble head
A mother’s pet, a maiden’s model stallion
His offspring happily sleeping in the bed


An honest man is a breath of new mown hay
Stacked up snugly in the farmer’s harvest
Eagerly awaiting the trials of the day
Confidently knowing which policy is best


Patiently awaiting
Happily celebrating
Gently creating
Honestly debating
The complexities of life

0 comments:

A Thunderstorm In Town

August 12, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)


(A Reminiscence, 1893)




She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,

And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,

Within the hansom's dry recess,

Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless

We sat on, snug and warm.

Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.

0 comments:

London Airport

August 11, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Christopher Logue (b 1926)


Last night in London Airport
I saw a wooden bin
labelled UNWANTED LITERATURE
IS TO BE PLACED HEREIN
So I wrote a poem
and popped it in.



0 comments:

I Have Forsworn You / Ich Habe Dir Entsagt

August 02, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

ANNE RANASINGHE


I Have Forsworn You


I have forsworn you, closed all memory;
I work and eat, listen to music, sleep,
Walk in the garden, watch the changing moon
Pretending that I have no need of you.
But all the while I know it is not true.
Your silence weaves around me such a tight cocoon
Of loneliness and sadness, such a deep
And painful longing that I know it is a fallacy
To feel and say or think that I am free.


***


Ich Habe Dir Entsagt


Ich habe dir abgeschworen, samt allen Gedanken,
Ich arbeite, esse, höre Musik und schlafe,
Im Garten geh ich umher, betrachte den wechselnden Mond,
Ich habe dich nicht nötig, es scheint mir so klar,
Doch immer schon weiß ich, das ist nicht wahr.
Dein Schweigen webt um mich ein dichtes Gespinst bewohnt
Von Einsamkeit und Trauer, es wird zur Strafe
Und schmerzlichem Sehnen. Ich weiß, es ist Täsuchung, zu denken
Zu fühlen, zu sagen: Ich bin frei.


Excerpt from Anna Ranasinghe's book
"Du Fragst Mich, Warum ich Gedichte Schreibe - You Ask Me Why I Write Poems"
(Pages 44 /45, Maro Verlag)

0 comments:

The Dreep

July 31, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp


What can I dae aboot this continual dreepin’
Frae my nose a’ the day even when I’m sleepin’
The Doctor says he can dae naethin’ aboot it
He said it’s no’ like somethin’ ye can take it oot an’ shoot it


I went tae the Chemist tae pick up my prescription
An’ afore I went in, I gave my hooter a good blow
But as I bent o’er the counter tae sign my description
Water frae the well o’ my nasal canal began tae flow


The lassie was awfy good an’ didnae make it an issue
She just went roon’ the back
An’ when she came back
She gave me a big paper tissue


In the Post Office oot o’ the rain
An’ I noticed my sleeve was a’ damp
Wi’ wipin’ the dreep as I walked down the street
It was handy for stickin’ the stamp


It’s no’ bad today, now I’ve found a way
A good way tae kick it
I just lick it.

0 comments:

Regime argonais?

July 30, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Quelques Montignaciens, au cours d'une excursion,
s'étant hâtés vers un ibère restaurant,
se virent refuser, pour leur consommation,
des paellas, quand le patron dit, se marrant:
"Allez, le premier, là, l'gros, goûte le safran!"


( le Zappe )

0 comments:

Hello Moon

July 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Kim McMillon


The moon fell into the ocean

amiss the cloudy night

colored eyes gazed out

trying to capture

every emotion

every feeling

I was gliding

falling with the moon

into a sea of sensuality.

0 comments:

I am a hill of poetry

July 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

first poem in a poem cycle in progress 1995/2007


The title of this cycle is taken from The Song of Amergin:


"said to have been chanted by the chief bard of the Milesian invaders as he set foot on the soil of Ireland in the year of the world 2376 (1268 B.C.E)". Written originally in Old Goidelic, the only surviving versions are in colloquial Irish translation.


The phrase 'I am a hill of poetry' represents knowledge and is assigned to the month of September, which has the vine as its tree and is the month of the titmouse and the poet "the least abashed of men as the titmouse is the least easily abashed of birds. Both band together in companies in this month and go on circuit in search of a liberal hand; and as the titmouse climbs spirally up a tree, so the poet also spirals to immortality. And Variegated is the colour of the titmouse, and of the Master-poet’s dress."


— Robert Graves, The White Goddess, pp. 205-208, p. 299


Note: This cycle of 13 poems is based on the lunar calendar Robert Graves describes in The White Goddess. Each month is associated with specific natural/mystical characteristics and a particular tree.


The cycle consists of a poem for each month based on a particular person’s birth date and character.


Karen Margolis


Berlin, 2011


I am a hill of poetry

on the birth of Quila Lulu Anastasia

14 January 1995

I am a hill of poetry

my tip houses an eagle’s nest

where dreams hatch into song

my base flows into the well of life

to join the subterranean rivers

in caves that echo with the playing of a dulcimer;

my belly is filled with the runes of ages

and the hand of the bard strokes my mound

like a mother caressing the head of her infant child.

Precious ores run in my deepest veins

mingling with the pulsing rhythms of the earth

in lustrous ecstasy. Rhymes

flick their tongues from the mouths of lizards

lying sundrenched in my surface crannies.

In summer grass covers my gentle slopes,

in autumn the tree gods shower me with colour,

in winter my thoughts are naked, unashamed,

and when the year wakes to spring again

I’m still there, breeding lilacs and hexameters

I am a hill of poetry.

