An Artist

An artist is a creature driven by demons.

He doesn’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.

- William Faulkner

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.

Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.

A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

by Alastair Reid

Moonlight

Your soul is like a landscape fantasy,
Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise,
Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be
Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise.

Singing in minor mode of life's largesse
And all-victorious love, they yet seem quite
Reluctant to believe their happiness,
And their song mingles with the pale moonlight,

The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming,
Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees,
And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming--
Slender jet-fountains--sob their ecstasies.

Paul Verlaine

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me.

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth.
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again.
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.




Matthew Arnold (1822 - 1888)

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?



Un sogno in un sogno

Prendete questo bacio sulla fronte!
E, in partenza da ora,
Così tanto vorrei avow -
Tu non sei sbagliato, che ritengono
Che i miei giorni sono stati un sogno;
Ma se la speranza è volato via
In una notte, o in un giorno,
In una visione, o in mancanza,
È quindi meno andata?
Tutto ciò che vediamo o sembrano
È un sogno, ma all'interno di un sogno.

Io sto in mezzo il rombo
Di una terra tormentata-surf,
E io tengo in mano
Grani di sabbia d'oro -
Come pochi! ancora il modo in cui creep
Attraverso le mie dita alla profonda,
Mentre io piangere, mentre io piangere!
O Dio! non riesco a cogliere
Con una maggiore chiusura?
O Dio! non riesco a salvare
Uno spietato da onda?
È tutto ciò che vediamo o sembrano
Ma un sogno all'interno di un sogno?





Edgar Allan Poe

My flower, My love

Your petals bloomed around my face
and your leaves scraped my skin.
I fell into your softness
and your sweet nectar.

I was enveloped in your love
and devoured by your soul.
I was, and forever will be,
your sun in which you thrive from.

And you, my flower, will forever
feed me with your sweets.
Into night and into day
we live in each other's air.



Versione italiana:

Il mio fiore, Il mio amore

Il tuo petali fioriti attorno alla mia faccia
e lascia il tuo raschiati mia pelle.
Sono caduto nella tua dolcezza
e il tuo dolce nettare.

Mi è stato avvolto nel tuo amore
e divorato dalla vostra anima.
Sono stato, e sempre sarà,
la vostra domenica in cui si da prosperare.

E voi, il mio fiore, sarà per sempre
Feed Me con il tuo caramelle.
Nella notte e in giorni
viviamo gli uni negli altri aerei.




by Amanda Alicia Smith

Yesterday and Today

The gold-hoarder walked in his palace park and with him walked his troubles. And over his head hovered worries as a vulture hovers over a carcass, until he reached a beautiful lake surrounded by magnificent marble statuary.

He sat there pondering the water which poured from the mouths of the statues like thoughts flowing freely from a lover's imagination, and contemplating heavily his palace which stood upon a knoll like a birth-mark upon the cheek of a maiden. His fancy revealed to him the pages of his life's drama which he read with falling tears that veiled his eyes and prevented him from viewing man's feeble additions to Nature.

He looked back with piercing regret to the images of his early life, woven into pattern by the gods, until he could no longer control his anguish. He said aloud, "Yesterday I was grazing my sheep in the green valley, enjoying my existence, sounding my flute, and holding my head high. Today I am a prisoner of greed. Gold leads into gold, then into restlessness and finally into crushing misery.

"Yesterday I was like a singing bird, soaring freely here and there in the fields. Today I am a slave to fickle wealth, society's rules, and city's customs, and purchased friends, pleasing the people by conforming to the strange and narrow laws of man. I was born to be free and enjoy the bounty of life, but I find myself like a beast of burden so heavily laden with gold that his back is breaking.

"Where are the spacious plains, the singing brooks, the pure breeze, the closeness of Nature? Where is my deity? I have lost all! Naught remains save loneliness that saddens me, gold that ridicules me, slaves who curse to my back, and a palace that I have erected as a tomb for my happiness, and in whose greatness I have lost my heart.

"Yesterday I roamed the prairies and the hills together with the Bedouin's daughter; Virtue was our companion, Love our delight, and the moon our guardian. Today I am among women with shallow beauty who sell themselves for gold and diamonds.

"Yesterday I was carefree, sharing with the shepherds all the joy of life; eating, playing, working, singing, and dancing together to the music of the heart's truth. Today I find myself among the people like a frightened lamb among the wolves. As I walk in the roads, they gaze at me with hateful eyes and point at me with scorn and jealousy, and as I steal through the park I see frowning faces all about me.

"Yesterday I was rich in happiness and today I am poor in gold.

