PBH / Off Topic: do your thing / Forums (active)

Inspiration?

Hey guys I found this and I loved it..maybe we can post the sayings and quotes/poems that we live by or find nice to read from time to time, please post yours too..

"If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master; If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings -- nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!"

I'm not sure who wrote it but there alot of truths in there, enjoy!

By LA_MONA on Oct 7, 2007, 04:51 in Off Topic.

LA_MONA says on Oct 7, 2007, 04:57:

There's been some lovely poems and reflections posted over the last few weeks in response to Gabo and his father, it'd be nice to post them here too, I'll post some more when I can get round to it.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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kalder says on Oct 7, 2007, 05:29:

'If' Rudyard Kipling

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LA_MONA says on Oct 7, 2007, 05:38:

Thanks babe.

I really like this bit:
"If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss"

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Dan says on Oct 7, 2007, 05:41:

This is a pretty good idea, mona. I don't have any quote/poem, but I did find something else that I thought was pretty good. here is something I found while searching in the online forums for my college. It's for support for those that serve in the military. This is a very good video. When I found it, the poster said it was done by a 15yr old girl. I hope you all enjoy it, and it is a sad video too... be sure to have tissues nearby.
-Dan

God Bless America!

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LA_MONA says on Oct 7, 2007, 05:58:

Dan that was deeply touching, there was a tear..of course.Thankyou.
This video makes us reflect and think about our loved ones...appreciating them more and telling them it too, and to think a 15 yr old girl made it.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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christobeldawg says on Oct 7, 2007, 07:39:

Ithaka

by C.P. Cavafy

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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Portena says on Oct 7, 2007, 11:05:

I like that, Mona. So, Kalder, you are saying that's by Rudyard Kipling?

Prophesy is a good line of business, but it is full of risks ~ Mark Twain

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kalder says on Oct 7, 2007, 12:31:

I am.

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kalder says on Oct 7, 2007, 12:39:

'Dover Beach' by Matthew Arnold. Gets me every time.

http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html

And Christina Rossetti's:

"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay..."

makes me want to cry.

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kalder says on Oct 7, 2007, 12:43:

btw Cdawg, I love Cavafy's stuff. At school I stumbled across 'The Penguin Book of Greek Verse'. Dual language. Marvellous stuff. It fuelled my schoolboy romanticism no end!

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goin_south says on Oct 7, 2007, 13:20:

Dan, that video is another tear-jerker.
And, I guess difficult, perhaps... for those who may not be United States of Americans to completely relate to.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 7, 2007, 13:57:

Thanks guys!
Porteña glad you like it too ;-)

Chris well who'd have known you were into this stuff too, good moraleja in the poem.

Kalder the one you like by Rosetti is quite sad, so final. Maybe you remember someone special..

Goodnight guys..

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Man Tequila says on Oct 7, 2007, 14:51:

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

-- The Waking (Theodore Roethke)

Aunque no me creas/ si me lo propongo/ lograre olvidarte/ porque a fin de cuentas/ no soy tan cobarde./ Y termino todo una de estas tardes/ no sera dificil buscar algún sitio donde refugiarme/ donde nunca mas vuelvas a encontrarme. (Polo Montañez)

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scotty says on Oct 7, 2007, 17:20:

Excellent video, that just about says it all.

God Bless the brave men and women serving their country.

Get Rhythm, when you got the blues. Johnny Cash

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scotty says on Oct 7, 2007, 17:28:

Dan I went to You Tube and couldnt find this video. what title is it under? thanks

Get Rhythm, when you got the blues. Johnny Cash

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scotty says on Oct 7, 2007, 17:41:

never mind Dan i found it and sent it to all my friends. thanks

Get Rhythm, when you got the blues. Johnny Cash

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christobeldawg says on Oct 7, 2007, 18:04:

all very good stuff here. good post idea Mona.

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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christobeldawg says on Oct 7, 2007, 20:18:

Here is a sweet simple one, the song by Louis Armstrong. I would post the song\video, but I am technologically challenged as to how to do so:

I see trees of green........ red roses too
I see em bloom..... for me and for you
And I think to myself.... what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue..... clouds of white
Bright blessed days....dark sacred nights
And I think to myself .....what a wonderful world.

The colors of a rainbow.....so pretty ..in the sky
Are also on the faces.....of people ..going by
I see friends shaking hands.....sayin.. how do you do
Theyre really sayin......i love you.

I hear babies cry...... I watch them grow
Theyll learn much more.....than Ill never know
And I think to myself .....what a wonderful world

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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Man Tequila says on Oct 7, 2007, 20:39:

This one reminds me of a few of the people here.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

-- Shelley

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Man Tequila says on Oct 7, 2007, 20:42:

This one always made me laugh.

