Daily Thought

[westsiderny]

"You will always find some Eskimos ready to instruct the Congolese on
how to cope with heat waves."

~ Stanislaw Jerszy Lec

[westsiderny]

"Sow a Thought, and you reap an Act; Sow an Act, and you reap a Habit;
Sow a Habit, and you reap a Character; Sow a Character, and you reap a
Destiny".

~ Charles Reade

[westsiderny]

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."

~ William Buttler Yeats - ("The Second Coming")

[Tesora]

"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."

Touche

[Michelle]

Dear ol' William Butler was having a bit of a 'dark' period when he wrote that one... He was fascinated by the occult and the circular nature of life.

[kaycarley]

very interesting choice. I haven't seen this for a long time. much food for thought

[Alexandra]

Il mio sonetto preferito di Francesco Petrarca

CXXXIV
Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra...

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra;
e temo, e spero; et ardo, e son un ghiaccio;
e volo sopra ’l cielo, e ghiaccio in terra;
e nulla stringo, e tutto ’l mondo abbraccio.
Tal m’ha in pregion, che non m’apre né serra,
né per suo mi ritèn né scioglie il laccio;
e non m’ancide Amore, e non mi sferra,
né mi vuol vivo né mi trae impaccio.
Veggio senza occhi, e non ho lingua, e grido;
e bramo di perir, e cheggio aita;
et ho in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.
Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;
egualmente mi spiace morte e vita:
in questo stato son, donna, per vui.

[westsiderny]

Dear ol' William Butler was having a bit of a 'dark' period when he wrote that one... He was fascinatedd by the occult and the circular nature of life.

I am afraid that you are 'a little bit' wrong about the reason why dear ol' W.B. wrote this poem. He wasn't having a bit of a personal 'dark' period alone... He wrote this poem while Europe and much of the rest of the world was trying to recover from World War I. This was surely an important factor for him in writing the poem. Yeats saw great social troubles all around him, and remarks on a world spinning out of control.

There are many interpretations of his beautiful work, as there is also his biography. No links this time. Any one interested in learning more about W.B. Yeats can use Google.

[Michelle]

Actually, I think he was more concerned with political events in Ireland at the time, with which he was heavily involved (he became an Irish Senator in 1922, three years after the above poem). Irish Nationalism features very heavily in most of his work right up to the fifth and final period of his work in the 1930s. His despair (if that's not too strong) at events in Ireland before and after the 1916 Rising influenced his work during this period, much of which is quite dark (the dark period I meant). A fascinating man and an interesting time.

He has written alot of poetry, some of my favourites:
The Stolen Child
The Wild Swans at Coole
The Circus Animals' Desertion

[westsiderny]

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius,
power and magic in it."

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

[westsiderny]

"L'invidioso non muore mai una volta sola, ma tante volte quanto
l'invidiato vive salutato dal plauso della gente."

~ Baltasar Gracián

[Sherlock]

One for the Irish, from Spike...


There are holes in the sky
Where the rain gets in,
But they're ever so small
That's why rain is thin.


On second thoughts, not for the Irish (in spite of Spike Milligan's origins), since their rain, although "very straight" (according to my daughter), tends, also, to be rather fat.

[Michelle]

True...more a case of large gashes or rips... We really must mend that sky business one of these days.

[Alexandra]

Love Song by Joseph Brodsky

If you were drowning, I'd come to the rescue,
wrap you in my blanket and pour hot tea.
If I were a sheriff, I'd arrest you
and keep you in the cell under lock and key.


If you were a bird, I 'd cut a record
and listen all night long to your high-pitched trill.
If I were a sergeant, you'd be my recruit,
and boy i can assure you you'd love the drill.


If you were Chinese, I'd learn the languages,
burn a lot of incense, wear funny clothes.
If you were a mirror, I'd storm the Ladies,
give you my red lipstick and puff your nose.


If you loved volcanoes, I'd be lava
renlentlessly erupting from my hidden source.
And if you were my wife, I'd be your lover
because the church is firmly against divorce.