"Yesterday I was a happy shepherd looking upon his head as a merciful king looks with pleasure upon his contented subjects. Today I am a slave standing before my wealth, my wealth which robbed me of the beauty of life I once knew.

"Forgive me, my Judge! I did not know that riches would put my life in fragments and lead me into the dungeons of harshness and stupidity. What I thought was glory is naught but an eternal inferno."

He gathered himself wearily and walked slowly toward the palace, sighing and repeating, "Is this what people call wealth? Is this the god I am serving and worshiping? Is this what I seek of the earth? Why can I not trade it for one particle of contentment? Who would sell me one beautiful thought for a ton of gold? Who would give me one moment of love for a handful of gems? Who would grant me an eye that can see others' hearts, and take all my coffers in barter?"

As he reached the palace gates he turned and looked toward the city as Jeremiah gazed toward Jerusalem. He raised his arms in woeful lament and shouted, "Oh people of the noisome city, who are living in darkness, hastening toward misery, preaching falsehood, and speaking with stupidity...until when shall you remain ignorant? Unit when shall you abide in the filth of life and continue to desert its gardens? Why wear you tattered robes of narrowness while the silk raiment of Nature's beauty is fashioned for you? The lamp of wisdom is dimming; it is time to furnish it with oil. The house of true fortune is being destroyed; it is time to rebuild it and guard it. The thieves of ignorance have stolen the treasure of your peace; it is time to retake it!"


At that moment a poor man stood before him and stretched forth his hand for alms. As he looked at the beggar, his lips parted, his eyes brightened with a softness, and his face radiated kindness. It was as if the yesterday he had lamented by the lake had come to greet him. He embraced the pauper with affection and filled his hands with gold, and with a voice sincere with the sweetness of love he said, "Come back tomorrow and bring with you your fellow sufferers. All your possessions will be restored."

He entered his palace saying, "Everything in life is good; even gold, for it teaches a lesson. Money is like a stringed instrument; he who does not know how to use it properly will hear only discordant music. Money is like love; it kills slowly and painfully the one who withholds it, and it enlivens the other who turns it upon his fellow man."

Khalil Gibran



Versione italiana:

Ieri e Oggi


L'oro-hoarder camminato nel suo palazzo e parco camminato con lui la sua difficoltà. E sul suo capo oscillato preoccupazioni aleggia come un avvoltoio su una carcassa, fino a raggiungere un bel lago circondato da magnifici marmo statuario.

E sabato ci meditandole cui versa l'acqua dalla bocca dei pensieri, come le statue che fluisce liberamente da un amante della fantasia, e contemplando pesantemente il suo palazzo che sorgeva su un poggio, come una nascita del marchio su una guancia di una fanciulla. La sua fantasia, ha rivelato a lui le pagine della sua vita, il dramma che ha letto con le lacrime che rientrano velato i suoi occhi e gli hanno impedito di vedere l'uomo debole aggiunte alla Natura.

Ha guardato indietro con piercing rammarico per le immagini della sua prima vita, tessuti in modello da divinità, fino a che egli non potrebbe più controllare la sua angoscia. Egli ha detto ad alta voce, "Ieri ho avuto le mie pecore al pascolo nel verde della valle, godendo la mia esistenza, il mio suono di flauto, e tenendo alta la mia testa. Oggi sono un prigioniero di avidità. Oro conduce in oro, poi in agitazione e, infine, nella frantumazione miseria.

"Ieri mi è stato come un canto di uccelli, svettanti liberamente qua e là nei campi. Oggi sono uno schiavo di volubile ricchezza, le regole della società, della città e delle dogane, e ha acquistato gli amici, le persone gradevoli da conformi alle leggi strane e strette di l'uomo. Sono nato per essere libero e godere della grazia della vita, ma mi trovo come una bestia da soma talmente carico d'oro che la sua schiena è rottura.

"Dove sono le ampie pianure, il canto ruscelli, la pura brezza, la vicinanza della Natura? Dove è la mia divinità? Ho perso tutto! Nulla rimane salvare la solitudine che mi rattrista, l'oro che mi ridicules, schiavi che maledizione per la mia schiena, e un palazzo che ho eretta come una tomba per la mia felicità, in cui la grandezza ho perso il mio cuore.

"Ieri ho roaming praterie e le colline insieme con la figlia di beduini; Virtù è stato il nostro compagno, il nostro Amore gioia, e la luna il nostro custode. Oggi sono tra le donne con superficiale bellezza stessi che vendono per l'oro e diamanti.