They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one-another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

- Philip Larkin

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Dan says on Oct 7, 2007, 20:53:

This is something else I like:

The Soldier

It is the soldier, not the reporter
who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet
who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the soldier, not the lawyer
who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the soldier who salutes the flag,
serves under the flag,
who's coffin is draped by the flag,
who gave the protester the right to burn the flag.

by Father Dennis Edward O'Brian, USMC

God Bless America!

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goin_south says on Oct 7, 2007, 20:57:

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goin_south says on Oct 7, 2007, 21:01:

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Dan says on Oct 7, 2007, 21:08:

That's a great song GS... been awhile since I heard it.

God Bless America!

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christobeldawg says on Oct 7, 2007, 21:22:

thanks Gs. beautiful. that's the good stuff

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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goin_south says on Oct 7, 2007, 21:31:

No, thanks to you, -Dawg.
Exactly right for my time and place.
L. Armstrong/New Orleans.
That song stirs the emotions I envision
when I think about having her here with me,.... soon.

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christobeldawg says on Oct 7, 2007, 21:37:

GS
I wish for you those bright blessed days
and dark sacred nights

see Mona, I have a sensitive side. whadaya mean, that surprises you? jaja

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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goin_south says on Oct 7, 2007, 23:01:

Mona... that lead post is Valient and Noble.
It screams to be memorized.
And, I would have read it all the first time,...
if you would but break it into a few easier-to-read partes
for us aging attention defiencies,
like this:

"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!"

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 00:40:

You're a better man than I am, Goin_Dim. ;)

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 01:53:

Thanks honeys!!!!

GS that was so nice of you, it's much easier to read..

ManT so that first one reminds you of some on here? Hmm jaja

Chris only kidding, I know you have a sensitive side, you're a first class dawg ;-) Nice song too, I like the one called Imagine, it has a lovely message too.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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capitan_centella says on Oct 8, 2007, 02:04:

I post it. . . It is a poem called "if" by Rudyard kypling. I post it on some gabo´s trhreads. (Regarding his father illness.)

And I have other . . . some poem that i hum, everytime I feel sad. . .

WINGS OF GRACE (The Dreamers)

What shall we do with the dreames
Who see a world we can never know
Who have found a place of wonder
Where only children dare to go

What shall we do with the dreames
Whose world has no room for hate
Whose vision of tomorrow`s promise
Is so far removed from our fate

For they dream of a thousand tomorrows
Each one better than the one before
A future filled with compassion
For the tired, the weak, the hungry and the poor

What shall we do with the dreamers
Who no longer answer when we ask why
Who work to make their world better
And are unefraid to try
What whall we say to the dreamers
Whose lives make ours seem so bare
Who make us feel so empty
Because they dare to care
For they dream not of thing done before
But of the miracles which lie ahaid
Of the needy who can be assisted
And the famshed who can be fed

What shall we make of the dreamers
When they choose not to live as we
When they say our world has no meaning
As long as others are still not free
What shall we think of the dreamers
When they no longer listen to what we say
When their silence leaves us uneasy
And they refuse to go away

For they dream of fanciful figures
Poised in mid-flight
Angels with Wings of Grace
Floating on the light
Messengers from the next world
So unfamiliar but yet not strange
Bringing word of the New World
The begginnin of the change

What shall we do with the dreamers

It´s a song called wings of grace, from santana.

enjoy

;-)

"When you open your eyes, you turn around with the world, But it can change, if you only close it, and see a dream to yourself." Me.

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kat1 (Moderator) says on Oct 8, 2007, 03:19:

ah quien no recito este poema en Colombia cuando estaba joven......

Rin Rin Renacuajo
El hijo de rana, rin rin renacuajo
Salió esta mañana muy tieso y muy majo
Con pantalon corto, corbata a la moda
Sombrero encintado y chupa de boda

Muchacho no salgas, le grita mamá,
Pero él hace un gesto y orondo se va
Hallo en el camino a un ratón vecino
Y le dice amigo venga usted conmigo
Visitemos juntos a doña Ratona
Y habrá francachela y habrá comilona

A poco llegaron, avanza ratón,
Estirase el cuello y coge el aldabón
Y da uno, dos, tres golpes
Y preguntan ¿quien es?
Yo doña Ratona, beso a usted los pies

Estaba en mi oficio hilando algodón
Pero eso no importa bienvenidos son
Se hicieron la venia, se dieron la mano
Y dice Ratico que es más veterano
Mi amigo el de verde rabia de calor
Démele cerveza, hágame el favor
Y mientras el pillo consume la jarra
Mando la señora a traer la guitarra
Y a renacuajito le pide que cante versitos alegres
Tonada elegante

Ay de mil amores lo hiciera señora
Pero tengo el gaznate mas seco que estopa
Y me aprieta mucho esta nueva ropa.
Lo siento infinito responde doña Rata
Aflójese un poco chaleco y corbata
Y mientras tanto vamos a cantar
Una cancioncita muy particular.

