Sol de invierno
Es mediodía. Un parque.
Invierno. Blancas sendas;
simétricos montículos
y ramas esqueléticas.
Bajo el invernadero,
naranjos en maceta,
y en su tonel, pintado
de verde, la palmera.
Un viejecillo dice,
para su capa vieja:
"¡El sol, esta hermosura
de sol!…" Los niños juegan.
El agua de la fuente
resbala, corre y sueña
lamiendo, casi muda,
la verdinosa piedra.
– Antonio Machado (poeta español, 1875-1939)
[daily log: walking, 6km]
Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands
Happy ye leaves. whenas those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
And happy lines on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,
Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.
And happy rhymes! bathed in the sacred brook
Of Helicon, whence she derived is,
When ye behold that angel's blessed look,
My soul's long lacked food, my heaven's bliss.
Leaves, lines, and rhymes seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
– Edmund Spenser (English poet, 1552–1599)
[daily log: walking, 6.5km]
Finding My Elegy
I can't find you where I've been looking for you,
my elegy. There's all too many graveyards handy
these days, too many names to read through tears
on long black walls, too many bulldozed bonefilled ditches.
And all the animals to mourn, wiped off
the earth like mist wiped off a mirror, leaving one
face, reflection of itself alone,
image of its imagined image; nothing else,
no grief, no dirt, no dogs, no elegies.
That desert is no place for you. And so I looked
where death is birth and gods are animals
and being flows through being as from spring
river flows into river to the sea;
but what's to mourn, if life betakes itself into
another life? Better a rite of passage,
painful joyful celebration of the change,
warning and welcome to the soul returned
forgetful who it was, and we not knowing either,
seabird or child, salmon or fern or fawn.
And on the eightfold way, although compassion finds
itself at home, all the hard work of sorrow
dissolves to breathing in and out the lives let loose
from turning turning turning, gone nowhere
to do no harm at last, after the long despair.
So where to seek? I used to dream of climbing
high in the hills, those silent ridges red with dawn,
to find your sisters the Laments; but that's
a hero's journey. I am older than a hero
ever gets. My search must be a watch,
patiently sitting, looking out the open door.
Far off through shadow I can see a woman
who stands to speak a name. Though I can't hear her voice
across the ruins of the centuries,
I know how hard it was to speak, how her throat ached.
In Rome, beside the pyre or open grave,
they'd say the name aloud three times, and then be still.
A name is hard to say. Who'd read aloud
those names on that long wall, what woman born
could bear to know so many children dead?
Numbers are easier. The men of money say
numbers, not names. Grief's not their business.
But I think it may be mine, and if I have
a people any more, I will find them in tears.
My elegy, your clothes are out of fashion.
I see you walking past me on a country road
in a worn cloak. Your steps are slow, along
a way that grows obscure as it leads back and back.
In dusk some stars shine small and clear as tears
on a dark face that is not human. I will follow you.
– Ursula K. Le Guin (American author, b. 1921)
The posting of this "elegy" and the one I wrote the other day are not really related events. I ran across this and liked it, and it just so happens to be an elegy. I guess I'm having an elegiac period.
[daily log: walking, 6km]
El sueño
Imagen espantosa de la muerte,
sueño crüel, no turbes más mi pecho,
mostrándome cortado el nudo estrecho,
consuelo solo de mi adversa suerte.
Busca de algún tirano el muro fuerte,
de jaspe las paredes, de oro el techo,
o el rico avaro en el angosto lecho
haz que temblando con sudor despierte.
El uno vea el popular tumulto
romper con furia las herradas puertas,
o al sobornado siervo el hierro oculto.
El otro sus riquezas, descubiertas
con llave falsa o con violento insulto,
y déjale al amor sus glorias ciertas.
– Lupercio Leonardo de Argensola (poeta español, 1559-1613)
[daily log: walking, 6km]
Haunted Houses
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (American poet, 1807-1882)
A little bit late for Halloween. But nevertheless I decided to post it.
[daily log: walking, 6.5km]
I dreamed I was in some rural place. There were ramshackle, badly-plastered buildings scattered on a steep, gravelly hillside. Little springs of water were leaking out of clay embankments and skipping down the steep, tall grass.
The soil was ruddy. It was somewhat reminiscent of places I have seen in Korea, but also, in the dream, I felt the familiarity of my childhood in Northern California, along some river – the Trinity, the Eel. Thinking about it now, it was like my stepfather's "ranch" high above the South Fork of the Trinity river. I used to spend warm summer afternoons out on the hillside, trying to draw imaginary cities out of the rocky clay.
Perhaps I was a child, myself. Someone nearby had a stuffed toy rabbit, and within the dream, this was utterly unremarkable. There was a dark, shrouded figure lurking in the doorway of one of the buildings, simply watching me. I didn't feel afraid of this, and it did not seem strange.
People were talking, milling around, but I wasn't being social. I was eating fish soup out of a paper cup. The bits of fish seemed like wax – like those was sculptures of food displayed in front of restaurants in Korea, sometimes.
I dropped my paper cup on the ground, and I was so angry, hungry and desperate that I began digging around on the ground for the little bits of fish and vegetables and eating them with chopsticks. Someone was laughing at me – a relative? a friend?
I ended up eating dirt and rocks. I focused on the ground, and ignored the people around me. It was one of those dreams I sometimes have, where I felt myself becoming an animal. Walking on all fours, loping along the hillside, biting at pebbles and blades of grass.
I slipped away into the forest.
What I'm listening to right now.
CHVRCHES, "Clearest Blue."
Lyrics.
[Verse 1]
Light is all over us
Like it always was
Like it always was
Shaped, by the clearest blue
But it's not enough
It's not enough, not enough
[Chorus]
Just another time I'm caught inside
Every open eye
Holding on tightly to the sides
Never quite learning why
You'll meet me, you'll meet me
You'll meet me halfway
Whenever I feel it coming on
You can be well aware
If ever I try to push away
You can just keep me there
So please say you'll meet me
Meet me halfway
[Verse 2]
Tied, to the shifting ground
Like it always was
Like it always was
You, were the perfect storm
But it's not enough, it's not enough
Not enough, not enough
[Chorus – Variation]
Just another time that I go down
But you are keeping up
Holding to a hope you'll undermine
Never to be reversed
Just another time I'm caught inside
Every open eye
Holding on tightly to the sides
Never quite learning why
Whenever I feel it coming on
You can be well aware
If ever I try to push away
You can just keep me, tell me
[Build Up]
Tell me tell me, you'll meet me
Tell me tell me, you'll keep me
Tell me tell me, you'll meet me
Will you meet me more than halfway up?
