the poem updates are back!
Apr. 18th, 2003 01:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dancingyeli haven't really had the time or the mood to post any poetry lately, so here's a long poem entry to make up for it.
Births
by Pablo Neruda
translated by Stephen Mitchell
We will never remember dying.
We were so patient
about being,
noting down
the numbers, the days,
the years and the months,
the hair, the mouths we kissed,
but that moment of dying:
we surrender it without a note,
we give it to others as remembrance
or we give it sumply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we keep
the memory of our birth,
though being born was important and fresh:
and now you don't even remember one detail,
you havent kept even a branch
of the first light.
It's well known that we are born.
It's well known that in the room
or in the woods
or in the hut in the fisheremen's district
or in the crackling canefields
there is a very unusual silence,
a moment solemn as wood,
and a woman gets ready to give birth.
It's well known that we were born.
But of the profound jolt
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and crying and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition or shudder
of the elctiric essence that takes on
one more body like a living cup,
and of taht disinhabited woman,
the mother who is left there with her blood
and her torn fullness
and her end and beginning, and the disorder
that troubles the pulse, the floor, the blankets,
until everything gathers and adds
one more knot to the thread of life:
nothing, there is nothing left in your memory
of the fierce sea that lifted a wace
and knocked down a dark apple from the tree.
The only thing you remember is your life.
wowness...he is such an awesome writer, and the translation is really good, too. it makes me wish i knew spanish so i could understand the original. this poem just kinda sucked me in...it's a little dark, but i'm in a bit of a dark mood, so it's ok.
Matinee
by Viggo Mortensen
After years of merging and allowing yourself to be assimilated
your hair and clothes
have turned brown.
Then, one afternooon, you leave a thatre
after seeing the restored
version of "The Hero Returns"
and find yourself wanting
to be treated special.
sadness...everyone should be special. i'm really relating to this one right now, not because i'm really assimilated or anything, but just because sometimes, i do want to feel special, and right now, i feel very ordinary, like i should go stand in a corner and be unnoticeable. yeah...
Cursive
by Viggo Mortensen
Outseid, foreplay of rain clouds.
Inside, you write in your diary --
probably about the argument we've
been having on and off all morning.
Little pen, never stops. Nothing
omitted, everything rewritten. Shared
past becomes rope, stretches necks,
We don't fight; we don't lose.
Shorthands present you. I am exposed.
It's not personal, you say, it's art. It's
defence, I say. I'll put on my clothes.
wow, once again. this poem is more of a ramble, but what a poetic and sad ramble.
Stones
by Viggo Mortensen
Met by a lake near the sun.
Your mouth and eyes, arms
and legs, melted as though
we'd known each other well
and needed only rekindle
warmth of the familiar.
As if patience were rewarded
and now we'd share everything.
i think i've posted this one before, but i just couldn't resist. so wistful...oh, man, i need to find some happy poetry or something.
Home
by Viggo Mortensen
He's got a deep, abiding respect
verging on idol worship
for where things end up.
There are unopened letters
in his refrigerator, a fake
fingernail in the soapdish,
shoes everyplace,
these things, and many more
leavings, fragments, balancing
reminders of a breeze
from a slammed door --
configurations of sanctified loose ends --
have become the living net
above which he performs
the movements that make
the clock work
home is where i wanna be...and where i will thankfully be tomorrow. i miss my mom and dad...and my sister and alex and rachel, who i'm not sure i'll get to see, but i hope i do...and my grandparents...yeah.
Hillside
by Viggo Mortensen
We underestimate damge
done to the sky
when we allow words
to slip away
into the clouds.
I remember making promises
to you outside. We
were watching flowers
that hadn't opened.
A bee darted, careful
not to stick to
your half-shut mouth.
wowness yet again...this man is an amazing writer. the imagery is just so good...why can't i ever express myself like he does? ok, now i need to find a happier poem to post...
Jenny Kiss'd Me
by James Henry Leigh Hunt
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but add --
Jenny kissed me.
hehehe...cuteness galore. i read this poem first a long time ago, and it has been entertaining me ever since.
well, that was long and hopefully mostly made up for lack of poems...most of those were a little dark since i was in a dark mood, but i'm feeling lots better now, thanks to a lovely trip to earl's place, a strawberry italian soda, and, most of all, a really nice time talking to emily. happy times, and i'm ready to let things be. i'm going to enjoy this weekend and have fun competing, regardless of who shows up. yes.