Se hallaban en este ameno lugar
con canto, guitarra y canción
Cuando la gata y sus gatos
Aparecen en el umbral
Y aquello parece el juicio final

La gata grande cogió de la oreja a doña
Ratona maullándole hola
Y los niños gatos a la rata vieja
Uno por la pata y otro por la cola

Y Renacuajito al ver este asalto
Cogió su sombereo y dio un tremendo salto
Y siguió saltando tan alto y deprisa
Que perdió el sombrero y
Rasgo la camisa
Y cae en la boca de un pato tragón
Y este se lo embucha de un solo estirón

♥

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 07:11:

This one goes out to Gabo, one of my favorites allegories about life.

Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole
long day?
form morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours
begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my
face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in
sight?
they will not keep you standing at that
door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and
weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who
seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

(1862)

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 07:49:

Victorian poetry- elegaic, haunting, beautiful.

I think I'll take a trip down to Highgate Cemetery and pay my respects to Rossetti.

Incidentally, there's a grave there whose inscription quotes John Dunne:

"Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee"

That touches deeply.

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gringolondinense says on Oct 8, 2007, 07:55:

I love this line from Monas quotation:

"risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss"

Right....im off to do some pitching and tossing of my own...:))

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 08:06:

Better than catching I suppose.

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 08:14:

"Victorian poetry- elegaic, haunting, beautiful"

I totally agree with you Kalder.

I also love a poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, about Adam's first wife: Lilith

"Body's Beauty"

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 08:20:

And here's the oil painting he did of 'Lady Lilith':

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 08:22:

The model for which he was sleeping with I believe.

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 10:06:

Kalder I have always been interested in the myth of Lilith.

So Dante Rossetti's grave is in London? I did not know that.

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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strata2woman says on Oct 8, 2007, 10:40:

When I feel blue, I always listen to Ave Maria. I hope it will bring the same internal peace to some one else as it brings to me. Con cariño barranquillero

"Costeño que se respeta, no se come un gajo de mamon solo!.." -

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 11:18:

de pronto - I was actually referring to Christina Rossetti. She's buried in Highgate Cemetery in North London.

Her brother, Dante, is buried in the Kentish village of Birchington- about an hour or so's drive from London.

The myth of Lilith is fascinating. She's the dark sexy seductress...Eve's a bit of a hausfrau in comparison.

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 11:28:

Christina's grave:

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

And Dante's:

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 11:33:

Shubert, Satchmo, the pre-Raphaelites...

Great thread Mona.

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 11:47:

¡Wow!

Kalder, Rossetti's grave is surrounded by a gothic atmosphere. I definately have to plan a visit to England.

One more question Kalder (Mona this one will be the last one regarding literature, I promise), do you happend to know if Virginia Wolf's is also in London?

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 12:29:

Highgate Cemetery is ultra-Gothic de pronto. Bram Stoker uses it as the setting for some of the action in 'Dracula'.

Virginia Woolf was cremated. Her ashes are buried under a tree in the garden of her country retreat. In Sussex, south England.

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kalder says on Oct 8, 2007, 12:31:

You're obviously an educated man de pronto. You have good English too.

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 12:38:

hahahahahaha Kalder... I am a girl.... a mexican one.

=)

Thanks for your compliments though. hahahahaha

=D

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:04:

Another great Victorian poem, "Spring and Fall" (Gerard Manley Hopkins).

(to a young child)

MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:21:

The myth of Lilith is very interesting. Kalder is obviously several well-educated women who speak English exceedingly well. ;)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lilith

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:29:

I do have to apologize for the following poem is in Spanish, written by a mexican poet (Jaime Sabines) "Me gusta Dios" (I like God). I did not dare to translate it into English, since I am not good at translating poetry. ;)