[Outro]
Shaped by, clearest blue
Shaped by, clearest blue
Shaped (will you keep it half-a-way)
By, clearest blue (will you keep it half-a-way)
Shaped (will you keep it half-a-way)
By, clearest blue (will you keep it half-a-way)
[daily log: walking, 6km]
The Planet On The Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
– Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
[UPDATE 2020-03-31: While doing some routine maintenance on this here blog, I am embarrassed to realize, only now, that I have cited this poem twice on this blog. This is the first appearance. The second was on 2016-09-25. Well, I guess it’s a pretty good poem.]
[daily log: walking, 1 km]
John Skelton was an English poet, born in 1463 and died in 1529. Thus, like Chaucer, his English is less accessible than Shakespeare's, given the huge changes that English underwent in the subsequent century.
Some Dutch scholars have been making readings of his work in the presumed reconstructed original pronunciation of the Middle English – when I ran across the reading and first listened to it, I said to myself, "that sounds like Dutch." My question is, did it sound like Dutch because they're Dutch scholars reading Middle English with a Dutch accent, or did it sound like Dutch because that's what Middle English really sounded like (in which case, it's quite handy to have Dutch scholars working on it)? Dutch has always fascinated me – I took a single quarter of Dutch among the many "one quarter languages" I studied at the University of Minnesota. I have always felt that Dutch is what English would sound like if I didn't understand English.
What I'm listening to right now.
John Skelton (read by some Dutch guy), "Speke Parott." Anyway, I like this poem – it's quite cosmopolitan for 15th/16th century.
Lectoribus auctor recipit opusculi huius auxesim.
Crescet in immensum me vivo pagina presens;
Hinc mea dicetur Skeltonidis aurea fama.
PAROT
My name is Parrot, a byrd of Paradyse,
By Nature devised of a wonderowus kynde,
Deyntely dyeted with dyvers dylycate spyce,
Tyl Euphrates, that flode, dryveth me into Inde;
Where men of that countrey by fortune me fynde,
And send me to greate ladyes of estate;
Then Parot must have an almon or a date.
A cage curyously carven, with sylver pyn,
Properly paynted, to be my covertowre;
A myrrour of glasse, that I may toote therin;
These maidens ful mekely with many a divers flowre
Freshly they dresse, and make swete my bowre,
With, ‘Speke, Parrot, I pray you,’ full curtesly they say;
‘Parrot is a goodly byrd, a prety popagey.’
With my becke bent, my lyttyl wanton eye,
My fedders freshe as is the emrawde grene,
About my neck a cyrculet lyke the ryche rubye,
My lytyll leggys, my feet both fete and clene,
I am a mynyon to wayt uppon a quene;
‘My proper Parrot, my lyttyl prety foole.’
With ladyes I lerne, and go with them to scole.
‘Hagh, ha, ha, Parrot, ye can laugh pretyly!’
‘Parrot hath not dyned of al this long day;’
‘Lyke ower pus cate, Parrot can mewte and cry.’
In Lattyn, in Ebrew, Araby, and Caldey;
In Greke tong Parrot can bothe speke and say,
As Percyus, that poet, doth reporte of me,
Quis expedivit psittaco suum chaire?
Dowse French of Parryse Parrot can lerne,
Pronounsynge my purpose after my properte,
With, Perliez byen, Parrot, ou perlez rien;
With Douch, with Spanysh, my tong can agre;
In Englysh to God Parrot can supple:
Cryst save Kyng Henry the viii., our royall kyng,
The red rose honour to florysh and sprynge!
With Kateryne incomparable, our ryall quene also,
That pereles pomegarnet, Chryst save her noble grace!
Parrot, saves habler Castiliano,
With fidasso de cosso in Turkey and in Trace;
Vis consilii expers, as techith me Horace,
Mole ruit sua, whose dictes ar pregnaunte,
Soventez foys, Parrot, en sovenaunte.
My lady maystres, dame Philology,
Gave me a gyfte in my nest whan I laye,
To lerne all language, and it to spake aptely:
Now pandez mory, wax frantycke, some men saye;
Phroneses for Freneses may not holde her way.
An almon now for Parrot, dilycatly drest;
In Salve festa dies, toto ys the beste.
Moderata juvant, but toto doth excede;
Dyscressyon is moder of noble vertues all;
Myden agan in Greke tonge we rede;
But reason and wyt wantyth theyr provyncyall,
When wylfulnes is vycar general.
Hec res acu tangitur, Parrot, par ma foy:
Ticez vous, Parrot, tenez vous coye.
Besy, besy, besy, and besynes agayne!
Que pensez voz, Parrot? What meneth this besynes?
Vitulus in Oreb troubled Arons brayne,
Melchisedeck mercyfull made Moloc mercyles;
To wyse is no vertue, to medlyng, to restles;
In mesure is tresure, cum sensu maturato,
Ne tropo sanno, ne tropo mato.
Aram was fyred with Caldies fyer called Ur;
Iobab was brought up in the lande of Hus;
The lynage of Lot supporte of Assur;
Iereboseth is Ebrue, who lyst the cause dyscus.
Peace, Parrot, ye prate, as ye were ebrius:
Howst the, lyver God van Hemrik, ic seg;
In Popering grew peres, whan Parrot was an eg.
What is this to purpose? Over in a whynnymeg!
Hop Lobyn of Lowdeon wald have e byt of bred;
The Jebet of Baldock was made for Jack Leg.
An arrow unfethered and without an hed,
A bagpype wihout blowynge standeth in no sted:
Some run to far before, some run to far behynde,
Some be to churlysshe, and some be to kynde.
Ic dien serveth for the erstych fether,
Ic dien is the language of the land of Beme;
In Affryc tongue byrsa is a thonge of lether;
In Palestina here is Jerusalem.
Colostrum now for Parrot, whyte bred and swete creme!
Our Thomasen she doth trip, our Jenet she doth shayle;
Parrot hath a blacke beard and a fayre grene tayle.
‘Moryshe myne owne shelfe,’ the costermonger sayth;
‘Fate, fate, fate, ye Irysh water lag.’