[westsiderny]

Sonnet XVII

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this: in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

~ Pablo Neruda

[Sherlock]

Thank you very much for the poems, ladies.


Neruda's poetry is beautiful, Westsiderny.

Are you familiar with this one...?



LXXXI From: "Cien sonetos de amor"


Already, you are mine. Rest with your dream inside my dream.
Love, grief, labour, must sleep now.
Night revolves on invisible wheels
and joined to me you are pure as sleeping amber.

No one else will sleep with my dream, love.
You will go we will go joined by the waters of time.
No other one will travel the shadows with me,
only you, eternal nature, eternal sun, eternal moon.

Already your hands have opened their delicate fists
and let fall, without direction, their gentle signs,
your eyes enclosing themselves like two grey wings,

while I follow the waters you bring that take me onwards:
night, Earth, winds weave their fate, and already
not only am I not without you, I alone am your dream.

[westsiderny]

Yes Sherlock, I am familiar with Pablo Neruda's poetry since I was a young girl... many moons ago. I am originally from South America and his poems are exquisite in Spanish, although I find the English versions quite accurate. We know there is always something lost in translations...

[Sherlock]

Then, you will, of course, know Neruda far, far better than I do, Westsiderny. I am sure there is a great deal lost in translation.

My cousins and I share a love of Rilke, but, alas, can read him, too, only in translation.

Darcy's favourite Rilke poem - and one which I, too, find unutterably beautiful, profoundly insightful and deeply moving - is the following:


From "The Sonnets to Orpheus": Second Part

IV


This is the creature there has never been.
They never knew it, and yet, none the less,
they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.

Not there, because they loved it, it behaved
as though it were. They always left some space.
And in that clear unpeopled space they saved
it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace

of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,
but only with the possibility
of being. And that was able to confer

such strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.
Whitely, it stole up to a maid - to BE
within the silver mirror and in her.

[Jean-Yves]

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture

"Unknown"

Écrire sur la musique, c’est comme danser sur de l’architecture

[Jean-Yves]

La courbe de tes yeux


La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur,
Un rond de danse et de douceur,
Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr,
Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu
C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu.
Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée,
Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés,
Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière,
Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer,
Chasseurs des bruits et sources de couleurs,
Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores
Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres,
Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence
Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs
Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.

Paul Eluard

[Jean-Yves]

And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

[Jean-Yves]

Écoutez la chanson bien douce
Qui ne pleure que pour vous plaire.
Elle est discrète, elle est légère :
Un frisson d'eau sur de la mousse !
La voix vous fut connue (et chère?),
Mais à présent elle est voilée
Comme une veuve désolée,
Pourtant comme elle encore fière,

Et dans les longs plis de son voile
Qui palpite aux brises d'automne,
Cache et montre au coeur qui s'étonne
La vérité comme une étoile.

Elle dit, la voix reconnue,
Que la bonté c'est notre vie,
Que de la haine et de l'envie
Rien ne reste, la mort venue.

Elle parle aussi de la gloire
D'être simple sans plus attendre,
Et de noces d'or et du tendre
Bonheur d'une paix sans victoire.

Accueillez la voix qui persiste
Dans son naïf épithalame.
Allez, rien n'est meilleur à l'âme
Que de faire une âme moins triste !

Elle est en peine et de passage,
L'âme qui souffre sans colère,
Et comme sa morale est claire !...
Écoutez la chanson bien sage.

Paul Verlaine, Sagesse

[Francesca]

And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Nous voyons souvent cette phrase ici en anglais et en italien. Pour une fois lisons-la dans sa version originale

"On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur, l'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (Le Petit Prince)

[Francesca]

Verlaine.......si souvent mis en musique :

GREEN

Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux.


J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.


Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encor de vos derniers baisers
Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.

Paul Verlaine (Romances sans paroles)

[Sherlock]

Merci beaucoup, Francesca.

J'ai juste traduit cela par l'intermediaire des Babel Fish, et l'ai trouve' beau.

Desole je ne sais pas ajouter des accents!





Sinceres amities.