Enter my gates carved by the singers of psalms

to let in the light at the winter solstice.

Crawl through the tunnel maze to my ancient mystery:

the journey is long and hard

the rebirth into poetry is spiked with pain

and promises only rediscovery

of what life takes away

each day we grow farther from childhood.

I am a hill of poetry.

Come inside me. All my passages spread out

like starry beams. In my hollow core

bowls of incense fill the air with perfume

a bed of feathers is waiting for your weary tune.

Lie down. Close your eyes.

Shut out straying conversations.

Drift on a tide of rapturous melancholy

down to castles hung with tapestries

where troubadors tell tales of victories;

weave the stuff that dreams are made of

with the words that flood your mind

press them between the pages of a book

that closes only at the edge of time.

I am a hill of poetry.

I stand here by the grace of nature.

One day the earth will open up and swallow me

into the canyons of desire.


0 comments:

La couronne effeuillée

July 17, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)


J'irai, j'irai porter ma couronne effeuillée
Au jardin de mon père où revit toute fleur ;
J'y répandrai longtemps mon âme agenouillée :
Mon père a des secrets pour vaincre la douleur.


J'irai, j'irai lui dire au moins avec mes larmes :
" Regardez, j'ai souffert... " Il me regardera,
Et sous mes jours changés, sous mes pâleurs sans charmes,
Parce qu'il est mon père, il me reconnaîtra.


Il dira: " C'est donc vous, chère âme désolée ;
La terre manque-t-elle à vos pas égarés ?
Chère âme, je suis Dieu : ne soyez plus troublée ;
Voici votre maison, voici mon coeur, entrez ! "


Ô clémence! Ô douceur! Ô saint refuge ! Ô Père !
Votre enfant qui pleurait, vous l'avez entendu !
Je vous obtiens déjà, puisque je vous espère
Et que vous possédez tout ce que j'ai perdu.


Vous ne rejetez pas la fleur qui n'est plus belle ;
Ce crime de la terre au ciel est pardonné.
Vous ne maudirez pas votre enfant infidèle,
Non d'avoir rien vendu, mais d'avoir tout donné.

0 comments:

Bright Star

July 15, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

John Keats (1795 - 1821)



Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to death.


All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2011

0 comments:

The Lady Marionette

July 14, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments


Joe Sharp



The Lady Marionette


Jojo feels an urging to do something
An itchy twitching in the coiling of a string
A youthful longing to be tapping tippy toes
To the lively music of the piping piccolos


In his dreams he dances to the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
Jojo fears his frame of brightly painted lumber
Is deemed not to be awakened from its slumber


Within a cardboard cell he sheds a little a tear
The unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Lonesome awaiting the summertime vacation
With circus clowns and joyous celebration


Hoping and longing to dance the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
But alas and behold this heap of tinder wood
Is not quite assembled precisely as it should


Is he to be a captive for another lonely year?
This unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Suddenly awakened from a year long sleeping
Into the darkness the puppeteer is peeping


Ten skinny fingers are clutching at his strings
Two little puppets are in the air on swings
He holds her hand gently on a fairground carousel
The lovely Lady Marionette, Jojo’s Annabelle


The sun is slowly setting as they dance the minuet
Jojo kisses Annabelle she twirls a pirouette
The carousel is stopping the music slowing down
Lantern lights are dimming in the houses of the town


The puppeteer is yawning as he gathers up his trade
Packing up his puppets for the puppeteers parade
He has trouble disentangling the two he near forgot
The lovely Lady Marionette and Jojo tied the knot.




Jojo.

0 comments:

Désir

July 09, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Ceci ne sera pas la dernière larme
Jaillissant brûlante de ce cœur
Qui dans une nouvelle indicible torture
S’apaise en accroissant sa douleur.


O fais moi donc partout éternellement
Eprouver l’amour,
Même si la douleur dans mes nerfs et mes veines
Sans fin doit faire rage.


Puissé-je un jour enfin, ô Eternel,
Etre rempli de toi !
Ah ! ce long, ce profond tourment,
Comme il dure sur cette terre !


Johann Wolfgang von Goethe



Source: Adéquations

0 comments:

Mary Queen of Scots: A series of poems

July 08, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1587)


(In a nutshell)


Joe Sharp


Le Dauphin, François and Mary Queen of Scots.


The Prophecy


“It cam’ wi’ ane lass, an’ it’ll pass wi’ ane lass”


These were the prophetic words o’ her faither King James
On hearin’ the news o’ the birth at the Palace
He laid doon an’ deid, haundin’ Mary o’er the reigns


At nine months o’ age, oor Mary is Queen
Securely strapped in tae her wee baby seat
Wi’ rings on her fingers, a sight tae be seen
Suckin’ awa’ merrily on her Royal dummy teat


There were battles a’ ragin’ a’ roon’ aboot
In Kelso, an’ Jedburgh, King Henry did loot
When the wee Queen was four, there was an enquiry
An’ for safety took Mary tae Inchmahome Priory


Wi’ lots o’ disorder, at Dunbar on the border
The English were gein’ us a whole lot o’ hassle
King Henri o’ France, then geid oot an order
“We’ll be there, send Mary doon tae Dumbarton Castle”