Me encanta Dios. Es un viejo magnifico que no se toma en serio. A él le gusta jugar y juega. Y a veces se le pasa la mano y nos rompe una pierna y nos aplasta definitivamente. Pero esto sucede porque es un poco cegatón y bastante torpe de las manos.
Nos ha enviado a algunos tipos excepcionales como Buda, o Cristo o Mahoma, o mi tía Chofi, para que nos digan que nos portemos bien. Pero eso a él no le preocupa mucho: nos conoce. Sabe que el pez grande se traga al chico, que la lagartija grande se traga a la pequeña, el hombre se traga al hombre. Y por eso inventó la muerte: para que la vida -no tú ni yo- la vida sea para siempre.
Ahora los científicos salen con su teoría del Bing Bang... Pero ¿qué importa si el universo se expande interminablemente o se contrae? Esto es asunto sólo para agencias de viajes.
A mi me encanta Dios. Ha puesto orden en las galaxias y distribuye bien el tránsito en el camino de las hormigas. Y es tan juguetón y travieso que el otro día descubrí que ha hecho -frente al ataque de los anbióticos- ¡bacterias mutantes!
Viejo sabio o niño explorador, cuando deja de jugar con sus soldaditos de plomo y de carne y hueso, hace campos de flores o pinta el cielo de manera increíble.
Mueve una mano y hace el mar, mueve otra y hace el bosque. Y cuando pasa por encima de nosotros, quedan las nubes, pedazos de su aliento.
Dicen que a veces se enfurece y hace terremotos, manda tormentas, caudales de fuego, vientos desatados, aguas alevosas, castigos y desastres. Pero esto es mentira.
Es la tierra que cambia -y se agita y crece- cuando Dios se aleja.
Dios siempre esta de buen humor. Por eso es el preferido de mis padres, el escogido de mis hijos, el más cercano de mis hermanos, la mujer más amada, el perrito y la pulga, la piedra más antigua, el pétalo más tierno, el aroma más dulce, la noche insondable, el borboteo de luz, el manantial que soy.
A mi me gusta, a mi me encanta Dios.
Que Dios bendiga a Dios.

Regards

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:40:

You guys are great, adding so many interesting datos and things to read. Great stuff!

Just post anything, a sayin, quote, whatever affects you...

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:41:

OK so I'm a bit romantic lately...

Dejame enseñarte mi piel:

Déjame enseñarte mi piel, lo que escondo detrás de los sueños,
la poesía que crece inacabada. Podría morir o podría ser agua…
Extenderse como el río, apaciguar esa sed que brota de tu silencio.
Déjame enseñarte, si pudiera, ser instante;
Verlo todo distinto, sin alejarte, abrazar esta metáfora,
atravesarte con mi alma, y con mis manos acariciarte
poco a poco, abarcando todo ese infinito.
Déjame enseñarte la clave de todo lo que existe en mí,
de este escalofrío, de este viento que te apunta sin disparo,
ciudad sumergida cuando me sumerjo en tus ojos…
Déjame, déjame, déjame…
¡Déjame que continúe en tus brazos!

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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de pronto says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:41:

Man Tequila, thank you for the link. Though I am more interested in the apocryphal point of view, this link seems to be an overall view of the myth which is very useful to me, believe it or not I did not come up before with the idea of searching in "wikipedia". =)

Gracias.

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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christobeldawg says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:43:

That poem by Gerard Manly Hopkins I have always loved also MT

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 14:45:

Tu Cuerpo y el Mio

Tu cuerpo, luna menguante.
Mi cuerpo, estrella encendida.
Empeñados en amarse
bajo la noche dormida.

Tu cuerpo, rumor silente.
Mi cuerpo, música esquiva.
Buscando un amor urgente
en horas intempestivas.

Tu cuerpo, duna de arena.
Mi cuerpo, brisa atrevida
acariciando la queja
que bajo tu piel palpita.

Tu cuerpo, hiedra trepando.
Mi cuerpo, piedra cautiva
del interminable abrazo
que en tus manos se adivina.

Tu cuerpo, luz cenicienta.
Mi cuerpo, niebla fundida
que en tus ojos se aposenta
como barco a la deriva.

Tu cuerpo, errante universo.
Mi cuerpo, materia herida.
Jugando a engañar al tiempo,
jugando a entender la vida.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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christobeldawg says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:10:

That innocent young girl recognizing her physical mortality through the metaphor of fallen golden leaves. powerful

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:11:

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

-- Victor Hugo

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:13:

Tomorrow at Dawn (Victor Hugo, translation)

Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens,
I will set out. You see, I know that you wait for me.
I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.
I can no longer remain far from you.

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing of outdoors, hearing no noise
Alone, unknown, my back curved, my hands crossed,
Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night.

I will not look at the gold of evening which falls,
Nor the distant sails going down towards Harfleur,
And when I arrive, I will place on your tomb
A bouquet of green holly and of flowering heather.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:15:

Man T it would be better if I actually could hear you saying that poem in french, seems romantic?

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:17:

It's better in French. I wish I could speak Russian like John Cleese in "A Fish Called Wanda". Did you see "The Princess Bride"?