In flattryng fables men fynde but lyttyl fayth;
But moveatur terra, let the world wag,
Let syr Wrig-Wrag wrastell with Syr Delarag:
Every man after his maner of wayes,
Pawbe une aruer, so the Welche man sayes.
Suche shredis of sentence, strowed in the shop
Of auncyent Aristippus and such other mo,
I gader togyther and close in my crop,
Of my wanton conseyt, unde depromo
Dilemmata docta in paedagogio
Sacro vatum, whereof to you I breke:
I pray you, let Parot have lyberte to speke.
But ware the cat, Parot, ware the fals cat!
With, ‘Who is there? A mayd? Nay, nay, I trow;
Ware ryat, Parrot, ware ryot, ware that!
Mete, mete, for Parrot, mete I say, how!’
Thus dyvers of language by lernyng I grow:
With, ‘Bas me, swete Parrot, bas me, swete swete;’
To dwell amonge ladyes, Parrot, is mete.
‘Parrot, Parrot, Parrot, praty popigay!’
With my beke I can pyke my lyttel praty too;
My delyght is solas, pleasure, dysporte and pley;
Lyke a wanton, whan I wyll, I rele to and froo;
Parot can say, ‘Caesar, ave,’ also;
But Parrot hath no favour to Esebon:
Above all other byrdis, set Parrot alone.
Ulula, Esebon, for Jeromy doth wepe!
Sion is in sadnes, Rachell ruly doth loke;
Madionita Jetro, our Moyses kepyth his shepe;
Gedeon is gon, that Zalmane undertoke,
Oret et Zeb, of Judicum rede the boke;
Now Geball, Amon, and Amaloch, – harke, harke!
Parrot pretendith to be a bybyll clarke.
O Esebon, Esebon! To the is cum agayne
Seon, the regent Amorraeorum,
And Og, that fat hog of Basan, doth retayne,
The crafty coistronus Cananaeorum;
And asylum, whilom refugium miserorum,
Non fanum, sed profanum, standyth in lytyll sted;
Ulula, Esebon, for Jepte is starke ded!
Esebon, Marybon, Wheston next Barnet;
A trym tram for an horse myll it were a nyse thyng;
Deyntes for dammoysels, chaffer far fet:
Bo ho doth bark wel, but Hough ho he rulyth the ring;
From Scarpary to Tartary renoun therin doth spryng,
With, ‘He sayd,’ and ‘We said.’ Ich wot now what ich wot,
Quod magnus est dominus Judas Scarioth.
Tholomye and Haly were cunnynd and wyse
In the volvell, in the quadrant, and in the astroloby,
To pronostycate truly the chaunce of fortunys dyse;
Some trete of theyr tirykis, som of astrology,
Som pseudo-propheta with ciromancy:
Yf fortune be frendly, and grace be the guyde,
Honowre with renowne wyll ren on that syde.
Monon Calon Agaton,
Quod Parato
In Graeco.
Let Parrot, I pray you, have lyberte to prate,
For aurea lingua Graeca ought to be magnyfyed,
As lingua Latina, in scole matter occupyed;
But our Grekis theyr Greke so well have applyed,
That they cannot say in Greke, rydynge by the way,
How, hosteler, fetche my hors a botell of hay!
Neyther frame a silogisme in phrisesomorum,
Formaliter et Graece, cum medio termino;
Our Grekys ye walow in the washbol Argolicorum;
For though ye can tell in Greke what is phormio
Yet ye seke out your Greke in Capricornio;
For they scrape out good scrypture, and set in gall,
Ye go about to amende, and ye mare all.
Some argue secundum quid ad simpliciter,
And yet he wolde be rekenyd pro Areopagita;
And some make distinctions multipliciter,
Whether ita were before non, or non before ita,
Nether wise nor wel lernid, but like hermaphrodita:
Set Sophia asyde, for every Jack Raker
And every mad medler must now be a maker.
In Academia Parrot dare no probleme kepe,
For Graece fari so occupyeth the chayre,
That Latinum fari may fall to rest and slepe,
And syllogisari was drowned at Sturbrydge fayre;
Tryvyals and qatryvyals so sore now they appayre,
That Parrot the popagay hath pytye to beholde
How the rest of good lernyng is roufled up and trold.
Albertus de modo significandi,
And Donatus be dryven out of scole;
Prisians hed broken now handy dandy,
And Inter didascolos is rekened for a fole;
Alexander, a gander of Menanders pole,
With Da Cansales, is cast out of the gate,
And Da Racionales dare not shew his pate.
Plauti in his comedies a chyld shall now reherse,
And medyll with Quintylyan in his Declamacyons,
That Pety Caton can scantly construe a verse,
With Aveto in Graeco, and such solempne salutacyons,
Can skantly the tensis of his conjugacyons;
Settynge theyr myndys so moche of eloquens,
That of theyr scole maters lost is the hole sentens.
Now a nutmeg, a nutmeg, cum gariopholo,
For Parrot to pyke upon, his brayne for to stable,
Swete synamum styckis and pleris com musco!
In Paradyce, that place of pleasure perdurable,
The progeny of Parrottis were fayre and favorable;
Nowe in valle Ebron Parrot is fayne to fede:
‘Cristecrosse and Saynt Nicholas, Parrot, be your good spede!’
The myrrour that I tote in, quasi diaphanum,
Vel quasi speculum, in aenigmate,
Elencticum, or ells enthymematicum,
For logicion to loke on, somwhat sophistice:
Retoricyons and oratours in freshe humanyte,
Support Parrot, I pray you, with your suffrage ornate,
Of confuse tantum avoydynge the chekmate.
But of that suppociyon that callyd is arte,
Confuse distributive, as Parrot hath devysed,
Let every man after his merit take his parte,
For in this processe Parrot nothing had surmysed,
No matter pretendyd, nor nothyng enterprysed,
But that metaphora, allegoria with all,
Shall be his pretectyon, his pavys, and his wall.
For Parrot is no churlish chowgh, nor flekyd pye,
Parrot is no pendugum that men call a carlyng,
Parrot is no woodecocke, nor no butterfly,
Parrot is no stameryng stare, that men call a starlyng;
But Parrot is my owne dere harte and my dere derling.
Melpomene, that fayre mayde, she burneshed his beke:
I pray you, let Parrot have lyberte to speke.