The Rough Wooing


Henry V111, ye know, him wi’ a’ the wummin
He didnae seem tae me tae have bother wi’ his plumbin’
He had Mary betrothed tae his wee son, Prince Eddie
The betrothal was annulled, because the wee Queen wasnae ready


The English King was fumin’, up tae high doh an’ diddle
He louped up an’ doon, like a hare upon a griddle
Up doon, turn aroon’, his face against the wa’
Henry, he was ragin’, an’ so he went tae war


The cavalrymen, astride their magnificent hoarses
Set oot to seek the sturdy Scottish forces
Their numbers were few, in the early mornin’ dew
Victory was theirs, at the battle o’ Pinkie Cleugh


There was, o’ course, that thankfu’ savin’ grace
The union o’ the crowns, didnae then take place
Mary had led the King a merry dance
Sailin’ awa’, on a clipper ship tae France


Marie, la petite fille


She was such a bonnie lassie wi’ a twinkle in her een
When Mary sailed awa’ wi’ the Fleet o’ the French Marine
Frae Dumbarton Rock, in her prettiest frock, she had feenished potty trainin’
She was only wee, she’d had her tea, it was dull an’ dreich an’ it was rainin’


There was naewhere else tae go, for Mary an’ her freen’s
She didnae even know that they had taken her tae France
‘Till she was in her teens, eatin’ up a’ yon French runner beans
An’ learnin’ frae the ither lassies, how tae dae the can-can dance


She grew up tae be beautiful, fu’ o’ grace an’ inteligence
Merriein’ the Dauphin, her Prince, he was elegant
He sat on the throne as Francois the second
Daein’ everythin’ for Mary, whenever she beckoned


Their merriege lasted for only a year
Wi’ Mary cryin’ mony a tear
For Francis her lover, her Prince an’ her Dauphin
Had lain doon an’ deid in a wee fit o’ coughin’


Mary wasnae happy tae be leavin’ France
Wonderin’ what future would be waitin’ her at hame
An’ so she decided tae lose hersel’ in dance
Tae forget a’ her worries, an’ a’ her claims tae fame
She would merry a wee Lord wi’ a mansion hoose in Ayr
As long as he had the room, for a big dance flerr


Mary departing from France


The Dancing Queen


It was Shuggie the smuggler brought Mary hame frae France
Where she’d learned how tae talk an’ tae act like a lady
She had merried her Prince an’ he’d taught her tae dance
Just like Ginger Rogers in “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”


When up on the flerr she could dae the Fandango
An’ the Tally, David Rizzio, had taught her how tae Tango
She picked up her twirls, an’ the yin, twa, chasse
Frae a big French dancer, called Monsieur L’ Apache


She’d brought a’ her court wi’ her aboard the clipper
There was Mary her manicurist, wi’ her hair sae red
An’ Mary her hairdresser, she was called the snipper
An’ Mary o’ her chamber, would tuck her intae bed
An’ Mary in the kitchen would wash up a’ the mugs
An’ Shuggie o’ course, tae walk a’ Mary’s dugs


‘Twas a gloomy gloomy day, when they sailed intae Leith
A total eclipse o’ the sun, no’ wi’ the moon tae the Earth
But the usual big black clouds, stretchin’ a’ the way tae Perth
So the weather’d make ye sick, right uptae yer wisdom teeth


Pierre de Chatelard


The Potty Poet


Pierre de Chatelard, a young French poet
Was headin’ for trouble, but he wasnae tae know it
He’d been found by Mary’s chambermaid, all sweaty an’ hot
In Mary’s chamber, ‘neath her bed, next tae Mary’s chamber pot


He was banished frae her court, but he didnae take nae heed
An’ he followed as she went tae Rossend Castle
Fu’ o’ passion an’ fu’ o’ port, an’ intent tae plant his seed
The pickled poet was hopin’ Mary widnae gie him hassle


It was well efter hauf past nine, an’ Mary’d had a gless o’ wine
An’ the ither Mary thingumyjig, was helpin’ wi’ her disrobin’
In barged Pierre, an’ his airms roon’ Mary’s middle did entwine
‘It’s the poet, hurry.’ It took the Earl o’ Moray, tae stop the poet’s probin’


They dragged the drunken poet away
Tae a dungeon on St Andrews Bay
Where his famous last words still cause a row
They think it’s all over, it is now


Darn ye Darnley


He was a tall, peely-wally link o’ a man, wi’ a mind as mean as a weasel’s
He came tae Mary in Edinburgh, an’ she helped him get o’er the measles
A right big nancy, but he took her fancy, so she made him Earl o’ Ross
He was a fairy, she agreed tae merry, but said it didnae mean he was boss


Mary set oot tae find a Priest, tae ask for a Papal dispensation
Darnley an’ her were blood related, but they both kicked wi’ the same foot
She chapped on the door o’ the chapel hoose, but the Priest was on vacation
It was like if ye were lookin’ for a Glasgow polis, ye never see yin aboot


They got merried, wi’ plenty o’ food, there in the Palace o’ Hollyrood
On honeymoon, a’ dressed in plaid, they rode oot on the Chaseaboot Raid
Moray an’ his rebels, ran o’er the border tae safety, as fast as they could
That night in Dunbar, Bothwell was paid, tae join up, in Mary’s Parade


Mary an’ Darnley were growin’ apart
An’ Mary fair fancied the man frae Dunbar
He had hair on his airms, an’ chest for a start
Wi’ him by her side, they were sure tae go far