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LA_MONA says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:21:

Man T noooo omg I need to rent it out, I keep forgetting!

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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ColombianoGringo (Moderator) says on Oct 8, 2007, 15:47:

Inconceivable!!!

I'm so hip, I have difficulty seeing over my pelvis. - Zaphod Beeblebrox, Former President of the Galaxy and inventor of the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster

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Man Tequila says on Oct 8, 2007, 16:38:

Jaja, CG. This verse reminds me of Colombia's image.

"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."

- TS Eliot

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NataliaV says on Oct 8, 2007, 17:20:

A favorite saying of mine, although not a poem is "Be the change that you wish to see in the world"
-Ghandi

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podborski says on Oct 8, 2007, 17:42:

ok I know my education is lacking when I understand the spanish poem better than the english (hopkins) one.

I tend to listen to music when I'm looking for a lift.

One album that always makes me smile (and makes me want to dance, so it must be something) is Guajiro Natural, Polo Montanez. He's pretty inspirational if you know that he is self taught.

I looked for the songs I really like on you tube, but couldn't find the best ones.

But here's one for Mona:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFNa5-U1NX0&mode=related&search=

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christobeldawg says on Oct 8, 2007, 18:54:

Good one Ghandi, I mean Nati

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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capitan_centella says on Oct 8, 2007, 20:59:

Hum. . about jaime sabines i like:

YO NO LO SÉ DE CIERTO. . .

Yo no lo sé de cierto, pero supongo
que una mujer y un hombre
un día se quieren,
se van quedando solos poco a poco,
algo en su corazón les dice que están solos,
solos sobre la tierra se penetran,
se van matando el uno al otro.

Todo se hace en silencio. Como
se hace la luz dentro del ojo.
El amor une cuerpos.
En silencio se van llenando el uno al otro.
Cualquier día despiertan, sobre brazos;
piensan entonces que lo saben todo.
Se ven desnudos y lo saben todo.
(Yo no lo sé de cierto. Lo supongo.)

"When you open your eyes, you turn around with the world, But it can change, if you only close it, and see a dream to yourself." Me.

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goin_south says on Oct 8, 2007, 21:41:

Polo Montanez? Hey, how would you classify his music? alot about love, there... lookin further into youtube. Eres colombiano? no? que?

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kalder says on Oct 9, 2007, 00:45:

Mea culpa de pronto. It was the 'o' at the end of your handle that lead to my assumption.

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kalder says on Oct 9, 2007, 02:48:

I wish I were several well-educated women MT. My all-girl salon would put the Hell Fire Club to shame.

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podborski says on Oct 9, 2007, 04:03:

Polo was cuban, think he only got 2 albums out before he died in a car crash a couple of years ago.

Story I heard is he was discovered in cuba by a colombian music producer, who brought him to colombia where he became popular, then when he went back to cuba he became a superstar.

Read a few of the comments about him on you tube, people idolize him.

Try to buy the CD Guajiro Natural, it's brilliant, lots of upbeat music on it.

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podborski says on Oct 9, 2007, 04:04:

and no, I'm not colombian GS : )

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Man Tequila says on Oct 9, 2007, 16:26:

A Poem for La_Mona -- by Man Tequila. An original poem. Took me an hour. I clearly have too much time on my hands, but maybe not as much as la campiña. Anyway, Mona inspired me.

Not sure what to call it. La Llomona? Yo, La Mona? Cejas?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The winter moon hid in dark seas of cloud,
Sequestered by a vast and starless shroud.
No wayward wind disturbed the midnight gloom,
The misty marsh was cheerless as a tomb.

Dressed in a ragged gown of tattered lace,
Mona wept softly, covering her face.
Her beauty shone like fire despite the shade,
With silky locks and shoulders both displayed.

All children in the hamlet were asleep,
And could not hear the banshee gently weep.
For bygone days that vanished long ago,
And arcs of brow, once vibrant and aglow.

"Where have my eyebrows gone?", the spectre squalled
Hiding hairless eye sockets with her shawl.
She knew the answer, dire and depraved.
"They fell into the river when I shaved."

In ages past, a young and pretty dove,
With two young bairns, became consumed by love.
A lust that burned so bright can make one blind.
And liberate the soul, but block the mind.

Though poets dreamed about her rounded thighs,
Her perfect eyebrows were her greatest prize.
Her children too had eyebrows just as fine.
To frame a masterpiece, and make it shine.

Mona had fallen for a pompous knight,
Who liked her silky skin and bosoms bright.
But all the local burghers were appalled,
When her beloved asked that she be bald.

"If we must be together, I declare,
You must love me more than you love your hair.
Please shave your brows. Those of your children too.
Grant me my wish and I will marry you."