Parrot is a fayre byrd for a lady;
God of his goodnes him framed and wrought;
When Parrot is ded, he dothe not putrefy:
Ye, all thyng mortall shall torne unto nought,
Except mannes soule, that Chryst so dere bought;
That never may dye, nor never dye shall:
Make moche of Parrot, the popegay ryall.
For that pereles prynce that Parrot dyd create,
He made you of nothynge by his magistye:
Poynt well this probleme that Parrot doth prate,
And remembre amonge how Parrot and ye
Shall lepe from this lyfe as mery as we be;
Pompe, pryde, honour, ryches, and wordly lust,
Parrot sayth playnly, shall tourne all to dust.
Thus Parrot dothe pray you
With hert most tender,
To rekyn with this recule now,
And it to remember.
Psittacus, ecce, cano, nec sunt mea carmina Phebo
Digna scio, tamen est plena camena deo.
Secundum Skeltonida famigeratum,
In Piereorum catalogo numeratum.
Itaque consolamini invicem in verbis istis, &c.
Candidi lectores, callide callete; vestrum fovete Psittacum, &c.
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee
I am a feather on the bright sky
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water
I am the shadow that follows a child
I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows
I am an eagle playing with the wind
I am a cluster of bright beads
I am the farthest star
I am the cold of dawn
I am the roaring of the rain
I am the glitter on the crust of the snow
I am the long track of the moon in a lake
I am a flame of four colors
I am a deer standing away in the dusk
I am a field of sumac and the pomme blanche
I am an angle of geese in the winter sky
I am the hunger of a young wolf
I am the whole dream of these things
You see, I am alive, I am alive
I stand in good relation to the earth
I stand in good relation to the gods
I stand in good relation to all that is beautiful
I stand in good relation to the daughter of Tsen-tainte
You see, I am alive, I am alive
– N. Scott Momaday (American poet, b. 1934)
[daily log: walking 1 km]
PAISAJE (1)
NI EL ÁRBOL ni la piedra
sienten piedad
de un cielo despiadado.
Árbol y piedras
contra el eterno entorno
desgarrado,
hacia no saber nunca
dónde renace el mar,
muere la tierra.
-José Antonio Labordeta (poeta español, 1935-2010)
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
"In a sense, we are all crashing to our death from the top story of our birth … and wondering with an immortal Alice at the patterns of the passing wall. This capacity to wonder at trifles – no matter the imminent peril – these asides of the spirit … are the highest form of consciousness." – Vladimir Nabokov.
This Nabokov quote serves, probably unintentionally, as a summary of the plot of the poem Altazor, by Vicente Huidobro, which is probably my favorite "long" poem, at least in Spanish.
[daily log: walking, 6 km straight down]
호박꽃
그동안 시인 33년 동안
나는 아름다움을 규정해왔다
그때마다 나는 서슴지 않고
이것은 아름다움이다
이것은 아름다움의 반역이다라고 규정해왔다
몇 개의 미학에 열중했다
그러나 아름다움이란
바로 그 미학 속에 있지 않았다
불을 끄지 않은 채
나는 잠들었다
아 내 지난날에 대한 공포여
나는 오늘부터
결코 아름다움을 규정하지 않을 것이다
규정하다니
규정하다니
아름다움을 어떻게 규정한단 말인가
긴 장마 때문에
호박넝쿨에 호박꽃이 피지 않았다
장마 뒤
나무나 늦게 호박꽃이 피어
그 안에 벌이 들어가 떨고 있고
그 밖에서 내가 떨고 있었다
아 삶으로 가득찬 호박꽃이여 아름다움이여
– 고은
Pumpkin Flower
For thirty-three years as a poet
I merrily defined what beauty was.
Each time, without hesitation
I would declare: beauty is like this, or:
this is a betrayal of beauty.
I went crazy over several different kinds
of aesthetic theory.
But beauty was never
in those aesthetic theories.
I was falling asleep
with the light on.
What fear in the days gone by!
From now on I will strictly refrain
from any definitions of beauty!
Define away!
Define away!
As if beauty can ever be defined!
All through the weeks of summer rain
no flowers bloomed on the pumpkin creepers.
Now the rains are over
and at long long last a flower has bloomed,
inside it a bee is quivering,
outside it I am quivering.
Pumpkin flower brimming full of life:
you are true beauty!
– Ko Un (Korean poet, born 1933)
The translation is not mine, it is from Cornell East Asia Series, 1996, and was shared on 3 Quarks Daily blog.
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
La lluvia lenta
Esta agua medrosa y triste,
como un niño que padece,
antes de tocar la tierra
desfallece.
Quieto el árbol, quieto el viento,
¡y en el silencio estupendo,
este fino llanto amargo
cayendo!
El cielo es como un inmenso
corazón que se abre, amargo.
No llueve: es un sangrar lento
y largo.
Dentro del hogar, los hombres
no sienten esta amargura,
este envío de agua triste
de la altura.
Este largo y fatigante
descender de aguas vencidas,
hacia la Tierra yacente
y transida.
Llueve… y como un chacal trágico
la noche acecha en la sierra.
¿Qué va a surgir, en la sombra,
de la Tierra?
¿Dormiréis, mientras afuera
cae, sufriendo, esta agua inerte,
esta agua letal, hermana
de la Muerte?
– Gabriela Mistral (poeta chilena, 1889-1957)
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
Words
The simple contact with a wooden spoon and the word
recovered itself, began to spread as grass, forced
as it lay sprawling to consider the monument where
patience looked at grief, where warfare ceased
eyes curled outside themes to search the paper
now gleaming and potent, wise and resilient, word
entered its continent eager to find another as
capable as a thorn. The nearest possession would
house them both, they being then two might glide
into this house and presently create a rather larger
mansion filled with spoons and condiments, gracious
as a newly laid table where related objects might gather
to enjoy the interplay of gravity upon facetious hints,
the chocolate dish presuming an endowment, the ladle
of galactic rhythm primed as a relish dish, curved
knives, finger bowls, morsel carriages words might
choose and savor before swallowing so much was the
sumptuousness and substance of a rented house where words
placed dressing gowns as rosemary entered their scent
percipient as elder branches in the night where words
gathered, warped, then straightened, marking new wands.
– Barbara Guest (American poet, 1920-2006)
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
La Canción Del Verano
Y ésta es la canción de un verano
entre muchos hermosos veranos,
cuando el polvo se alza y danza
y el cielo es un follaje azul, distante.