David Rizzio


Mary was dancin’, happy in the supper room
Wi’ a’ o’ her ladies, the four Marys, in attendance
David was pluckin’, at his mandolin tae tune
Getting ready for a two-by-two-by-two step dance


Mary said, ‘David, David, can ye play the minuet?’
So he bent doon tae the lute, so that he’d be nearer
‘David, David, have ye no’ got that thing ready yet?’
He said, ‘I havenae got the music so I’m playin’ it by ear’


Poor David Rizzio, wi’ his ear so sorely occupied
He didnae hear the rumpus on the stair
The thugs rushed in an’ Mary’s favourite music died
Wi’ Darnley’s dagger in his back, an’ him lyin’ on the flerr


O’ a’ ye Scottish noblemen, hing doon yer heids in shame
For takin’ Mary’s melodies away
An’ the wee Italian troubadour, so far away frae hame
Will haunt ye a’, until ye’re auld an’ grey


James V1.


Darnley gave the nation a shock, a bump appearin’ behind Mary’s frock
Ye cannae judge a book by it’s cover, he must have been a pretty guid lover
Him braggin’ he was hard as a rock, ye took it that he was just guid wi’ the talk
Don Juan, Valentino, move over, Lord Henry Darnley’s rollin’ in the clover


Mary lies in Edinburgh in considerable pain, screaming
‘I’m never gonnae let this bloody thing happen again’
She sends for her midwife, Margaret Aestane, screaming
‘Will ye bloody hurry up an’ deliver this bloody wean’


Two months later, an’ still wi’ battles goin’ on
Mary goes tae Traquair Hoose, tae try tae convalesce
Eatin’ raw eggs an’ marmalade, on a tasty soda scone
Returnin’ hame tae find she takes a size fourteen in dress


Wee James is safe in Stirlin’, preparin’ tae be baptized
Darnley’s back in Glasgow, havin’ just been ostracized
Bothwell’s in his coontin’ hoose, coontin’ oot his money
Mary’s in the parlour, eatin’ breid an’ honey


Mary, aged thirteen, at French Court


The Arden Oak


‘Och! Mary, Mary, what is it noo?
Ye’re due in Dunbar on the morrow at two.’
‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye havenae a clue
Can ye no’ see my hoarse has a stane in it’s shoe?’


They had ridden a’ day, frae yon Ballantrae
Where Shuggie the smuggler an’ his donkey abide
Ye’ll find them there, durin’ Glasgow Fair
Givin’ a’ the Gleswegian weans a donkey ride


‘Noo listen Darnley, when we get tae Stra’ven Castle
I dinnae want ye givin’ me ony mair o’ yer hassle
I want a room wi’ a view, an’ an en suite loo, right?
I’m no’ gonnae sleep rough, like I had tae dae last night’


‘Under yon big oak tree, at Arden
An’ wi’ a’ yon big burly Busby men
An’ wi’ a’ yon big acorns stickin’ in my ribs
An’ wi’ yon big Clydesdale lickin’ at my…’


‘Och! Mary, Mary, will ye no’ give me peace
An’ anyway, that wasnae the hoarse’


Lies, Spies, an’ pies in the Skies.


‘Och! Mary, Mary, Mary my Queen
What were ye daein’ in the common green
Wi’ yon big laddie wi’ the hair sae red
An’ me here waitin’ ye tae come back tae bed?’


‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye’ve always got a moan
I wish that ye’d leave a poor body alone
The laddie, he was just helpin’ me choose
A couple o’ mince pies, tae bring back tae youse’


‘Och! Mary, Mary, nae mair o’ yer lies
Aboot Ginger an’ you an’ a couple o’ pies
Fair weel I ken yon Ginger McAskill
He’s naethin’ but a dirty big rascal’


Mary then decided that she’d had aboot enough
Although she agreed that she liked a bit o’ rough
She arranged wi’ big Ginger an’ anither big tough
Tae waylay Darnley on his way tae Edinburgh


In Kirk o’ Field hoose, efter dinner an’ stuff
A large jug o’ ale an’ a wee pinch o’ snuff
A barrel o’ gunpooder went up wi’ a puff
Goodbye Darnley, tough, tough, tough


The Turncoat


Preachin’ frae the pulpit, wi’ his big grey beard
Hell fire an’ damnation, had congregations scared
Runnin’ tae their hooses, tae burn the graven images
Drappin’ tae their knees, an’ offerin’ up their homages


A’ the knees were knockin’, when John Knox started talkin’
The pee was dribblin’ doon a’ body’s leg
When he screamed oot ‘Jezebel‘, some wimmin ran like hell
An’ Jock McGee’s jaiket was on a shaky peg


Then he started oot on Mary
For behavin’ quite contrary
He said, ‘Ye’re a whore, an idolatress’, right tae her face.
‘Ye’re a bloody abhorration on the whole human race’


Mary’s reply was swift an’ somewhat comical
Her two index fingers pointin’ tae places anatomical
She chanted, ‘Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate
Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate’


