Poetry

Dedicated to Roland  . . . .  because it sparkles and glows

Painting: Starry night by Vincent van Gogh

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, not silence,

but from a street it called me,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among raging fires

or returning alone,

there it was, without a face,

and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names,

my eyes were blind.

Something knocked in my soul,

fever or forgotten wings,

and I made my own way,

deciphering

that fire,

and I wrote the first, faint line,

faint, without substance, pure

nonsense,

pure wisdom

of someone who knows nothing;

and suddenly I saw

the heavens

unfastened

and open,

planets,

palpitating plantations,

the darkness perforated,

riddled

with arrows, fire, and flowers,

the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

felt myself a pure part

of the abyss.

I wheeled with the stars.

My heart broke loose with the wind.

Pablo Neruda 

(1904—1973)

Everything is meaningless

“Meaningless! Meaningless!”

says the Teacher.

“Utterly meaningless!

Everything is meaningless.”

What do people gain from all their labors

at which they toil under the sun?

Generations come and generations go,

but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises and the sun sets,

and hurries back to where it rises.

The wind blows to the south

and turns to the north;

round and round it goes,

ever returning on its course. 

All streams flow into the sea,

yet the sea is never full.

To the place the streams come from,

there they return again.

All things are wearisome,

more than one can say.

The eye never has enough of seeing,

nor the ear its fill of hearing.

What has been will be again,

what has been done will be done again;

there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there anything of which one can say,

“Look! This is something new”?

It was here already, long ago;

it was here before our time.

No one remembers the former generations,

and even those yet to come

will not be remembered

by those who follow them.

The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem:

Ecclessiastes 1

The Christmas Scale

An abandoned doll's tale

A weathered, frayed doll sits quietly at a corner
Its patches illuminated by dim rays of light
Shining through the dusty window yonder
Making the place a mysterious sight


A fine layer of dust encases the old cloth doll
Giving it an antique touch; faded glory
However, its bright beady eyes seem to call
Out to you, imploring you to hear its story


It ended up here, in this musty attic
For a reason, one that was extremely grievous
The doll takes a deep breath, gives a hic
And begins its tale, its expression serious


It had once been bought by a fickle boy
Who took a fancy to it, and seized it
Marking it as his property with joy
Promising that his love would never quit


He showered it with compliments and
Affection, always whispering sweet nothings
To it and taking it to his fantasyland
Where they would go for walks in clearings


Often, they would sit in the moonlight
Watching and wishing upon the stars
That shone, high up in the sky so bright
And the doll would think bad times were far


Not long after, however, the boy grew bored
And decided that the doll was passe
So he bought other things he could afford
While tossing the patched doll away


Thus, it lay wretched on the ground
Of the old attic, reminiscing its sad life
As days passed by, and dust settled around
The place where forgotten objects were rife


For a long time, the poor doll still
Hoped and believed the boy would be back
To collect it for a hike up a hill
And then its life would be back on track


But its hopes slowly faded over time
As it began to realize the bitter truth-
That it would never again hear the chime
Of the clock, or slide down railings so smooth


It perceived that the boy had never
Truly loved it, that he had only liked it for
Personal comfort and fun, if ever;
Stepping all over it like it was the floor


So, with bitterness and resentment
It relates its sorrowful tale
Tears dripping down its crummy cheeks
As it tries to repress them and fails


Upon finishing its story, it sinks back with
A sigh, one of sorrow and of resignation
Helplessly awaiting the day it would breathe
Its last breath, before its final cremation.


Alice

The dispensables

 One day, and that day is not far away, it will be us being alone and lonely, sinking in the empty space.

Empty Space

"I sink deeper and deeper,

with every move i make,

I hate this place with a passion,

Its so lifeless and dark,

I wish someone would feel this,

Empty space with in my Heart"...

                                                                            James Quin

Loneliness

'Won't you come and see

loneliness? Just one leaf

from the kiri tree.''

Basho

Upon Westminster Bridge

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth 

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)