Y entonces fue cuando vino con las brisas
que se levantan de los arroyos y de sus conchas,
la que cantaba la canción del verano,
la canción de yerbas secas y aromáticas
que arrullaban, cuando a mi lado
la sentía como una tierra que respira
y como un sueño de pólenes y estrellas
que resbalan tibias por la piel y las manos.
Entonces vino saltando
en medio de las brisas y la tarde, en grupo,
y lo primero que vi fue su traje ondeando
a lo lejos a la distancia contra el cielo puro.
Pero desde entonces no tuve ya nunca ojos para su traje.
Y no oí nada más, sino la canción del verano.
– Aurelio Arturo (poeta colombiano, 1906-1974)
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
What I’m listening to right now.
Saul Williams, “List of Demands (Reparations).” This song has a reference to the concept of reparations for African-Americans, which has recently seen some revival, especially on the part of the stunningly talented writer, Ta-Nehisi Coates.
Lyrics.
I want my money back, I’m down here drowning in your fat
You got me on my knees praying for everything you lack
I ain’t afraid of you, I’m just a victim of your fear
You cower in your tower praying that I’ll disappear
I got another plan, one that requires me to stand
On the stage or in the street, don’t need no microphone or beat
And if you hear this song, if you ain’t dead then sing along
Bang and strum to this here drum ’til you get where you belong
I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth, you wanna be somebody?
See somebody? Try and free somebody?
Got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth
Hand to mouth
I wrote a song for you today while I was sitting in my room
I jumped up on a bed today and played it on a broom
I didn’t think that it would be a song that you would hear
But when I played it in my head, I made you reappear
I wrote a video for it and I acted out each part
And then I took your picture out and taped it to my heart
I’ve taped you to my heart, dear girl, I’ve taped you to my heart
And if you pull away from me you’ll tear my life apart
I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth, you wanna be somebody?
See somebody? Try and free somebody?
Got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth
Hand to mouth
Ecstasy, suffering, echinacea, buffering
We aim to remember what we choose to forget
God’s just a baby and her diaper is wet
Call the police, I’m strapped to the teeth
And liable to disregard your every belief
Call on the law, I’m fixing to draw
A line between what is and seems and call up a brawl
Call on them now ’cause it’s about to go pow
I’m standing on the threshold of the ups and the downs
Call up a truce ’cause I’m about to break loose
Protect ya neck ’cause son I’m breaking out of my noose
I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth, you wanna be somebody?
See somebody? Try and free somebody?
Got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth
Hand to mouth
I got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth, you wanna be somebody?
See somebody? Try and free somebody?
Got a list of demands written on the palm of my hands
I ball my fist and you gon’ know where I stand
We living hand to mouth
Hand to mouth
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
A LA ESPERA
Por ahora
no estoy muriéndome.
No estoy cantando
ni despidiéndome de nadie
ni llorando por gracias o de nada
ni compartiendo el pan o el vino
por ahora.
Ya sé que no tengo razón,
que le pido al serrucho
que haga un árbol con trozos de madera
y al martillo, en silencio, que acaricie.
Pero en dónde, como no sea en la sombra,
puedo siquiera buscar luz
o nada más buscar
y encontrar, por ahora, lo que sea.
Estoy a la espera de señales
claras, explícitas, rotundas
en el tiempo, en el agua, en una nube
o en los asientos del café:
señales que desmientan
que, hasta la fecha, nada
quiere decir ni ha dicho nunca nada.
– Luis Vicente de Aguinaga (poeta mexicano, b. 1971)
[daily log: walking, 2 km]
INVITACIÓN AL AIRE
Te invito, sombra, al aire.
Sombra de veinte siglos,
a la verdad del aire,
del aire, aire, aire.
Sombra que nunca sales
de tu cueva, y al mundo
no devolviste el silbo
que al nacer te dio el aire,
del aire, aire, aire.
Sombra sin luz, minera
por las profundidades
de veinte tumbas, veinte
siglos huecos sin aire,
del aire, aire, aire.
¡Sombra, a los picos, sombra,
de la verdad del aire,
del aire, aire, aire!
– Rafael Alberti (poeta español, 1902-1999)
[daily log: walking, 1 km]
What I’m listening to right now.
The Temptations, “Psychedelic Shack.”
Lyrics.
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
People let me tell you about a place I know
To get in it don’t take much dough
Where you can really do your thing, oh yeah
It’s got a neon sign outside that says
Come in and take a look at your mind
You’d be surprised what you might find, yeah
Strobe lights flashin’ on signs empty after sundown–1:15
People gather there from all parts of town, oh yeah
What do I call it, you know it’s just across the track
People I’m talking about the psychedelic shack
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at, oh yeah
You can have your fortune told
You can learn the meaning of soul
There ain’t no such thing as time
Incense in the air, ‘in signs painted everywhere
I guarantee you this place will blow your mind
Music so high, you can’t get over it, so low, you can’t get under it
Right around the corner
Oh yeah just across the track
People I’m talking about the psychedelic shack
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at, oh yeah
Millionaires, kings and queens, go there to do their things
You might see anybody there, yeah
Bear skin rugs, tails and beads
Don’t really matter what you wear
You can take off your shoes, sit on the floor
Join in and be what you wanna be
Don’t you know it’s right around the corner
Oh yeah just across the track
People I’m talking about the psychedelic shack
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at
Psychedelic shack, that’s where it’s at, oh yeah
They got a cat there shouting the blues
Talking about payin’ some dues
People walking around reciting poetry
Screamin’ guitars and a thousand colored lights
People I’m telling you this place is really out of sight
You can have your fortune told
You can learn the meaning of soul
I guarantee this place will blow your mind
Don’t you know it’s right around the corner
Oh yeah, just across the track
[daily log: walking 6.5 km]
Tia Olivia Serves Wallace Stevens a Cuban Egg
The ration books voided, there was little to eat,
so Tía Olivia ruffled four hens to serve Stevens
a fresh criollo egg. The singular image lay limp,
floating in a circle of miniature roses and vines
etched around the edges of the rough dish.
The saffron, inhuman soul staring at Stevens
who asks what yolk is this, so odd a yellow?
Tell me Señora, if you know, he petitions,
what exactly is the color of this temptation:
I can see a sun, but it is not the color of suns
nor of sunflowers, nor the yellows of Van Gogh,
it is neither corn nor school pencil, as it is,
so few things are yellow, this, even more precise.
