Saturday, December 4, 2010

Haiku my heart: Lamentations of an airport




I'm an airport
Everybody comes and goes through me
yet - nobody stays

Riette 03 Dec 2010

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Bach at dawn on a Sunday morning

 
 


Bach through an open
  dawn window —
the birds are silent



Jack Kerouac, Book of Haikus

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Haiku my heart: Just one night


"Her kiss"

My fingers through your hair
your face cupped in my hands
Just one night - with you

Riette 20 Nov 2010

recuerda mi corazon





Friday, November 12, 2010

Love Sonnet





I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Saturday, October 30, 2010

The analytical lover


The analytical lover


This screen
that separates us,
what does it consist of?

How does it prevent me
from taking in your words
and fit them in my mouth?

How does it stop me
from holding the joyous surges
of your body
in my own?

This screen
that separates us,
how does it work its division?

How does it catch your thoughts
and strain through to me
so little of what you think?

I see you move
behind the screen,
and I yearn
to put my hand in yours.

I hear the cadence of your voice,
the timbre of your words,
the lilt of your speech;
but most of you
is screened out.

De Waal Venter

Friday, October 29, 2010

Haiku my heart: Snow White

Dedicated to my beautiful, perfect baby girl, still born on the 29th October 1980



   Perfected in my womb
      the beginning, the end
 snow white coffin

Riette

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Mystifying

Image: Orlando Oct 2010 full moon taken by Roland Pozo

For the sake of a single poem, 
you must see many cities, 
many people and things, 
you must understand animals, 
must feel how birds fly, 
and know the gesture which small flowers 
make when they open in the morning.
Rainer Maria Rilke,

Saturday, October 23, 2010

La Valse

 
La Valse - Camille Laudel
 
"Andante, Andante"

Take it easy with me, please
Touch me gently like a summer evening breeze
Take your time, make it slow
Andante, Andante
Just let the feeling grow

Make your fingers soft and light
Let your body be the velvet of the night
Touch my soul, you know how
Andante, Andante
Go slowly with me now

I'm your music
(I am your music and I am your song)
I'm your song
(I am your music and I am your song)
Play me time and time again and make me strong
(Play me again 'cause you're making me strong)
Make me sing, make me sound
(You make me sing and you make me...)
Andante, Andante
Tread lightly on my ground
Andante, Andante
Oh please don't let me down

There's a shimmer in your eyes
Like the feeling of a thousand butterflies
Please don't talk, go on, play
Andante, Andante
And let me float away

I'm your music
(I am your music and I am your song)
I'm your song
(I am your music and I am your song)
Play me time and time again and make me strong
(Play me again 'cause you're making me strong)
Make me sing, make me sound
(You make me sing and you make me...)
Andante, Andante
Tread lightly on my ground
Andante, Andante
Oh please don't let me down

Make me sing, make me sound
(You make me sing and you make me...)
Andante, Andante
Tread lightly on my ground
Andante, Andante
Oh please don't let me down
Andante, Andante
Oh please don't let me down...

Friday, October 15, 2010

Who art thee



Who, but who art thee?
Stop following, stop bothering me
and let me, just let me be!

Riette

for more haikus visit recuerda mi corazan

Friday, October 8, 2010

Haiku my heart: Behind




Behind these two windows is my mind
Two women live there - I find
one is crazy, the other one kind 

Riette

Friday, September 17, 2010

Haiku my heart: A Cripple Fantasy

Painting by Jim Mc Dermott

As if from nowhere - silently
you came - and you stood by me
a cripple fantasy

Riette

Thursday, September 16, 2010

When you come


This is not a sad poem. 
Its a poem filled with secrets, mysteries, borrowed love and soft memories of one stolen night  . . . . .

“Take one fresh and tender kiss
Add one stolen night of bliss
One girl, one boy, some grief,
some joy Memories are made of this.”


Johnny Cash



        
When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.

Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,

I CRY.
Maya Angelou 


Monday, September 13, 2010

Every word you say

"To me intimacy is to be myself in your presence"
Riette

 
"We've learned to be alone together"


I'm no good company
I guess that's true
I like my silence
Like I love you
But if you feel like talking, talk away
I'm gonna hang on every word you say


I'll stroke your shoulder
Without a word
A rush of blood
Was all I heard
But if you feel like whispering, whisper away
I'm gonna hang on every word you say


Sing one of your old songs
You do so well
You lift my spirits
My tolling bell
If you feel like singing, sing away
I'm gonna harmonize every word you say
I'm gonna harmonize every word you say
I'm gonna harmonize every word you say

©1974 Jesse Winchester

From his Album:"Learn to love it"

Saturday, September 11, 2010

It is very simple. Throughout the Universe there is Order


Friday, September 10, 2010

Haiku my heart: Single White Feather





You say you search for your treasure 
you'll find it, my love,
in a single white feather . . .

Riette

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas ... Pablo Neruda





Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,

te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.

Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava

y hace saltar al hijo del fondo de la tierra.



Fui sólo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros,

y en mí la noche entraba en su invasión poderosa.

Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,

como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.



Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.

Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.

¡Ah los vasos del pecho! ¡Ah los ojos de ausencia!

¡Ah las rosas del pubis! ¡ Ah tu voz lenta y triste!



Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.

Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!

Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,

y la fatiga sigue y el dolor infinito

Pablo Neruda

Friday, September 3, 2010

Haiku my heart: Mysteriously




A funfilled haiku with rhythm and rhyme
A sizzling hot pizza -  sans wine

and still -  this endless longing of mine

Riette



Sunday, August 22, 2010

Motherland

Where in the hell can you go far from the things that you know
Far from the sprawl of concrete that keeps crawling its way about 1,000 miles a day?
Take one last look behind, commit this to memory and mind.
Don't miss this wasteland, this terrible place.
When you leave keep your heart off your sleeve.

Motherland cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep.
Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me don't go.
Don't you go.
Oh, my five & dime queen tell me what have you seen?
The lust and the avarice, the bottomless, cavernous greed, is that what you see?

Motherland cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep.
Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me don't go.

It's your happiness I want most of all and for that I'd do anything at all, oh mercy me!
If you want the best of it or the most of all, if there's anything I can do at all.

Now come on shot gun bride what makes me envy your life?
Faceless, nameless, innocent, blameless and free, what's that like to be?

Motherland cradle me, close my eyes, lullaby me to sleep.
Keep me safe, lie with me, stay beside me don't go.
Don't go.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Crying in the Chapel



You saw me crying in the chapel.
The tears I shed were tears of joy
I know the meaning of contentment
Now I am happy with the Lord

Just a plain and simple chapel
Where humble people go to pray
I pray the Lord that I'll grow stronger
As I live from day to day

I've searched and I've searched
But I couldn't find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind

Now I'm happy in the chapel
Where people are of one accord
Yes,We gather in the chapel
Just to sing and praise the Lord

Ev'ry sinner looks for something
That will put his heart at ease
There is only one true answer
He must get down on his knees

Meet your neighbor in the chapel
Join with him in tears of joy
You'll know the meaning of contentment
Then you'll be happy with the Lord

You'll search and you'll search
But you'll never find
No way on earth
To gain peace of mind

Take your troubles to the chapel
Get down on your knees and pray
And Your burdens will be lighter
And you'll surely find the way

(words & music by Arthur Glenn)

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Grazella Dorcas

Image: National Geographic


Grazella Dorcas

Verzauberte: wie kann der Einklang zweier
erwählter Worte je den Reim erreichen,
der in dir kommt und geht, wie auf ein Zeichen.
Aus deiner Stirne steigen Laub und Leier,

und alles Deine geht schon im Vergleich
durch Liebeslieder, deren Worte, weich
wie Rosenblätter, dem, der nicht mehr liest,
sich auf die Augen legen, die er schließt:

um dich zu sehen: hingetragen, als
wäre mit Sprüngen jeder Lauf geladen
und schösse nur nicht ab, solang der Hals

das Haupt im Horchen hält: wie wenn beim Baden
im Wald die Badende sich unterbricht:
den Waldsee im gewendeten Gesicht.