Bothwell the Borderer


Mary met him in Dunbar at a dance
An’ he showed her his sturdy big Castle
She was a’ taken on wi’ his knowledge o’ France
So she didnae give him much hassle
Wi’ his persuasive technique, an’ his manly physique
He wormed his way intae her favour
His dancin’ was fine if he stayed aff the wine
But he just couldnae stop this behaviour
He was a bandit, a robber, a right bob-a-jobber
An’ he danced wi’ an axe in his belt
She merried the chancer, ‘cause he was a guid dancer
Or was it the shaft o’ the chopper she’d felt?
Mary had only yin question tae raise
As soon as their heids hit the pillow
‘Why dae ye dance wi’ an axe roon’ yer waist?’
He said, ‘It’s handy for strippin’ the willow’
His comeuppance came at Carberry Hill
When he showed her his dashin’ white sergeant
Beatin’ a retreat, tae a lively quadrille
Wi’ a yellow leather streak, on his red leather garment


Mary’s bedroom


The Abdication


Mary’s forced tae abdicate in favour o’ her son just yin year old
In a dungeon on Loch Leven where it was damp an’ it was cold
Wi’ the help o’ yon young Douglas she escaped to fight again
At Langside just outside Glasgow she amassed six thousan’ men


The battle was a gory one, an’ the bloody Earl o’ Moray won
Chasin’ Mary’s men right doon to Solway Bay
No’ afraid o’ anyone an’ against the advice o’ everyone
She who turns an’ runs away lives to fight another day


Dressed discretely as a wee fishwife
Sailin’ o’er the bay to a bright new life
Wrapped up snuggly in a tartan shawl
Spendin’ the night at Workington Hall


Mary was hopin’ that her big cousin Lizzy
Would help her get o’er this bit o’ a tizzy
Instead skinny Lizzy rang a loud death knell
An’ condemned oor Mary to nineteen years o’ hell


A tisket, a tasket
Letters in a casket.


Lizzy was reluctant tae have Mary in her court
Unless she was cleared, o’ the ‘Darnley’ blunder
She imprisoned oor Queen, in the creepy Carlisle Fort
Sayin’ ‘I’m no gonnae have her here, stealin’ my bloody thunder’


They had never ever met, exchanging letters by the dozens
Both respected yin another, an’ their status o’ regality
Never face tae face, they were hardly kissin’ cousins
An’ Mary’s health was failin’, due tae lack o’ hospitality


On the move again, doon tae Tutbury Castle prison
In tae the haun’s o’ her jailers, the Earl o’ Shrewsbury an’ his wife
Further intae England, ‘cause rebellion had arisen
An’ Lizzy’s paranoia made her fearful for her life


Then Walsin’ham an’ Paulet, a couple o’ schemin’ plotters
Wi’ their spyin’ an’ their lyin’, like a couple o’ stinkin’ rotters
Concoctin’ the fraudulent, ‘Letters in a casket case’
Nearly turnin’ oor Mary, intae a bloody basket case


The supper room


The Babington Plot


An’ so it continued wi’ the Babin’ton plottin’
Wi’ yin bad apple turnin’ the whole lot rottin’
A big burly brewer, wi’ a beer barrel belly
Made a special bung, an’ stuck it in wi’ jelly


Mary was now able tae send her letters in the plug hole
Hopin’ none o’ Lizzy’s men, were thirsty for yin or twa swallows
An incriminatin’ letter, reached Walsin’ham’s lughole
He took his quill, an’ drew an image, an image o’ the gallows


Mary Queen o’ Scots is taken awa’ tae Tixall
Preparin’ for her trial, an’ what fate was tae befall


“Oh my Lord and my God, I have trusted in Thee
Oh my dear Jesus, now liberate me
In shackle and chain, in torture and pain, I long for Thee
In weakness and sighing, in kneeling and crying
I adore and implore Thee, to liberate me”


The Parting


After nineteen long years o’ trials an’ degradation
Sae fu’ o’ spyin’ an’ lyin’, an’ negotiations tae
Mary, Queen o’ Scots, the pride o’ a’ the nation
Is sentenced tae death, in the hall o’ Fotheringhay


There are some ither names tae be written down in shame
The bloody Earl o’ Moray, an’ others share the blame
Walsin’ham, Paulet, Phelippes an’ Paget. Jist a few o’ the names
I hope they said their prayers, afore they burned up in the flames


Yin question remains Liz, how did ye stay a virgin
How did ye ever manage tae avoid the great temptation?
It cannae be the case that ye never had the urgin’
Wi’ sic a parcel o’ rogues in yer nation


* * * *


Then came the partin’, the deed they’d a’ been dreadin’
Between the hoors o’ nine an’ ten, came oor Mary’s awful beheadin’


* * *


“In my End is my Beginning”


* * *


Alas! The Prophecy had come true
“It had begun wi’ ane lass, an’ it had passed wi’ ane lass”


Mary Queen o’ Scots.


The End.

0 comments:

Vengeance Enfantine

July 04, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Mon clown fait de chiffons
je l’embrasse très fort
je nettoie son visage sale de mes larmes
et pose un gros baiser
sur ses lèvres de velours rose
puis j’écarquilles ses bras et me les mets
autour du cou
je le force à tenir debout
sur ses jambes bourrées de coton,
mais, comme un vrai dingue,
il tangue
son cou mince
ne supportant même pas sa tête
renversée sitôt sur sa poitrine ;
j’avais envie qu’il me porte
mais le voici qui s’écroule à mes pieds.
Fâchée net
je lui arrache les cheveux un par un
lui détache les bras
lui extirpe les jambes
les tripes et tous les boyaux
n’ayant aucun répit, mais aucun,
avant de ne le mettre en pièces.
Après, mes mains sur les hanches,
je contemple mon clown vaincu :
« Gare à toi, si tu ne m’aimes plus ! »


