The Good-Morrow

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then,
but suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snored we in the seven sleepers den?
'T was so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
which I desired and got, 't was but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
which watch not one another out of fear;
for love all love of other sights controls
and makes one little room an every-where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
let maps to other worlds on worlds have shown;
let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
and true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
where can we find two better hemispheres
without sharp North, without declining West?
What ever dies, was not mix'd equally;
if our two loves be one, or thou and I
love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

John Donne

epithalamium

though the wabe has its uses too,
who in their senses will not prefer
the graceful bumble-bee to the hive
and the honey, rich and preserving,
to the transient rose?

richer than bloom is the candled night,
when a girl outgrows quite decent prettiness
to don the goddess' garb:
vermilion to set off her rosier nails,
anklets and jingly toe-rings to faintly
accentuate her burrowing voice,
kajal less deeply black than her pupil
and silk to envy her hair.

let her walk with you on the sands
with the stable hand restraining the lion,
gracefully nodding her head in dimmed limelight,
while she hands you the swords to swallow
and fire to breathe -
every clap of each hand is hers
for reading your every thought.

But this is a heart, not brick or stone! why would it not fill with pain?
We will cry a thousand times anyway; why would anyone torment us?

There is no temple here, no shrine, no door, nor a door-sill either;
we are sitting in the midst of the road, why would another make us stand up?

With her heart-inflaming beauty, with her face like the sun at noon,
if she melts hearts just by being herself, why would she then veil her face?

The dagger-like glance is a thief of life, the dart of allure not to be dodged –
the mirror-image of your own face, how could it stand in front of you?

The prison of life and the fetter of grief are essentially one and the same;
before his death, how could a man ever find release from grief?

Beauty, and beautiful thinking too – no shame to a lustful man;
being confident about herself, why would she put to test another?

On that side, pride in greatness and allure; on this, bashful self-respect –
how could we ever meet in the streets, why would she invite us to a feast?

Yeah, she is ungodly; I dare say she ist faithless!
Having one’s heart or faith at heart, why would one go up her street?

Unless Ghālib goes to pieces, what labour of love will end?
Why cry bitter, bitter tears? why send up sigh after sigh?

(Mirza Ghalib)

the nine-fold peace

peace, nine-fold.

peace to all on earth, especially those
who want to live on into the next year
(those who do not, in pain, hunger or strife,
desire their own peace so much they don’t need ours).

peace to all those who keep searching the sky
for a way to go beyond mars, venus or pluto;
forgetting the ungraspable black, may they find
calm, chastity and deathlessness on earth.

peace to those who sincerely believe their god
is ordering gold, myrrh and incense for breakfast;
let the coal softly ebb out of their censers.

peace to the shepherd who guards his sheep,
peace to him who helps where he can’t understand
and loves beyond reason; peace to the mother

who gave birth without knowing how, and peace
to the child left to make his way from the straw
chewn by the warm-breathed ox, and also to the donkey

peace.

mausam-e gul

classical Persian and Urdu poets have a habit of saying mausam-e gul, fazl-e gul ("season of roses, period of roses") when they mean to say "spring". (quite intelligible in Persia, where roses bloom in what to us is March or April, but quite surreal in India/Pakistan, where roses do not grow at all, except in glass-houses.)


i believe the real time of the roses is autumn, even early winter. is it not too easy to be a rose in spring?

pegasus

whatya staring at? never seen a horse with wings?

photoreceptor

(this is one more "non-poem" that i composed in english and german at the same time. so it's really just half of it. it's completely realistic - none of the situations or feelings were invented for poetical purposes.)


1.

this would really make the day of my old friend
sherlock: i can see the letters of the climbing ivy,
the pizza guy’s yappy dog bustling after some rolling
ice cubes, as well as the little pakistani woman

hugging the latest harry potter volume. i can even
see things that are not there, such as garden raspberries
and lacquer footprints on my door-sill (at least
i do not see any, but can see that there are none there)

and the sweat, too, of those that drink too much beer, the books
not bought by the haughty frenchman, and my very
own tears evaporating in the morning mist. it will
be noticed that any wit that may ever have lain

between these lines, has simultaneously oozed away,
a fringe on the flowery carpet of yesterday’s hookah smoke.