Births
by Pablo Neruda
translated by Stephen Mitchell
We will never remember dying.
We were so patient
about being,
noting down
the numbers, the days,
the years and the months,
the hair, the mouths we kissed,
but that moment of dying:
we surrender it without a note,
we give it to others as remembrance
or we give it sumply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we keep
the memory of our birth,
though being born was important and fresh:
and now you don't even remember one detail,
you havent kept even a branch
of the first light.
It's well known that we are born.
It's well known that in the room
or in the woods
or in the hut in the fisheremen's district
or in the crackling canefields
there is a very unusual silence,
a moment solemn as wood,
and a woman gets ready to give birth.
It's well known that we were born.
But of the profound jolt
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and crying and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition or shudder
of the elctiric essence that takes on
one more body like a living cup,
and of taht disinhabited woman,
the mother who is left there with her blood
and her torn fullness
and her end and beginning, and the disorder
that troubles the pulse, the floor, the blankets,
until everything gathers and adds
one more knot to the thread of life:
nothing, there is nothing left in your memory
of the fierce sea that lifted a wace
and knocked down a dark apple from the tree.
The only thing you remember is your life.
wowness...he is such an awesome writer, and the translation is really good, too. it makes me wish i knew spanish so i could understand the original. this poem just kinda sucked me in...it's a little dark, but i'm in a bit of a dark mood, so it's ok.
Matinee
by Viggo Mortensen
After years of merging and allowing yourself to be assimilated
your hair and clothes
have turned brown.
Then, one afternooon, you leave a thatre
after seeing the restored
version of "The Hero Returns"
and find yourself wanting
to be treated special.
sadness...everyone should be special. i'm really relating to this one right now, not because i'm really assimilated or anything, but just because sometimes, i do want to feel special, and right now, i feel very ordinary, like i should go stand in a corner and be unnoticeable. yeah...
Cursive
by Viggo Mortensen
Outseid, foreplay of rain clouds.
Inside, you write in your diary --
probably about the argument we've
been having on and off all morning.
Little pen, never stops. Nothing
omitted, everything rewritten. Shared
past becomes rope, stretches necks,
We don't fight; we don't lose.
Shorthands present you. I am exposed.
It's not personal, you say, it's art. It's
defence, I say. I'll put on my clothes.
wow, once again. this poem is more of a ramble, but what a poetic and sad ramble.
Stones
by Viggo Mortensen
Met by a lake near the sun.
Your mouth and eyes, arms
and legs, melted as though
we'd known each other well
and needed only rekindle
warmth of the familiar.
As if patience were rewarded
and now we'd share everything.
i think i've posted this one before, but i just couldn't resist. so wistful...oh, man, i need to find some happy poetry or something.
Home
by Viggo Mortensen
He's got a deep, abiding respect
verging on idol worship
for where things end up.
There are unopened letters
in his refrigerator, a fake
fingernail in the soapdish,
shoes everyplace,
these things, and many more
leavings, fragments, balancing
reminders of a breeze
from a slammed door --
configurations of sanctified loose ends --
have become the living net
above which he performs
the movements that make
the clock work
home is where i wanna be...and where i will thankfully be tomorrow. i miss my mom and dad...and my sister and alex and rachel, who i'm not sure i'll get to see, but i hope i do...and my grandparents...yeah.
Hillside
by Viggo Mortensen
We underestimate damge
done to the sky
when we allow words
to slip away
into the clouds.
I remember making promises
to you outside. We
were watching flowers
that hadn't opened.
A bee darted, careful
not to stick to
your half-shut mouth.
wowness yet again...this man is an amazing writer. the imagery is just so good...why can't i ever express myself like he does? ok, now i need to find a happier poem to post...
Jenny Kiss'd Me
by James Henry Leigh Hunt
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but add --
Jenny kissed me.
hehehe...cuteness galore. i read this poem first a long time ago, and it has been entertaining me ever since.
well, that was long and hopefully mostly made up for lack of poems...most of those were a little dark since i was in a dark mood, but i'm feeling lots better now, thanks to a lovely trip to earl's place, a strawberry italian soda, and, most of all, a really nice time talking to emily. happy times, and i'm ready to let things be. i'm going to enjoy this weekend and have fun competing, regardless of who shows up. yes.