He shakes some salt, eye to eye hypothesizing:
a carnival of hues under the gossamer membrane,
a liqueur of convoluted colors, quarter-part orange,
imbued shadows, watercolors running a song
down the spine of praying stems, but what, then,
of the color of the stems, what green for the leaves,
what color the flowers; what of order for our eyes
if I can not name this elusive yellow, Señora?
Intolerant, Tía Olivia bursts open Stevens's yolk,
plunging into it with a sharp piece of Cuban toast:
It is yellow, she says, amarillo y nada más, bien?
The unleashed pigments begin to fill the plate,
overflow onto the embroidered place mats,
stream down the table and through the living room
setting all the rocking chairs in motion then
over the mill tracks cutting through cane fields,
a viscous mass downing palm trees and shacks.
In its frothy wake whole choirs of church ladies
clutch their rosary beads and sing out in Latin,
exhausted macheteros wade in the stream,
holding glinting machetes overhead with one arm;
cafeteras, '57 Chevys, uniforms and empty bottles,
mangy dogs and fattened pigs saved from slaughter,
Soviet jeeps, Bohemia magazines, park benches,
all carried in the egg lava carving the molested valley
and emptying into the sea. Yellow, Stevens relents,
Yes. But then what the color of the sea, Señora?
– Richard Blanco (American poet, b 1968)
[daily log: walking, 1 km]
What I'm listening to right now.
Sims, "Tape Deck."
Lyrics.
(Baby I'm all… Minneapolis, in the midwest)
Welcome to the tired generation of pliered patience
we're the tossed pennies, the Reaganomical waste kids
but look at me, broken link off every socialites token blink
thinking I'ma change shit
I don't want your nomination
my name is Sims, freedom fighter writer trapped in cat's cradle
Doomtree that's phat the label (Yeah)
so hang from your halo, but I spit mud on your Dockers
not trying to graduate to a Craftmatic adjustable office
turn your brain waves on and off like water faucets
I'm astonished stomping through the modern process
so I rally around stone throwers
my bones colder than icebergs
titanic havoc wrecking shop with Christ slurs
twice burned for advice learned before I met hesitation
open visitation for a dead generation
so wake the fuck up, I'm running out of patience
wake the fuck up, you're sleep walking
wake the fuck up
(Come on man, listen to this shit)
(Wake up)
We were born agitated seeds but grew into apathy
half of me wishes out of this modern catastrophe
but I've got my nine millimeter mouth to blasphemy
twelve steps to being a better self but the ladder collapsed on me
casually humanity becomes a casualty of
graphic mastery, a mental masterpiece
but the pieces spit out my mouth like faulty orthodontics
unorthodox phonics and chronic smoke choke on autopilot
a fleet of Palm Pilots disperse from universities
what's worse meaning isn't surfacing, time to face
how can y'all take the days straight without a purpose to chase?
there's more to life than grades, work, then graves
Put the tape in the tape deck
Yo put the tape in the tape deck
(My life, my life, my life's a fucking mess.
Minneapolis)
Next year I might be 25 light beams ahead of myself
(might) be 25 cents richer depending on my shelf life
ain't what it seems but I've got one to bleed
so save up a fuck for the agitated seeds
smashing piggy bank dreams
saturated breed, soaked in fat and granite
planted on this planet next to the blaze that we didn't raise
we saw the flames and fanned it
now I'm annexed to vexed manic panic status, I got next
ante up your war machine mechanics and pension checks
they're out their right mind
I threw a left cause just to stop the motive
duly noted as I throw my clear thoughts in their gearbox
it's like there's one typewriter and a million fucking Xerox
so save those peer props about beer gogs and gear rocked
cause you got steered lost
Put the tape in the tape deck (I crank the mix tape and wait for the break)
Yo put the tape in the tape deck (I crank the mix tape and wait for the break)
I just don't think you're good that's all (I crank the mix tape and wait for the break)
(Minneapolis)
I crank the mixtape and wait for the break
just to drown out in the city of lakes
I crank the mixtape and wait for the break
just to drown out in the city of lakes
I crank the mixtape and wait for the break
just to drown out in the city of lakes
I crank the mixtape and wait for the break
just to drown out in the city of lakes
I don't wanna be a part of your workforce
I don't wanna be a part of you problem
I don't wanna be a part of your workforce
so I guess I'll be that thorn in your side
(I have to start all over again.
Ain't that the damnedest thing?
Loneliness.
Did ya know that loneliness will kill you deader than a .357 Magnum?
Did ya know that?)
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
Credibility
Who could believe an ant in theory?
a giraffe in blueprint?
Ten thousand doctors of what's possible
could reason half the jungle out of being.
I speak of love, and something more,
to say we are the thing that proves itself
not against reason, but impossibly true,
and therefore to teach reason reason.
– John Ciardi (American poet, 1916-1986)
What I'm listening to right now.
Krzysztof Penderecki, "Symphony No. 7."
[daily log: walking, an inch]
Ash-boughs
NOT of all my eyes see, wandering on the world,
Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deep
Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky.
Say it is ashboughs: whether on a December day and furled
Fast ór they in clammyish lashtender combs creep
Apart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high.
They touch heaven, tabour on it; how their talons sweep
The smouldering enormous winter welkin! May
Mells blue and snowwhite through them, a fringe and fray
Of greenery: it is old earth’s groping towards the steep
Heaven whom she childs us by.
– Gerard Manley Hopkins (English poet, 1844-1889)
[daily log: walking toward the sky]
Tristesse d'Été
Sonnet
Le soleil, sur le sable, ô lutteuse endormie,
En l'or de tes cheveux chauffe un bain langoureux,
Et consumant l'encens sur ta joue ennemie,
Il mêle avec les pleurs un breuvage amoureux.
De ce blanc flamboiement l'immuable accalmie
T'a fait dire, attristée, ô mes baisers peureux,
"Nous ne serons jamais une seule momie
Sous l'antique désert et les palmiers heureux !"
Mais ta chevelure est une rivière tiède,
Où noyer sans frissons l'âme qui nous obsède
Et trouver ce Néant que tu ne connais pas !
Je goûterai le fard pleuré par tes paupières,
Pour voir s'il sait donner au cœur que tu frappas
L'insensibilité de l'azur et des pierres.