(Le Goût de l’instinct, édition Toena, Tirana, 1998)


Rita Petro


(traduit par Ardian Marashi)


HAKMARRJE FËMIJE


Kllounin prej lecke
E përqafoj fort
Ia laj faqet e pista me lot
E puth në buzët prej kadifeje të kuqe,
Ia hap krahët e i vë rreth qafës sime,
E detyroj të qëndroj mbi këmbët
Mbushur lecka e pambuk,
Po ai si një i dehur
Lëkundet andej-këtej,
Prej qafës së hollë
Koka i bie në gjoks,
Në vend të më mbajë,
Më lëshohet në këmbë.
Unë fëmija i zemëruar
Ia shkul fijet e flokëve një nga një,
Ia tërheq krahët anash me forcë,
Prej trupit këmbët ia gris,
Nga barku i nxjerr gjithçka ka brenda,
S’ngopem e s’ngopem së bëri çika
Viktimën - plaçkë...
Kur lodhem,
E kundroj me duart në mes, fitimtar.
“Guxo, mos më duaj prap !”


Avec l’aimable autorisation d’Ardian Marashi et Rita Petro


(Shija e instinktit, botimet Toena, Tiranë, 1998)



0 comments:

Peindre une pièce

June 26, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

à Irina Kendall

Ici, un jour de mars 1989,
je blanchis le plafond et peins les murs un citron bleuté
Des bâches de protection et de vieux journaux cachent
les parquets en bois dur. Tous mes meubles ont été vendus
ou refilés à des amis de bohème.
À manger, il n’y a que du pain et du vin.
Un visa d’immigration dans ma poche, je peins
le petit appartement où j’ai vécu pendant dix ans.
À quatre heures, je fais un break.
Je m’assieds sur la dernière chaise de la cuisine vide,
fume une cigarette et essuie mes larmes
avec la manche de mon vieux pull-over.
Je suis sans regrets mais non sans douleur.
Dix ans de crainte, d’amours non réciproques, de boulots de fortune,
d’appels téléphoniques de nuit. Maintenant, ils ont coupé la ligne.
Je fais tomber les cendres dans l’évier, verse de la térébenthine
dans un pot, mélange avec une spatule. J’ai le cœur qui bat la chamade
dans ma paume droite quand je reprends la brosse.
Depuis dix ans, le carré turquoise de la fenêtre
a retenu mon regard avec son encadrement tout simple.
Maintenant, bien en face du ciel qui s’assombrit,
que puis-je dire de plus à la vitre que merci
d’être transparente, sans division, large
et allongeant la perspective à travers la dimension
du visible.
Puis je nettoie les brosses et éteins la lumière.
C’est ma dernière nuit avant de partir pour l’étranger.
Je suis couchée à même le sol, une veste roulée
sous ma tête. C’est la dernière nuit.
La liberté sent la pièce fraîchement peinte,
les parquets en bois balayés avec un balai de saule
et le pain rassis aux raisins.

Katia Kapowich

Traduit de l’anglais en français par Jean-Marie Flémal
Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur et du traducteur
***
Painting a Room

For Irina Kendall

Here on a March day in ’89
I blanch the ceiling and walls with bluish lime.
Drop cloths and old newspapers hide
the hardwood floors. All my furniture has been sold,
or given away to bohemian friends.
There is nothing to eat but bread and wine.
An immigration visa in my pocket, I paint
the small apartment where I’ve lived for ten years.
Taking a break around 4 p.m.,
I sit on the last chair in the empty kitchen,
smoke a cigarette and wipe my tears
with the sleeve of my old pullover.
I am free from regrets but not from pain.
Ten years of fears, unrequited loves, odd jobs,
of night phone calls. Now they’ve disconnected the line.
I drop the ashes in the sink, pour turpentine
into a jar, stirring with a spatula. My heart throbs
in my right palm when I pick up the brush again.
For ten years the window’s turquoise square
has held my eyes in its simple frame.
Now, face to face with the darkening sky,
what more can I say to the glass but thanks
for being transparent, seamless, wide
and stretching perspective across the size
of the visible.
Then I wash the brushes and turn off the light.
This is my last night before moving abroad.
I lie down on the floor, a rolled-up coat
under my head. This is the last night.
Freedom smells of a freshly painted room,
of wooden floors swept with a willow broom.
and of stale raisin bread.

0 comments:

La Mort et la Vie

June 26, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Louise-Angélique Bertin  (1805 - 1877).


Si la mort est le but, pourquoi donc sur les routes

Est-il dans les buissons de si charmantes fleurs ?

Et lorsqu'au vent d'automne elles s'envolent toutes,

Pourquoi les voir partir d'un oeil momifié de pleurs ?




Si la vie est le but, pourquoi donc sur les routes
Tant de pierres dans l'herbe et d'épines aux fleurs,
Que, pendant le voyage, hélas ! nous devons toutes
Tacher de notre sang et mouiller de nos pleurs ?



0 comments:

Alphabet

June 22, 2011 Rasel Rana 2 Comments

Preface to Alphabet.

It was May 2008.

I had just finished reading

Louis de Bernières’

Birds without wings

when hate spread her ugly wings,

over Johannesburg.

They called it xenophobia!

Phobia is fear

This was raw idiotic

cannibalistic atavistic animal

hate!

So Louis de Bernières description

or the raw idiotic

cannibalistic atavistic animal

hate

during the Balkan’s wars

provided me with

an adequate Overture

for my operatic Alphabet.