With leaden hands, and heart and soul aquiver,
Mona took her young bairns down to the river.
Shaved off their brows and manes, and hers, though blessed.
And then returned, when she had passed the test.

"I'm sorry, dear, I thought our love was rare.
But I was wrong. I only loved your hair.
Now that its gone, I see our world is black."
He went away, and never did come back.

But neither did the hair in Mona's brow.
She walks the darkened marshes, even now.
If children in the hamlet misbehave,
Mona will come and give their brows a shave.

The winter moon hid in dark seas of cloud,
Sequestered by a vast and starless shroud.
The angels grieve. Amid this aberration,
A banshee dreams of eyebrow restoration.

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christobeldawg says on Oct 9, 2007, 19:52:

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily, the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

James Joyce

traveling hopefully is always better than arriving

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de pronto says on Oct 9, 2007, 20:18:

It's ok Kalder...

;)

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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Man Tequila says on Oct 9, 2007, 21:05:

You sure that you're not several women? I''d like to see the Hellfire Club put to shame. ;)

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scotty says on Oct 10, 2007, 02:10:

hey GS that was a very very cool video and a great song by the great Louis Armstrong, nice touch!

Get Rhythm, when you got the blues. Johnny Cash

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LA_MONA says on Oct 10, 2007, 02:21:

Man Tequila I am deeply touched and honored that you created this masterpiece just for moi.
I am planning to have it framed and put up in my home, it's a work of art.

So let me get this straight : When I met my knight in armour, I already had two "bairns" so who the hell did I have my bairns with?

And so my knight, after coveting my silky locks, bare shoulders, silky skin, rounded thighs and "bosoms bight" tells me to shave my eyebrows and when I do it, he buggars off? And I'm left again with my two brats and on top of that this time with no eyebrows?

If it wasn't so beautifully written you'd be in trouble mister, I'd come to haunt you at night y jalarte los pies, llorando "Ayy mis cejas, mis ceeeeeeejas"

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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de pronto says on Oct 10, 2007, 05:37:

jajajajaja Mona I just read your previous comment and it made me laugh... it reminded me a mexican legend: La llorona.

=)

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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kalder says on Oct 10, 2007, 07:43:

That poem of pod's...

Bloody hell.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 10, 2007, 07:53:

DP Man T took the colombian versionof La Llorona and modified it, this is the mona version , called La Llamona jaja

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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de pronto says on Oct 10, 2007, 08:08:

oh I see, ¡that must be fun!

But he wrote again the legend but modified?

Uh! that's why "ay mis cejas" instead of "ay mis hijos"? jajajajajajajajajaja

Funny

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 08:59:

Yeah, I kind of figured that would get me in trouble. But in some versions of the legend, the lady has kids and "important guy" doesn't like them. It's not like I made you drown them in the river or anything, I think they got off kind of easy, but that doesn't mean I know where they came from. I guess La Llomona remains covered in mists of speculation and mystery. I do not even know if she is "big boned". The knight did bugger off, though.

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:06:

My father just sent me this version of Wonderful World. I thought it was very clever and funny. I'm not much good at making "hand shadows" myself, though I can do a rabbit.

wonderfulworld-handpuppet.wmv

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de pronto says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:18:

"Yeah, I kind of figured that would get me in trouble" jajajajaja Tan lindo.

Your version of the legend is correct Man Tequila, but if you're willing to re-write another version let me know, I'll be glad to help you out, so Mona can have her own version of La Llomona... which would be something like I-Mona but in spanish, right? Yo-Mona

Just kidding Mona

=D

... y viaje a Macondo todo pagado

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kalder says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:24:

Of MT's...

I really should start reading these comments properly.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:30:

Kalder I was going to correct you but I knew you'd figure it out ;-)

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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kalder says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:37:

I think I was knocked silly by such phrases as 'bosoms bright'.

I just kept thinking of a stripper in a sequinned bra. Fairy lights for nipples.

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:40:

I think we have been down this road before.

http://www.enlighted.com/media/bras/nervebra/alldark1x600.jpg

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LA_MONA says on Oct 10, 2007, 09:50:

Jajaja you guys..men will be men.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 10:20:

Why was La Llorona wearing a "nerve bra"?

Did you see the Wonderful World-Hand Puppet video a few posts above? GS picked out a great song. That video is pretty inspiring. The nerve bra inspires in a different way.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 10, 2007, 10:25:

MT it's great, I saw una argentina on a spanish talent show, she was just as good..so creative!