 
 
Gazella Dorcas

By Rainer Maria Rilke

Enchanted thing: how can two chosen words
ever attain the harmony of pure rhyme
that pulses through you as your body stirs?
Out of your forehead branch and lyre climb

and all your features pass in simile through
the songs of love whose words as light as rose-
petals rest on the face of someone who
has put his book away and shut his eyes:

to see you: tensed as if each leg were a gun
loaded with leaps but not fired while your neck
holds your head still listening: as when

while swimming in some isolated place
a girl hears leaves rustle and turns to look:
the forest pool reflected in her face.

Translation: Stephen Mitchell
 
 

Friday, July 30, 2010

The Cinnamon Peeler




The Cinnamon Peeler
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume

and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

- Michael Ondaatje

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Dos Dias

The Flamengo


mirar a la gente 

Bajar el sol,
besar la luna 
tener tu amor, 
vivir la vida 
con ilusion.
gozar y disfrutar 
hay con pasion.
tocar la guitarra 
con el calor,
segir cantando 
esta cancion. 

y entre la flores mas bonitas,
tu eres la rosa que no marchita
que alegra mi casa y mi jardin.


eres la fuerza pa vivir 
hay flores rojas y amarillas,
escucha chiquilla no toy mintiendo 
que la vida son 2 dias,
y que uno ta lloviendo.

(Poet still unknown) 

With great gratitude to the Afrikaans poet, De Waal Venter, who does an excellent job translating Spanish poems into Afrikaans. I've posted the Afrikaans translation on my Afrikaans blog. 

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Do not go gentle in that good night






Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Father William




FATHER WILLIAM
by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
      "OU are old, Father William," the young man said,
      "And your hair has become very white;
      And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
      Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
       
      "In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
      "I feared it might injure the brain;
      But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
      Why, I do it again and again."
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
      And have grown most uncommonly fat;
      Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
      Pray, what is the reason of that?"
       
      "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
      "I kept all my limbs very supple
      By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --
      Allow me to sell you a couple?"
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
      For anything tougher than suet;
      Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
      Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
       
      "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
      And argued each case with my wife;
      And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
      Has lasted the rest of my life."
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
      That your eye was as steady as ever;
      Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
      What made you so awfully clever?"
       
      "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
      Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
      Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
      Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"

Saturday, May 22, 2010

The Traveler - The End Philip de Vos

I hope you have enjoyed the travel with me . . . . .. and that you've found the wise woman and her wisdom  . . . . I hope one day we all can look through our "corridors" and realize we have found the right stairways . . .and we will know why we have traveled . . .


"Stairway to Heaven" by Rachelarts

Philip de Vos

Friday, May 21, 2010

The traveler Part 5 - Philip de Vos


Image by Eleni.Rim

Philip de Vos

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The Traveler Part 4 - Philip de Vos


Philip de Vos

Monday, May 17, 2010

The Traveler Part 3 - Philip de Vos


Painting by Cyril Rolando


Philip de Vos

Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Traveler Part 2 - Philip de Vos


Painting by Cyril Rolando

Saturday, May 15, 2010

The Traveller - Philip de Vos


Painting by Jennifer Baird



Ghost house - Robert Frost


Image: Michael Otto

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Robert Frost 




Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The Fountains of Granada








                          The fountains of Granada
            Have you ever heard,
            in the perfumed, starry night,
            anything more sorrowful than their sad moan?
            All reposes in a vague enchantment
            in the fluid silver of the moon.

Fracisco Villaespesa 

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Man With The Blue Guitar


When I close my eyes, I can see the wise old man living in this house . . .sitting on the veranda . .on a green day . .. with his blue guitar



The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”

The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

And they said then, “But play, you cant,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are.”

Wallace Stevens

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

How should a poem be . . .


Photo by Kristine Hannon

“A poem should be wordless
                                   as the flight of birds.”
 
Archibald McFleish

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

A thousand kisses deep - Leonard Cohen




The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done –
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck.
I blessed our remnant fleet –
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
I guess they won’t exchange the gifts
That you were meant to keep.
And quiet is the thought of you,
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

The ponies run, the girls are young, 
The odds are there to beat . . .

. .

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings



The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou 

Monday, April 12, 2010

Edge




Image "Heart Ache" via a friend Artist unknown

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.



© Sylvia Plath

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Tulips



The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks
.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
Sylvia Plath