***

A is for Alexandra.


Queen of the Jews you were


Alexandra


But that was long time ago.


long,long before The Shoah


Mother of All Russia also


Alexandra


the last tsarina indeed


Rasputin’s lover


whom Russia did not love


and slaughtered.


Queen of the Brits you were


Alexandra


and Lloyd George your minister


watched stiff upper lip


Muslim women crucified


by The Greek


Armenian girls impaled


by the Kurds


The Ottoman becoming a Turk


and turning savage


against long time friends and neighbours


Armenian Jew or Greek


A is for Alexandra


B for beating bashing burning


in Alexandra


township of Egoli


city of gold they also call


Ndongazi ya Duma.


B is for butchering


those they call kwere kwere


the heimatlos


those they can’t understand


or won’t


those who have nowhere to go


those children of Africa


they should call brothers!


B is for History The Bitch


the greatest bitch of all


which can not stop to


repeat itself.


So then


A is for Alexandra


Atrocities


Amen says The Politician


B for History


The Great Bitch and Butcher


C for Cato Manor


second time around you bitch


C for corruption


in the City of gold


D for …


Dammit!


Dammit, can’t we stop


reciting an alphabet of Hate


when there is one of Harmony?


An alphabet of Harmony, yes,


where


A is for Amour, je t’aime, amigos, amore


B for beauty, birth and brothers


C for charity, children laughing in the sun


and charity


and all the colours from flowers


and the skirts of dancing girls


D for daring to love


….


Can’t we


can’t we asks the poet


can’t we recite


an


alphabet of Harmony?


But, you know, he is just a poet


isn’t it


but he is


JUST A DREAMER


Hell


you wont’ stop me dreaming


Alexandra


African sister of mine


With the kind permission of the author Jean Cornet aka J.M. Spitaels


from the book:


Dust on the Road / POUSSIERES SUR LA ROUTE
Poems in English and French, drawings by Jean Cornet
Poets Printery South Africa July 2011 ISBN -978-0-620-50582-6
Jean Cornet aka J.M. Spitaels, born 1939, hails from DRC.




Has written 3 books in French. First poem published, when a teenager, in l’Essor du Congo , daily for which his mother was a chronicler.
As a medical doctor, practiced in Congo (1964-1969) then lectured at Durban ’s medical school S. A. (1969-1995).
His poetry, now in English and French, throws a disillusioned glance at today’s world without ignoring its fragile beauty.



2 comments:

The Geranium

June 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.


Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.


But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.


Theodore Roethke (1908 – 1963)



0 comments:

Nuits de carnaval

June 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments


C’est un soir qui grince en

touchant les ombres d’une esquisse

de sourire

d’un rire lent comme libéré

Les aloès et les herbes folles s’agitent

sur des accents de jazz

La fatigue rompt ses fers

une fois parcourue l’orbe d’un lointain soleil

Les mots ont perdu le chemin du retour

comme d’habitude

Un poème s’est déroulé

depuis un coin de ton œil

Mdantsane explose dans la confusion

d’une autre nuit carnavalesque


Amitabh Mitra



traduit de l*anglais en français par Jean-Marie Flémal

Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur et du traducteur




0 comments:

L’hôpital Cecilia Makiwane à Mdantsane

June 18, 2011 Rasel Rana 1 Comments


La route menant à l’hôpital Cecilia Makiwane

est à certains égards subtile

Les morts y marchent sans faire de bruit

de crainte d’éveiller les ombres

vivant au confluent de l’épouvante

et de la disparité

À l’occasion le ciel descend

et c’est alors les arbres qui se penchent

pour chercher les oubliés

roulant dans la descente

vers l’hôpital Cecilia Makiwane

à Mdantsane

de jour

humant les poteaux électriques

qui diffusent encore leur lumière

Soulagement est peut-être

un mot

rare


Amitabh Mitra



traduit de l’anglais en français par Jean-Marie Flémal


Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur et du traducteur



 



 

1 comments:

Toujours des mots d'amour

June 16, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Amour, toujours, deux mots qui sonnent bien ensemble,
Ainsi armée, la flèche de Cupidon tremble
Et rate encor la cible de l'éternité.
Pourtant les amoureux ne sont pas dépités
Ils remettent cent fois l'archer sur le métier
En chantant: "tire et vise juste par pitié!".


A vous qui insistez et faites tant d'efforts
Je vous souhaite bien sûr d'arriver à bon port,
Pour cela je vous envoie fleurs et mots d'amours
Qui soyez en sûr riment bien avec toujours.


A force d'indigestions, les pommes d'amours
N'ont plus d'attraits pour moi, non tous ces petits fours
M'ont refroidi, et je traîne mon mal de vivre,
Mais au fond de moi je rêve de bateaux ivres. . .
Alors seul dans mon pieu je dors comme un sourd
Espérant que ce ne sera pas pour. . . toujours.


©Rolland Pauzin. 28-11-2001

0 comments:

Mirage

June 14, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

. . .do not feel
that i am distant in your mirage
that i am hidden from you mosaic
that i am fading from your canvass


. . .i am an orphan these days
bereaved by life’s cruel cudgel
sentenced to crumbs and droplets
bandaged to the whims of betrayed hopes . . .


love is blemished
trust is tainted
desire beclouds judgment
when lust rules the senses . . .