– Stéphane Mallarmé (French poet, 1842-1898)
It has felt very summery lately.
I was going to post about Wendy and Sarah's visit to Karma yesterday, but I'll save that post for another time as I didn't set aside time this morning to write about it. I will only say I slept in a bit more than usual this morning and had a really bad dream about losing several students (really losing them, as in unable to find them), and everyone laughing at me for my inability to find my students. I think that symbolically reflects stress over the quality of my teaching.
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
There’s a book I have, entitled Eerie Tales from Old Korea. It doesn’t have an author, but is “compiled by” Brother Anthony of Taizé, a quite well-known Catholic monk who teaches at the main Catholic University in Seoul (called Sogang University) and who is a prolific translator and populizer of Korean poetry and literature.
These tales in this compilation, however, are not his translations, but rather translated by various early Christian missionaries in Korea. I enjoy reading these stories.
Here is a short story that makes me wonder about cats. According to Brother Anthony, it appeared in a magazine called Korea Review, published 1902-1905, probably translated by the missionary Homer B. Hulbert. The story doesn’t really answer the question in my title – it merely raises it, and offers a kind of “first instance” folk-explanation.
About two centuries and a half ago, a boy, who later became the great scholar Sa Jae, went to bed one night after a hard day’s work on his Chinese. He had not been asleep long when he woke with a start. The moon was shining in at the window and dimly lighting the room. Something was moving just outside the door. He lay still and listened. The door swung of its own accord and a tall black object came gliding into the room and silently took its place in the corner. The boy mastered his fear and continued gazing into the darkness at his ominous visitor. He was a very strong-minded lad and after a while, seeing that the black ghost made no movement, he turned over and went to sleep.
The moment he awoke in the morning, he turned his eyes to the corner and there stood his visitor still. It was a great black coffin standing on end with the lid nailed on and evidently containing its intended occupant. The boy gazed at it a long while and at last a look of relief came over his face. He called in his servant and said, “Go down to the village and find out who has lost a corpse.”
Soon the servant came running back with the news that the whole village was in an uproar. A funeral had been in progressbut the watchers by the coffin had fallen asleep, and when they awoke coffin and corpse had disappeared. “Go and tell the chief mourner to come here.” When that excited individual appeared, the boy called him into the room and, pointing to the corner, said quietly, “What is that?” The hemp-clad mourner gazed in wonder and consternation. “That? That’s my father’s coffin. What have you been doing? You’ve stolen my father’s body and disgraced me forever.” The boy smiled and said, “How could I bring it here? It came of its own accord. I awoke in the night and saw it enter.”
The mourner was incredulous and angry. “Now I will tell you why it came here,” said the boy. “You have a cat in your house and it must be that it jumped over the coffin. This was such an offense to the dead that by some occult power, coffin, corpse, and all came here to be safe from further insult. If you don’t believe it, send for your cat and we will see.” The challenge was too direct to refuse, and a servant was sent for the cat. Meanwhile, the mourner tried to lay the coffin down on its side, but, with all his strength, he could not budge it an inch. The boy came up to it and gave it three stroke with his hand on the left side and a gentle push. The dead recognized the master hand, and the coffin was easily laid on its side.
When the cat arrived and was placed in the room, the coffin, of its own accord, rose on its end again, a position in which it was impossible for the cat to jump over it. The wondering mourner accepted the explanation, and that day the corpse was laid safely in the ground. But to this day, the watchers beside the dead are particularly careful to see that no cat enters the mortuary chamber lest it disturb the peace of the deceased.
[daily log: walking, some certain amount of distance]
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff—and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside, too, I’d duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I’d let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!
– Vladimir Nabokov
(Russian-American novelist, 1899-1977)
This is a snippet from Nabokov's poem "Pale Fire," which is not simply a "poem by Nabokov." Rather, Nabokov wrote the poem (999 lines) and embedded it in his novel Pale Fire, wherein the character of John Shade is the purported author of the poem.
For some reason this poem made a major impression on me from when I read the novel (I think in late 1980s), and certain lines have stuck in my memory. For that reason I have an interest in waxwings. Above right is a sketch I made of an imaginary species of waxwing.
The last two days have been truly exhausting and chaotic.
Yesterday, especially – we had rehearsal for our talent show next week. We also had a partial power failure at hagwon. I got to teach classes in the dark. It was like a weird dream.
What I'm listening to right now.
Silvio Rodríguez, "La Gaviota."
Letra.
Corrían los días de fines de guerra,
y había un soldado regresando intacto,
intacto del frío mortal de la tierra,
intacto de flores de horror en su cuarto.
Elevó los ojos, respiró profundo,
la palabra cielo se hizo en su boca,
y como si no hubiera más en el mundo,
por el firmamento pasó una gaviota.
Gaviota, gaviota, vals del equilibrio,
cadencia increíble, llamada en el hombro.
Gaviota, gaviota, blancura del lirio,
aire y bailarina, gaviota de asombro.
A dónde te marchas, canción de la brisa,
tan rápida, tan detenida,
disparo en la sien y metralla en la risa,
gaviota que pasa y se lleva la vida?
Corrían los días de fines de guerra,
pasó una gaviota volando, volando
lento, como un tiempo de amor que se cierra,
imperio de ala, de cielo y de cuándo.
Gaviota, gaviota, vals del equilibrio,
cadencia increíble, llamada en el hombro,
gaviota, gaviota, blancura del lirio,
aire y bailarina, gaviota de asombro.
Corrían los días de fines de guerra,
pasó una gaviota volando
y el que anduvo intacto rodó por la tierra,
huérfano, desnudo, herido, sangrando.
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
There was apparently a bit of a scandal lately, over a small book of children’s poetry that was published in Korea. It made it to the international press.
Some of the poetry was apparently quite violent. The publisher was compelled to withdraw the publication, and remove unsold volumes from vendors. I guess this ended up as a kind of Streisand effect (q.v.), and now everyone wants to see the book. I found some images online of some pages of the book, which I will reproduce below although I may take them down, as it might actually be a legally dubious move to show them.
I really like the poem about the mom’s hair – it is excellent.
The cannibal doll is more scary, and I can see why parents found the idea of giving voice to such morbid (and confucianly-disrepectful!) poetry disturbing. But as a teacher of elementary students, I feel I can assert that such morbid thinking is common in children, and probably developmentally “normal.”