I don't know why La llorona is wearing a nerve bra, it's beginning to seem she was a bit naughty really.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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goin_south says on Oct 10, 2007, 12:25:

...gotta give credit where credit is due:
- That song was a pick by the -Dawg - as in Christo-
he jus needed help in pasting from youtube.
(damn, it's nice to know someone is slower than me)

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podborski says on Oct 10, 2007, 13:21:

I'm confused again!

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 13:45:

I guess Christobeldawg deserves credit for picking the song, and GS for his gracious act of posting the videos. I must have been talking to la campina too much or something.

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Man Tequila says on Oct 10, 2007, 13:46:

Pod is a poet and don't know it.

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capitan_centella says on Oct 10, 2007, 21:14:

"Sometimes the only motivation we need is just that. . . "need".
atte: capitán centella.

"When you open your eyes, you turn around with the world, But it can change, if you only close it, and see a dream to yourself." Me.

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kalder says on Oct 11, 2007, 00:40:

This is like a party that's gently drifted on into the small hours; everyone chatting comfortably, drunkenly, a little incoherently...

It's nice.

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LA_MONA says on Oct 11, 2007, 01:12:

Yeah Kalder you're right, Peter did say once that PBH should be like chatting and mingling at a bar....

Estados de Animo, Mario Benedetti:
Estados de ánimo
A veces me siento
como un águila en el aire.
-Pablo Milanés

Unas veces me siento
como pobre colina
y otras como montaña
de cumbres repetidas.

Unas veces me siento
como un acantilado
y en otras como un cielo
azul pero lejano.

A veces uno es
manantial entre rocas
y otras veces un árbol
con las últimas hojas.

Pero hoy me siento apenas
como laguna insomne
con un embarcadero
ya sin embarcaciones
una laguna verde
inmóvil y paciente
conforme con sus algas
sus musgos y sus peces,
sereno en mi confianza
confiando en que una tarde
te acerques y te mires,
te mires al mirarme.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Man Tequila says on Oct 31, 2007, 21:17:

Here's another one by Mario Benedetti.

¿Y si Dios fuera mujer?
pregunta Juan sin inmutarse,
vaya, vaya si Dios fuera mujer
es posible que agnósticos y ateos
no dijéramos no con la cabeza
y dijéramos sí con las entrañas.

Tal vez nos acercáramos a su divina desnudez
para besar sus pies no de bronce,
su pubis no de piedra,
sus pechos no de mármol,
sus labios no de yeso.

Si Dios fuera mujer la abrazaríamos
para arrancarla de su lontananza
y no habría que jurar
hasta que la muerte nos separe
ya que sería inmortal por antonomasia
y en vez de transmitirnos SIDA o pánico
nos contagiaría su inmortalidad.

Si Dios fuera mujer no se instalaría
lejana en el reino de los cielos,
sino que nos aguardaría en el zaguán del infierno,
con sus brazos no cerrados,
su rosa no de plástico
y su amor no de ángeles.

Ay Dios mío, Dios mío
si hasta siempre y desde siempre
fueras una mujer
qué lindo escándalo sería,
qué venturosa, espléndida, imposible,
prodigiosa blasfemia.

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Man Tequila says on Nov 4, 2007, 14:41:

I was too sleepy to do much this afternoon, and with little energy and perhaps too much time wrote a little poem I'd like to call "A Sonnet For Furachogua".

I like to swim at night by light of moon,
And hear the cradlesong of distant stars.
I feel the pristine peace of the lagoon,
The euphonies that make us who we are.
Where spirits once climbed up from melted snow
And rode into the skies on steeds of steam.
Endowed us birth and death and quid pro quo
In frozen fogs of half-forgotten dreams.
If Sacred snakes could not shed sunbaked skin
And coil their trunks to form a curlicue?
The fountainheads of life would not begin
Minus marrow to seed primordial stew.
The serpents looking down from pregnant skies,
Lend us their tears and joys and lullabies.

I like to swim past twilight when the sun
Has gone to bed, dressed in lavender sheets.
The babies are asleep, the chores are done,
And couples caper, carefree and complete.
I taste the supple softness of the lake,
And strum sybilline songs on your guitar.
And contemplate the wisdom of the snake,
The eulogies that sum up who we are.
Before the final fanfare of the shroud,
I sieve the calm and chaos from the seas.
After the acclamations of the crowd,
I mediate on these dichotomies.
Death is not always Death on last review.
Rhythms and cycles oft commence anew.

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LA_MONA says on Nov 5, 2007, 01:19:

Hey Man T if that's you being unproductive...we all come on here and talk about butts shaving or shopping and other really unproductive things jiji

It's really good, you should start a post where you can put your sleepy afternoon talent.