"Ieri ero spensierata, la condivisione con tutti i pastori la gioia della vita, mangiare, giocare, lavorare, cantare e ballare insieme per la musica del cuore la verità. Oggi mi trovo tra la gente come un agnello paura tra i lupi. Come ho camminare nelle strade, hanno lo sguardo verso di me con gli occhi e il punto di odio verso di me con sdegno e di gelosia, e come ho rubare attraverso il parco vedo accigliato facce tutte su di me.

"Ieri mi è stato ricco di felicità e di oggi sono poveri in oro.

"Ieri ero un felice pastore in cerca della sua testa come un re misericordioso guarda con piacere alla sua contenti soggetti. Oggi sono uno schiavo in piedi davanti la mia ricchezza, la mia ricchezza che mi ha rubato la bellezza della vita, una volta ho conosciuto.

"Mi perdoni, il mio giudice! Non sapevo che avrebbe messo ricchezze mia vita in frammenti e mi portano in sotterranei di durezza e la stupidità. Quello che ho pensato è stata gloria nulla è eterno, ma un inferno".

Egli stesso raccolte stancamente e camminava lentamente verso il palazzo, sospirando e ripetere ", è questo ciò che la gente chiama ricchezza? E 'questo il dio mi serve e adorare? E' questo che io cerco di terra? Perché non posso fare il commercio per uno particella di appagamento? Chi mi vende una bella pensata per una tonnellata di oro? Chi mi darebbe un momento d'amore per una manciata di gemme? Chi mi concede un occhio che può vedere gli altri 'cuori, e prendere tutte le mie casse in baratto? "

Come ha raggiunto il palazzo porte si voltò e guardò verso la città come Geremia guardava verso Gerusalemme. Ha sollevato le braccia in doloroso lamento e gridò: "Oh gente noisome della città, che vivono nelle tenebre, accelerare verso la miseria, la predicazione di menzogna, e parlando con la stupidità ... fino a quando si deve rimanere ignoranti? Unità quando si devono rispettare nella sporcizia di vita e di continuare a disertare i suoi giardini? Perché si tattered indossare abiti di seta, mentre la ristrettezza vesti di bellezza della natura è moda per voi? La luce della saggezza è oscuramento; è il momento di fornire con l'olio. La casa di vera fortuna è stato distrutto; è il momento di ricostruire e di guardia. L'ignoranza di ladri hanno rubato il tesoro della tua pace; è il momento di riprendere it! "

Come ha raggiunto il palazzo porte si voltò e guardò verso la città come Geremia guardava verso Gerusalemme. Ha sollevato le braccia in doloroso lamento e gridò: "Oh gente noisome della città, che vivono nelle tenebre, accelerare verso la miseria, la predicazione di menzogna, e parlando con la stupidità ... fino a quando si deve rimanere ignoranti? Unità quando si devono rispettare nella sporcizia di vita e di continuare a disertare i suoi giardini? Perché si tattered indossare abiti di seta, mentre la ristrettezza vesti di bellezza della natura è moda per voi? La luce della saggezza è oscuramento; è il momento di fornire con l'olio. La casa di vera fortuna è stato distrutto; è il momento di ricostruire e di guardia. L'ignoranza di ladri hanno rubato il tesoro della tua pace; è il momento di riprendere it! "


In quel momento un povero uomo era davanti a lui e si estendeva il suo canto l'elemosina. Come egli guardava il mendicante, la sua bocca parted, i suoi occhi si illuminò con una morbidezza e il suo volto irradiata gentilezza. E 'stato come se il ieri aveva lamentato dal lago era venuto a salutare lui. Ha abbracciato il povero con affetto e riempito con le sue mani d'oro, e con una voce sincera, con la dolcezza di amore, egli disse: "Venite domani e portare con voi i vostri colleghi malati. Tutti i vostri beni sarà recuperata."

Egli è entrato suo palazzo dicendo: "Tutto nella vita è buona, anche in oro, perché insegna una lezione. Il denaro è come uno strumento a corda, ma chi non sa come usarlo correttamente si limita ad ascoltare musica discordanti. Il denaro è come l'amore; uccide lentamente e dolorosamente colui che trattiene, e che anima le altre che si gira su un altro uomo. "

Khalil Gibran

I am hollow.

I am hollow.

The words form tragedies. Words seriously form my tragedies. They keep me existing - breathing paper and intelligence, but they wreck me. Perhaps it’s my personality? With nothing worthy - could I possibly keep something worthy?

I am hollow.

I keep a heart, but I never feed it. And my faults outweigh my good; do I truly deserve something good? And I hear the blood that runs through my veins, like a liquid disease of existing just because I can. I have nothing planned. I have nothing beautiful to offer and smiles are not a true occupation.