2.

i greet as my sister that girl, all in brown,
with her head on her knees: what her locks are viewing
are the sap-green railings and wallings, differently brown,
of the city railway that cuts deep scars into our world.

your cord jacket is facing ninety degrees in the shadow,
and you won’t tell me whether you’re weeping or nodding; my dear,
in this spot of no man’s land between steel and anthills
your skin is from the balkans, and my heart from farther away.

those black centipedes and blinking caterpillars down there
do look rather cute, and hail to the city offering us
to leave it that way. but before that happens, i’ll stand
here till my heart be branded with your name through the soles

and the two of us have found a pub, for a cup of iced clarity
and one helping of sweetness; you and me, we can damn well use some.

Mirzâ Ghâlib

Mirzâ Abdullâh Khân, poet's name Ghâlib, was born in 1797 (or maybe 1798) in Agra. His parents were Turkish aristocrats. From his 13th year he lived in Delhi, then the capital of the Mughal empire. He wrote a divân - a collection of a few hundred poems - in Urdu, a modern Indian language rich in Persian and Arabic vocabulary. Contemporary Urdu speakers agree that it's simply not fun being lovesick, unless you can read the poetry of Ghâlib.

Let hope, that passion bear fruit, not flee;
surrendering one’s life is no willow-tree.

No ancient king’s seal is a cup of wine;
from hand to hand passes its majesty.

Your splendour’s a means to show you are here;
no sand-grain escapes from the sunshine’s glee.

The Beloved’s secret must not be unveiled,
or else in parting no breach could be.

Fear lies in the changing colour of joy;
no grief in bereavement’s eternity.

They say that men live all by their hopes,
but no hope even of life have we.

(poem 95 from Ghâlib's divân, translated by caru)

Moonshine

A camphor-lamp shedding light on the sports
of thirty deer-eyed nymphs,

one huge sunshade, raised to celebrate
King Kâma's universal reign,

a fluffy fan, waving away fatigue
from lustful girls,

a cooling ointment for the musk-painted cheeks
of Love's young bride,

an island in the floods of the sky -
thus shines,

a pet goose in the city of the gods,
the moon with nectar rays.


(Jayadeva, around 1200)


translation by caru

Striped Zebra (song)

I'm dreaming of a striped zebra
Just like the one I used to know
Of a bumble-bee bumbling
And La Rambla rumbling
Round a maid from the land of snow

I'm dreaming of a striped zebra
With every post she does not write
May the sands on the beach be always white
And one of your stripes black and one stripe bright

I'm dreaming of a striped zebra
With a smile and blue eyes that can smite
May your pics all be shot in perfect light
And always one stripe black and one stripe white

many things begin with m

many things begin with m. unless you are illiterate,
you really can't deny that many things begins with an m.

such as mouth, and mouse, mammoth and mastodon,
mammals, motherhood and the mucous membranes.

mass begins with m, and so does mask, mystification,
myrtle, magic, marihuana and missionary.

murder mysteries always begin with an m, so do menuets,
musicals, melons, mint drops and marmalade tarts.

mozart began with an m, and still does; mendelssohn
never dropped his, neither will mahler - or madonna.

there's an m at the head of malawi and mosambique,
mexico and moldavia, milano, marburg and madrid.

m is moderate, m is mollifying. m is mellifluous,
m is magnificent, m is massive. i say, m is a mouthful.

m might be mariological, might be muslim; m might be mean
or marvellous, made of marble or marzipan - my o my:

m is mousse au chocolat, m is mango juice, m is mead,
m is mixed fruit salad, m is mocca, m is mustard,

m is many things more: m is masala, marsala, maki,
moussaka, muesli, maple syrup, malt sugar,

m is messily munchable. m is the malabar coast,
m is madras, m is malayalam; m makes me majnoon.

m is masterful, m is monarch of my marrow; m makes
my mind manic or melancholy. m's mark is on me,

i am all m's, m is all i am; may m be merciful on me.

Jeg er det dikt

Inger Hagerup

Jeg er det dikt som ingen skrev.
Jeg er det alltid brente brev.

Jeg er den ubetrådte sti
og tonen uten melodi.

Jeg er det stumme leppes bønn.
Jeg er en ufødt kvinnes sønn,

en streng som ingen hånd has spent,
et bål som aldri er blitt tent.

Vekk meg! Forløs meg! Løft meg opp
av jord og berg, av ånd og kropp!

Men intet svarer når jeg ber.
Jeg er de ting som aldri skjer.


Ich bin der Vers, den keiner schrieb.
Ich bin der längst verbrannte Brief.

Ich bin der unbeschrittne Weg,
der Ton, den keine Weise trägt.

Ich bin Gebet aus stummem Mund.
Ich, unfruchtbaren Weibes Kind,

ein Strick, von keiner Hand gespannt,
ein Feuer, niemals angebrannt.

Laßt los! Verjagt mich! Setzt mich frei
von Berg und Erde, Feld und Hain!

Doch nichts erwidert, wenn ich schrie.
Ich bin ein Ding, das nie geschieht.


(another)

Du ska tacka

(Karin Boye)

Du ska tacka dina gudar,
om de tvingar dig att gå
där du inga fotspår
har att lita på.

Du ska tacka dina gudar,
om de gör all skam till din.
Du får söka tillflykt
lite längre in.

Det som hela världen dömer
reder sig ibland rätt väl.
Fågelfri var mången,
vann sin egen själ.

Den som tvingas ut i vildskog
ser med nyfödd syn på allt,
och han smakar tacksam
livets bröd och salt.

Du ska tacka dina gudar,
när de bryter bort ditt skal.
Verklighet och kärna
blir ditt enda val.


Du sollst deinen Göttern danken,
wenn sie dich auf Wege zwingen,
wo keine Fußtapfen sind,
die dich weiterbringen.

Du sollst deinen Göttern danken,
wenn sie dich mit Schmach umwinden;
mußt deine Zuflucht ein wenig
weiter innen finden.

Das, was alle Welt verdammt,
steht oft seinen Mann.
Vogelfrei war mancher,
der seine Seele gewann.

Mit neuen Sinnen sieht alles,
wen's zwingt in Tiefen des Walds,
und er schmeckt mit Dankbarkeit
des Lebens Brot und Salz.

Du sollst deinen Göttern danken,
wenn sie dich aus Hüllen schälen.
Die Wirklichkeit, und der Kern -
sonst bleibt dir nichts zu wählen.

(one of aasa's favourite poems :-)

She Walks In Beauty

George Gordon Noel 6th Lord of Byron (1788-1824) (pronounce "Byron" to rhyme with "iron")


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


In Schönheit schreitet sie, wie Nacht
dunstlosen Landstrichs, sternendicht;
von Hell und Dunkel alle Pracht
vereint ihr Gang und Augenlicht,
zu sanftem Leuchten reif gemacht -
der bunte Tag kennt solches nicht.

Ein Licht gelöscht, ein Schwarz vermehrt,
halb schlüg's der Anmut Macht entzwei,
die Rabensträhnen weich verklärt
und auf dem Antlitz schimmert frei,
wo Denken heiter-süß uns lehrt,
wie rein, wie lieb sein Wohnort sei.

Und Stirn und Wangen, nimmer müd,
so lind, so ruhig beredt umgibt
Lächeln, das einnimmt, Rot, das glüht
und sagt, was Gutes sie geübt:
ein Geist, den Niederes nicht müht,
ein Herz, das voller Unschuld liebt.

rain

that's you sitting behind this curtain of rain, i can see you:
the little round spots on the ground that look like drops
are really prints of your toes, and the clouds
just bulged because you took one too deep breath behind them.

that's you sitting behind this curtain of rain, i can hear you:
this dribbling sound comes from your shuffling feet, and this
tiny little pit-pat is your ear-ring jingling, while
the big whoosh is your hair brushing against the curtain cloth.

that's you sitting behind this curtain of rain, i can feel you:
the breeze is too warm to come from any hills but your bosom's,
and the little rivulets finding their way along my scalp
down my neck couldn't do so unguided - your finger behind each of them.

that's you sitting behind this curtain of rain, i can smell you:
no use pretending, dear, that this is the awakening earth
or leaf buds bursting on trees. all these i know well enough
to tell their arome from your shoulders, and hips, and legs.

that's you sitting behind this curtain of rain: i can taste you
in the moisture that gets in my mouth, mingled with petals and
filaments. i'm now pushing away this grey stuff, coming to share
your lair, trusting you keep snugness enough there for two.

Egy vers három nyelven / One poem in three languages

Tedd a kezed
homlokomra,
mintha kezed
kezem volna.

Úgy ´örizz, mint
ki gyilkolna,
mintha éltem
élted volna.

Úgy szeress, mint
ha jó volna,
mintha szívem
szíved volna.

(József Attila)


Leg die Hand
auf meine Stirne,
ganz so, als wär
deine Hand meine.

Hüt mich, als könnts
hier Mörder geben,
ganz, als sei dein
Leben mein Leben.

Lieb mich, als läg'
darin kein Schmerz,
ganz so, als sei dein
Herz mein Herz.


Lay your hand

upon my brow,

as though your hand

was my own.

Guard me, as if

from strangler's force,

just as though my

life was yours.

Love me, as though

it could not smart,

as though your heart

was my heart.