Para volar, es preciso tener resistencia. -M.Lin

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Man Tequila says on Nov 5, 2007, 02:59:

It's more productive than shaving dingleberries, I agree. And I wish I could find more time to do more quasi-creative things. I had some paperwork that was more important and annoying, which I'm procrastinating on. ;)

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Man Tequila says on Nov 10, 2007, 23:55:

The first video left out my favourite line
"Then all man will be sailors then until the sea shall free them."

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Colombiche says on Nov 22, 2007, 21:50:

Dos de Pablo Neruda:

Walking Around

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

Él olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sòlo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sòlo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja,
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío.

No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.

No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos,
aterido, muñéndome de pena.

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petròleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.

Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.

Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran lentas lágrimas sucias.

No me den trago extranjero, que es caro y no sabe a bueno.... (Rafael Godoy)

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Colombiche says on Nov 22, 2007, 21:58:

Llénate de mí.
Ansíame, agótame, viérteme, sacrifícame.
Pídeme. Recógeme, contiéneme, ocúltame.
Quiero ser de alguien, quiero ser tuyo, es tu hora.
Soy el que pasó saltando sobre las cosas,
el fugante, el doliente.

Pero siento tu hora,
la hora de que mi vida gotee sobre tu alma,
la hora de las ternuras que no derramé nunca,
la hora de los silencios que no tienen palabras,
tu hora, aIba de sangre que me nutrió de angustias,
tu hora, medianoche que me fue solitaria.

Libértame de mí. Quiero salir de mi alma.
Yo soy esto que gime, esto que arde, esto que sufre.
Yo soy esto que ataca, esto que aúlla, esto que canta.
No, no quiero ser esto.
Ayúdame a romper estas puertas inmensas.
Con tus hombros de seda desentierra estas anclas.
Así crucificaron mi dolor una tarde.
Libértame de mí. Quiero salir de mi alma.

Quiero no tener límites y alzarme hacia aquel astro.
Mi corazón no debe callar hoy o mañana.
Debe participar de lo que toca,
debe ser de metales, de raíces, de alas.
No puedo ser la piedra que se alza y que no vuelve,
no puedo ser la sombra que se deshace y pasa.

No, no puede ser, no puede ser, no puede ser.
Entonces gritaría, lloraría, gemiría.
No puede ser, no puede ser.
Quién iba a romper esta vibración de mis alas?
Quién iba a exterminarme? Qué designio, qué palabra?
No puede ser, no puede ser, no puede ser.
Libértame de mí. Quiero salir de mi alma.

Porque tú eres mi ruta. Te forjé en lucha viva.
De mi pelea oscura contra mí mismo, fuiste.
Tienes de mí ese sello de avidez no saciada.
Desde que yo los miro tus ojos son más tristes.
Vamos juntos, Rompamos este camino juntos.
Será la ruta tuya. Pasa. Déjame irme.
Ansíame, agótame, viérteme, sacrifícame.
Haz tambalear los cercos de mis últimos límites.

Y que yo pueda, al fin, correr en fuga loca,
inundando las tierras como un río terrible,
desatando estos nudos, ah Dios mío, estos nudos
destrozando,
quemando,
arrasando
como una lava loca lo que existe,
correr fuera de mí mismo, perdidamente,
libre de mí, furiosamente libre.
Irme,
Dios mío,
irme!

No me den trago extranjero, que es caro y no sabe a bueno.... (Rafael Godoy)

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Man Tequila says on Nov 22, 2007, 22:17:

Two lovely poems, not too many better than Pablo.

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kalder says on Nov 23, 2007, 00:41:

I personally think he's second rate. A good 'bad' poet like Roy Campbell.

Of course, my Spanish isn't up to reading it in the original, but I believe you can get a sense of a poet's talent by sifting through a range of translations.

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Man Tequila says on Nov 23, 2007, 07:51:

Pablo Neruda is certainly in my top five poets. Roy Campbell is okay, but in a lesser league. I agree you can certainly get a good idea of what you like in translations, however unless you read it in Spanish you lose the rhythm and linguistic qualities that are important as well. There is no shortage of highly over-rated poets.

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kalder says on Nov 23, 2007, 08:21:

Top five poets! Now that's a challenging list MT. I'm going to be pondering that all weekend, on and off.

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Colombiche says on Nov 23, 2007, 09:34:

I don't think he is overrated. I get goosebumps when I read both the poems above. I am sure they lose everything in the translation. Everything. Just for the hell of it I translated a piece of one of the above poems:

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petròleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche

That is why Monday is a day that burns like petroleum
when it sees me arrive with the face of a prisioner
and it cranks as it passes like a battered wheel
and takes hot blooded steps toward the night

No me den trago extranjero, que es caro y no sabe a bueno.... (Rafael Godoy)

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