I feel anxiety, like I’m waiting for a call that will change everything. I have the feeling of wanting to cry, or drive forever, with my mind never resting. And am I waiting for a call to change everything? Am I waiting for a voice to say everything will be alright? Even if I won’t believe… Believing keeps you young.

And when I’m old and done believing, will the broken dreams be all but pieces of something better? And will never believing be easier than trying?

Then will I sink to the bottom with the pennies and nickels and dimes tossed for a dream—am I just a fragment of a wish that never was? It’s the waiting that kills me, the anticipation of something on the verge of something—self-discovery, maybe?

Frustrating.

It’s so frustrating to think that I may be the last to ever really know what I truly mean.

So when will those chains come to hold me close? When will I feel like I truly fit—not even here, nobody here make me feel like I am whole. I just see an image of a mouth widened in an endless scream - “Hear me, understand me!” -

Do you understand?

Maybe…

Maybe, if I was less a complication? Less an aggravation to those and to others and to me, maybe maybe maybe then hollow wouldn’t ring so hollow.

They whispered pride into my ear when I was born, the first thing they gave my mind to tighten it’s tiny fists around—the center of my existence, and my Atlas to my world. The sucking vanity of my core, the endless doubt of truth… my pride, my pride - the damn pride that sinks my solid resolutions. I’m a wretch against resisting instinct.

Crawling with humanity… on my hands and knees.

The dirt never was so deep.



Versione italiana:

Sono vuota.

Sono vuota.

Le parole sotto forma tragedie. Parole sul serio la mia forma tragedie. Essi mi esistenti - carta di respirazione e di intelligence, ma mi relitto. Forse è la mia personalità? Con nulla degno - potrei eventualmente tenere qualcosa degno?

Sono vuota.

Mantenere un cuore, ma non ho mai la sua alimentazione. E il mio difetti superano il mio bene, posso veramente meritano qualcosa di buono? E sento il sangue che scorre attraverso le mie vene, come un liquido di malattia esistente solo perché non posso. Non ho nulla previsto. Non ho nulla da offrire belle e sorrisi non sono una vera e propria professione.

Mi sento l'ansia, come sono in attesa di una chiamata che cambierà tutto. Ho la sensazione di voler piangere, o di guidare per sempre, con la mia mente mai riposo. E io sono in attesa di una chiamata a cambiare tutto? Sono in attesa di una voce a dire tutto andrà bene? Anche se io non credo ... Credere che si mantiene giovani.

E quando sono vecchi e fatto credere, i sogni infranti di essere, ma tutti i pezzi di qualcosa di meglio? E non credere di essere più facile cercare?

Poi mi affondare verso il basso con i centesimi e nickels Dimes e lanciata per un sogno, io sono solo un frammento di un desiderio che non è mai stato? E 'l'attesa che mi uccide, l'anticipazione di qualcosa alla vigilia di qualcosa di auto-scoperta, forse?

Frustrante.

E 'così frustrante pensare che io possa essere sempre gli ultimi a sapere che cosa ho veramente veramente significa.

Quindi, quando sarà venuto a quelle catene di tenere me vicino? Quando Mi sento come se veramente non fit-anche qui, nessuno qui mi sento come mi intera. Ho appena vedere l'immagine di una bocca ampliato in un urlo senza fine - "Ascolta me, mi capisce!" --

Avete capito?

Forse ...

Forse, se mi è stato meno complicazioni? Meno di un aggravamento e quelle per gli altri e per me, forse forse forse non sarebbe poi cavo anello così vuota.

Essi orgoglio sussurrato in un orecchio, quando sono nato, la prima cosa che ha dato la mia mente a stringere della piccola pugni circa-il centro della mia esistenza, e il mio Atlas al mio mondo. La vanità di succhiare il mio cuore, l'infinito della verità dubbio ... il mio orgoglio, il mio orgoglio - il maledetto il mio orgoglio che affonda solide risoluzioni. Sono un disgraziato resistere contro l'istinto.

La scansione con l'umanità ... e le mani sul mio ginocchio.

L'immondizia non è mai stato così profondo.





Adapted from where's my silence? by I am pookie

A FRIEND, by Breena C. Park

A friend is like a flower,
a rose to be exact,
Or maybe like a brand new gate
that never comes unlatched.
A friend is like an owl,
both beautiful and wise.
Or perhaps a friend is like a ghost,
whose spirit never dies.
A friend is like those blades of grass
you can never mow,
standing straight, tall, and proud
in a perfect little row.
A friend is like a heart that goes
strong until the end.
Where would we be in this world
if we didn't have a friend.