…so do not feel
that the rush of your stream swirl
is silent in my soul


i feel the passion of your rippling waters
i hear the swish of you roiling waves
i touch the wind of your refreshing hopes


…and i
orphaned as i am in this bleak season
will sing a sweet song each breaking dawn
and let my laughter ring into twilight
and embrace the calm peace of night


waiting for the sun
to raise you again


in my broken heart. . .


©David Diai


With the kind permission of the author

0 comments:

Un soir que je contemplais la lune

June 14, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Baka Jaouad


Je pensais à elle, à nous ; que j’étais morose !
De l’amour jamais je ne cueillerais la rose.
Séant, mon front posé sur ma main incolore,
Je crois avoir touché de la folie les bords.
C’est beau un ciel nocturne grouillant de claires étoiles.
La lune semble me comprendre, de mes peines j’ôte les voiles.


Dur est d’être dans un monde où l’amour n’est amour,
Où l’oubli, gai, habitera les âmes pour toujours.
J’aime une gracieuse fille que je ne peux embrasser ;
Que dois-je faire pour que nos corps puissent s’enlacer ?
À peine j’approche mes lèvres des siennes qu’elles se retirent ;
Suis-je de Tantale au supplice ? Ou dois-je être martyr ?


Je ne sais si c’était rêve ou réalité ;
Je quittai mon corps, surpris, le vis alité.
Je m’envolai, occupai un nuage tout gris,
Joignis la lune ; d’ici-bas ce fut mon abri.
Le chagrin intense ne nous est pas étranger,
Nous parlions d’amour, de passion sans y songer.


Cela fait une éternité, me disait-elle,
Qu’elle se voit éperdue de Titée l’immortelle ;
Elle l’a vue épouser Uranus, fils du Jour,
Qui mourut de mutilation, ô troubadour !
Méfiez-vous de celle que vous aimez ingénu !
Vous finirez par marcher miteux, les pieds nus.


Tendrement seul un poète crédule peut aimer,
Avec ses pensées, il ne fait que blasphémer.
Dieu est amour, vous le savez comme je le sais,
Amour est Dieu, à quoi bon servent ces larmes versées ?
Dites à tout honnête homme qui prétend le connaître
Qu’il est en lui, qu’il n’attend que l’on lui fasse naître.


Celle que vous estimez votre Muse est Circé,
Elle est entourée de poison, de cœurs percés.
Dès qu’aimée, en une autre elle se métamorphose,
Elle vous étale ses épines comme le fait la rose ;
Céleste et capiteuse, on succombe à son charme,
Et, agenouillé, elle vous poignarde par son arme.


Soudain, le soleil la chasse, et part désolée ;
Elle ne m’a pas tout révélé, ô affolée !
Et, mon âme, pareille, plus que jamais agitée,
Réalise qu’un autre rêve vient de la quitter.
Le présent se révèle insupportable, cruel ;
Le futur entre avec ma conscience en duel.


Une larme, aussi gelée que la pluie de décembre,
Soulage ma peine, coule sur ma joue dans un air sombre.
Un autre jour commence, les douleurs sont les mêmes ;
N’a-t-on dit qu’on ne récolte que ce que l’on sème ?
Ô illustre soleil nocturne ! Ô reine du silence !
Je vous prie, bannissez de mes peines les immenses.


©BAKA Jaouad





Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur


B. Jaouada  participé au "Prix de la création littéraire", un concours de la poésie qui est organisé  au Maroc,  il a eu le 2ème prix.

0 comments:

The Ceaseless Falling

June 13, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

The landings of this world are rehearsed:

And so the heron sinks into the water and the deer

Joins in the flood, and so the face of one's mother joins

The lies that save her face:

Always there is war flaming in South Africa

Always empires are dying and refueling

Always the children grow more staid than their parents

And love seems to darken in each walk by the river:

The silence of the brook is a place for heron, for deer:

And soon the wind will break in the dogwoods; the light

Will snag in the willow--and love, love

Shall it ever follow me to the river?



From Take Five: Collected Poems, 1971-1986, by Kenneth McClane

0 comments:

Aux iles aux parfums

June 12, 2011 Rasel Rana 1 Comments


Yakoute Abdouroihamane


Où rien n’est défunt

Les purs des fruits à gogo

Comme si le tam-tam  résonne le tango.

Un endroit où santé est prospérité

Quel genre de vie sans une priorité

Il est vrai que la mer est capricieuse

Pour y nager la sirène doit  être malicieuse.

Parait-il que tout est science

Naturelle que virtuelle sans perdre conscience

L’œil distrait des beautés d’une vivacité sereine

Arbres sur qui je passe, la lune baptisée reine.



Aux iles de la lune

 
Une étoile, une vie de chacune

Ça m échappe, charmes du jour où je lasse la contemplation

Oh ! Je remonte à la source d une unique constellation.

Quel genre d’espèce a ton humble

Climat ; l’Animal s en comble

De joie;  ces iles où montagne est temple

Vous êtes  si belle, végétation ample.

Tout le monde se procure du désir

Dans vos forets si parfumées, sur ces  marécages

Et sur les  plages de sables fins, on tourne la pag

Devant le muet  plaisir.



Aux iles volcaniques

 
Un regard nostalgique

Ronge l’ordre canonique

Vos paysages, vos plages sont des images

Qui habient mes pensées, ainsi je les rends hommage.


© Yakoute Abdouroihamane

 
Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur



 

 

1 comments: