Showing posts with label dream women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dream women. Show all posts

Thursday, 6 January 2011

more about dreams, snow and cats

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At noon, it began to snow, and we stopped
on the window-sill, and looked out, dreaming
of a walk by the lake with her, seeing
her face, intent, when she listened, pursing her lips,
and then turning towards us her white face
like a flower of ice in the upturned collar
of her loose raincoat. Snow in her hair,
(and we, dreaming of alcohol-algae hung loosely in her
locks), and walking with her by the lake.






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And later, someone came
and asked us something. We went to the bar,
and played with the long-legged glass
on the counter. And when we remembered
and looked out of the window — it didn't snow anymore.






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And then, last night, I descended
to the bar in the hall, but down there
I was stopped as I had just reached out my hand
toward the bottle, by the moon's icy gaze.
It summoned me to the window — and there,
I saw, just under the terrace's French window,
the cat Theobald crouching, ready to spring
toward some indistinct shadow by the shore.





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Then, that shadow moved, and I saw it was
a girl in a loose mackintosh, walking
as in a daze, by the moonlit lake
— I saw her shivering — she was alone —
and, absent-minded, tried to fold her raincoat
up, around her neck. The cat was watching her. So was I.




Mircea Ivănescu





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La amiază, a început să ningă, şi ne-am oprit
pe pervazul ferestrei, privind afară, visînd
că ne plimbăm lîngă lac, cu ea, şi-i vedeam
faţa, atentă, cînd asculta, muşcîndu-şi buzele strînse,
şi apoi întorcîndu-şi spre noi faţa albă
ca o floare de gheaţă în gulerul înălţat
al hainei de ploaie largi. Zăpada în părul ei
(şi noi, visînd alge de alcool atîrnînd destrămate
în buclele ei), şi plimbîndu-ne împreună cu ea
pe malul lacului. Mai tîrziu, a venit cineva
să ne întrebe nu mai ştim ce. Am coborît
şi ne-am jucat un timp cu paharul cu piciorul înalt
pe tăblia lucioasă. Cînd ne-am amintit mai tîrziu
şi am privit pe fereastră — nu mai ningea.
Şi apoi, astă-noapte, am coborît
către barul din hall. însă acolo
m-a oprit locului, tocmai cînd întindeam mîna
spre sticlă, privirea de gheaţă a lunii
— şi m-a tras la fereastră. — Acolo
l-am văzut, chiar sub uşile de sticlă ale terasei,
pe motanul Theobald, chircit, gata să sară
spre o umbră nelămurită, pe mal.
Apoi, umbra s-a mişcat, şi-am văzut că era
o fată într-o haină de ploaie prea largă, mergînd
ca-ntr-un vis pe lîngă lacul bătut de lună
— o vedeam înfiorîndu-se — era singură —
şi, absentă, încerca să-şi încheie haina de ploaie,
sus, la gît. Pisica o pîndea. Şi eu.




(the English version belongs to the poet himself)



..

Friday, 30 October 2009






Ich träume so leise von dir,
Weiß hängt die Seide schon über meinen Augen.

Warum hast du nicht um mich

Die Erde gelassen -- sage?



Else Lasker-Schüler




I dream so quietly of you,
White hangs the silk already over my eyes.

Why did you not put aside the earth
for me -- say?






Saturday, 16 May 2009

be drunk (2)











It is the season of flowers, intoxicate yourself

don’t be so persistent, intoxicate yourself.

O imbibers! The heavy-cast clouds burst forth to me

its mercy for you, and misfortune for penitence.

Intoxicate yourself.

Swaying dark clouds have come from the direction of Mecca.

At least now intoxicate yourself.

O abstinent! Drink a little at least today

the night is dark and no one would see.

Smile as it is spring.

Let the flowers bloom in the days of spring.

If there is no wine then drink the tears of suffering

[but] drink as these are the days of spring.


Fasle Gul Hai

Qawwali - Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan




























Thursday, 7 May 2009

her flower bath 2, when the night gets darker and wilder and the pastel is all gone












there were planes crashing from the sky
around us
when we first met
he said from a distance
i wonder how you remembered
as i don't remember anything
except the bitter edge
of your lips
ravishing the muddy waters
of my body
in search of the flower
to crush it




















































Wednesday, 6 May 2009

The Hyacinth Girl






It is like this that you walked through my body once: ruthlessly, with the pale concentration of the archer who draws the bow and aims at the already bloodless deer.

The god's lover was punished because he was too beautiful, the ancient say. It is unwise to yearn for too much, I hear this from centuries' mouth. Oh tell me, you whose dark face dwells in the seeds of my grapes, is it because of a strange abundance, a similar over measure of my caged being that I am silenced now at the bottom of this troubled sea of memory?



Was my hair too long?
Was my skin too soft

or my will too strong?

Were my breasts too firm?

Were my nets too heavy?

Were my eyes too green?

Was my heart too misty?

Was my hunger too wild?

Was my mind too bright?

Was my tongue too sharp?

Were my bangles too round?

Was my waist too fickle

or my rain too drunk?



Before with muddy steps you walk out of this poem into the night, turn around, just this once. Dip your fingers through the thousand miles of useless words and pull me out to the surface, once more. Unshell my fragrance for the last time. Hyacinth will grow out of every touch, like spears through my spring.