- Breena C. Park

"Like city's rain, my heart . . ." - by Paul Verlaine

The rain falls gently on the town.
Arthur Rimbaud



Like city's rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?

Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!

Tears rain-but who knows why?-
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover's lie? . . .
It mourns, and who knows why?

And nothing pains me so--
With neither love nor hate--
A simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.



"Il pleure dans mon coeur . . . "

II pleut doucement sur la ville.
Arthur Rimbaud

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville;
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits!
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie
Ô le chant de la pluie!

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi! nulle trahison? . . .
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine!

From Romances sans paroles (1874)

Kahlil Gibran on Love

Kahlil Gibran on Love



When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.



For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.



Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

by Kahlil Gibran (January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)
a Lebanese American artist, poet, and writer.

The Faerie Lover, by Brenna Gwyn

The Leanan Sidhe

The Faerie Lover

I am a creature of the Fey
Prepare to give your soul away
My spell is passion and it is art
My song can bind a human heart
And if you chance to know my face
My hold shall be your last embrace

I shall be thy lover

I am unlike a mortal lass
From dreams of longing I have passed
I came upon your lonely cries
Revealed beauty to your eyes
So shun the world that you have known
And spend your nights within my own

I shall be thy lover

You shall be known by other men
For your great works of voice and pen
Your inspiration has a cost
For with me know your soul is lost
I'll take your passion and your skill
I'll take your young life quicker still

I shall be thy lover

Through the kisses that I give
I draw from you that I will live
And though you think this weakness grand
The touch of death your lovers hand
Your will to live has come too late
Come to my arms and love this fate

I shall be thy lover

I am a creature of the Fey
Prepare to give your soul away
My spell is passion and it is art
My song can bind a human heart
And if you chance to know my face
My hold shall be your last embrace..

-Brenna Gwyn

(Based on Heather Alexander's "Creature of the Wood")

Icarus by Gianni Bergamini

Icarus

I will fly over rivers, lakes, oceans & mountains;
Beyond the clouds of the infinite sky.
With no barriers or chains on my wrists;
I will fly today and tommorow.

I will fly where the sun warms every heart,
where the moon and the stars watch over the night
so it passes painlessly.

I will fly in the light of an infinite God
Where faith has just one colour and
people never die.

With the wings of love, I can fly.



Versione Italiano:

Icaro

Volero sopra fiumi, laghi, mari e monti;
Oltre le nubi tra cieli infiniti.
Senza confini e catene alle mani,
Volero oggi e domani.

Volero dove il sole riscalda ogni cuore,
dove la luna e le stelle vegliano notti
senza dolore.

Volero nella luce di un Dio infinito,
dove la fede ha un solo colore e
la gente non muore.

Con le ali dell’amore, io posso volare.


Poem by Gianni Bergamini 1996
Translation to English by Carmen Forward 2008

Sea of time

I nostri padri annaffiato con le loro lacrime
Questo mare di tempo sul quale si vela,
Le loro voci sono state in tutti gli uomini di orecchie
Chi pass'd all'interno del loro puissant grandine.
Sempre lo stesso oceano rotonda ci rave,
Ma siamo muti, e guardare le onde.




Our fathers water’d with their tears
This sea of time whereon we sail,
Their voices were in all men’s ears
Who pass’d within their puissant hail.
Still the same ocean round us raves,
But we stand mute, and watch the waves.

"Art poétique", from Jadis et naguère (1884) - Paul Verlaine

Let's hear the music first and foremost,
And that means no more one-two-one-twos…
Something more vague instead, something lighter
Dissolving in air, weightless as air.


When you choose your words, no need to search
In strict dictionaries for pinpoint
Definitions. Better the subtle
And heady Songs of Imprecision.

Color's forbidden, only Nuance!

Grip eloquence by the throat and squeeze
It to death. And while you're about it
You might corral that runaway, Rhyme,
Or you'll get Rhyme Without End, Amen.


Who will denounce that criminal, Rhyme?
Tone-deaf children or crazed foreigners
No doubt fashioned its paste jewellery,
Tinplate on top, hollow underneath.

You must let your poems ride their luck
On the back of the sharp morning air
Touched with the fragrance of mint and thyme…
And everything else is literature.

- Paul Verlaine

Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River - Tu Fu

Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River

The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.

A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.

A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.

Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?

East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?

At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.

I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds ---open delicately, sparingly.

Tu Fu

We Wear the Mask - Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Your own dimension

Imagine a world. A dimension where you are its chief architect.
Wouldn't it be fun?