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
46. Harold Arnett
I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
Weak from the noon-day heat.
A church bell sounded mournfully far away,
I heard the cry of a baby,
And the coughing of John Yarnell,
Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying,
Then the violent voice of my wife:
"Watch out, the potatoes are burning!"
I smelled them … then there was irresistible disgust.
I pulled the trigger … blackness … light…
Unspeakable regret … fumbling for the world again.
Too late! Thus I came here,
With lungs for breathing … one cannot breathe here with lungs,
Though one must breathe…. Of what use is it
To rid one’s self of the world,
When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?
– Edgar Lee Masters (American poet, 1868–1950)
The poem is from The Spoon River Anthology, published 100 years ago this year. I came to these poems late (meaning I was never exposed to them, as far as I can remember, during my literary education. Nevertheless, I can understand why they are important landmarks in American literature.
What I'm listening to right now.
Antonín Dvořák, "Requiem."
[daily log: walking, here and there]
Los buzos diamantistas
I
Una nítida noche, en que la pedrería
sideral deslumbrada,
los buzos diamantistas, en santa cofradía,
descendimos al mar…
Puede ser -nos dijimos- puede ser
que la luz de Saturno, diluyéndose, forme
algún extravagante sulfato, alguna gema
nunca vista jamás…
II
Puede ser, nos dijimos…
Lunarios opalinos, Academias
rutilantes de nácar y coral,
donde monstruos socráticos decían
que sólo siendo feo se puede ser genial.
Dialéctica sucinta de un sabio calamar:
Seamos impasibles, sublimes y profundos
como el fondo del mar.
Si no por altivez, por desencanto
imitemos el gesto del océano
monótono y salobre…
Es lo mismo que un astro se derrumbe
o se muera un gusano.
Seamos impasibles como el fondo del mar…
III
Y después –oh adverbio ineludible–
una joven medusa iridiscente
embrujo nuestros sueños.
¿Qué doncella mortal puede tener
su encanto deleznable, y sus pupilas
que fosforecen vírgenes de llanto?
Una vez nada más, entre dos aguas,
contemplamos su grácil navegar.
Como el rey Apolonio ahora decimos:
Yo tuve un nombre,
un bello nombre que perdí en el mar.
IV
En un cielo violáceo bosteza Lucifer.
El ponto está cantando su canción azul.
Los buzos diamantistas, en sana cofradía,
volvemos a la tierra, a vivir otra vez.
Traemos del abismo la pesadumbre ignota
de lo que pudo ser…
– Renato Leduc (poeta mexicano, 1897-1986)
[daily log: walking, 3.5 km]
Drizzly Sunday, and a typical lack of motivation to do even the barest minimum of things I probably should do.
What I'm listening to right now.
Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard, "Pancho and Lefty."
Lyrics were by Townes Van Zandt.
Livin' on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
And now you wear your skin like iron
And your breath is hard as kerosene
You weren't your mama's only boy
Her favorite one it seems
She began to cry when you said
Good-bye, sank to your dreams
Pancho was a bandit boy
His horse was fast as polished steel
He wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match, you know
On the deserts down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dyin' word
Oh but that's the way it goes
<chorus:>
All the Federales say
We could have had him any day
They only let him go so long
Out of kindness I suppose
Lefty he can't sing the blues
All night long like he used to
The dust that Pancho bit down South
Ended up in Lefty's mouth
The day they lay poor Pancho low
Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go
There ain't nobody knows
<chorus:>
All the Federales say
We could have had him any day
They only let him go so long
Out of kindness I suppose
The poets tell how Poncho fell
And Lefty's livin' in a cheap hotel
The desert's quiet, Cleveland's cold
And so the story ends we're told
Pancho needs your prayers, it's true
Save a few for Lefty too
He only did what he had to do
And now he's growin' old
<chorus:>
All the Federales say
We could have had him any day
They only let him go so long
Out of kindness I suppose
A few gray Federales say
Could have had him any day
We only let him go so long
Out of kindness I suppose
[daily log: walking, 1 km]
What I'm listening to right now.
Sims, "Future Shock."
Lyrics.
I was born in 82
about the time of the Cold War flew
born when the world was small
before we connected the zoo
look at the way we grew
dropped the borders but we kept the walls
the things we made to pull us close push us all
we hear the ring but screen the calls
so close we could almost touch
but so far we don't speak on the bus
so close I can almost see your breath
but so far I can't hear your words
I don't go a day without a button pressed
the years go by in a blur
it's the time of plenty, inbox full
so why do I feel so goddamn empty?
but look at how connected we are
the whole globe at your fingertips
speed the pace it's an instant fix
Space Age but I feel boxed in
and it's wide open
and I'm dying to know
why I feel disconnected
am I dreaming demons, alienated
or do I just get what I expected?
they say it's greed that keeps people turning
feeds the lonely and the beasts of burden
East of Eden but at least we're earning
the ice is melting and the trees are burning
reporters all say it's all but lost
and all we can do is watch
so I walk with my shoulders dropped
watch these blocks stack up with stores
is this what we're working for?
filling that hole with goods, what's good?
but the chokehold ain't local no more
it's global and closing its doors
it ain't about right or wrong
what side you're on
but the things we traded
how many sights for many sights
how is your life?
I was born in 82 but I live in 2000 and now
all the things I thought I knew
turns out they were never around
and all the people I met today
well, they all the same feeling that emptiness
fill it up with Fendi till the trendiness fades
then throw that thing away
I want the one with the new features
until the next one out then
bury it a little deeper
add on to that man-made mountain
you could have it all, the campaign touting
the cars and the champagne fountain
but that pool's only deep enough to sink
but these fools don't even stop to think
they just want that bubbly
now they spilling on you
ain't that lovely?
what a mess since they jumped in
now they scream save me, save me to the public
but we barely know the subject
we're all out doing for us
in so far, so far in fact
so near so packed we don't speak on the bus
loss of love, loss of mind
loss of love, loss of mind
running out of time
loss of love, loss of mind
loss of love, loss of mind
damn near out of time
[daily log: walking, 1 km]
ONE DAY
Lightning over the hill in front
thunder over the hill behind
between the two
one dumb pebble
– Ko Un (Korean poet, b 1933)
I don't have the original Korean. I found this poem in a book of his poetry translated.
[daily log: walking, 6 km]
