ripple

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near, as it were your own?

It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air .

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of man

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go, no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall, you fall alone
If you should stand, then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way, I would take you home

           -jerry garcia and robert hunter  ( as far as i know )

THE PLACE OF REST

          Unto the deep the deep heart goes,
           It lays its sadness nigh the breast:
         Only the Mighty Mother knows
           The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

          It seeks a deeper silence still;
           It folds itself around with peace,
          Where thoughts alike of good or ill
           In quietness unfostered cease.

             It feels in the unwounding vast
             For comfort for its hopes and fears:
                The Mighty Mother bows at last;
                  She listens to her children's tears.

                 Where the last anguish deepens -- there
                      The fire of beauty smites through pain:
                                 A glory moves amid despair,
                                        The Mother takes her child again.


                                                            A.  E.

a poem

I bear equally with you
the black permanent seperation.
Why are you crying?  Rather give me your hand
promise to come again in a dream.
You and I are a mountain of grief
You and I will never meet on this earth.
If only you could send me at midnight
a greeting through the stars.

                            by

Anna Akhmatova    (via John Berger)

love: stratified and strained ii, a poem

               ..








                
                               


                               Is it the necessity
                                  of a more precise definition
                                   or
                                    is it the possibility
                                 of a more precise definition??

                                 Thinkers bend
                               all their powers
                                 to the task of expressing
                              a half-intuitive dichotomy.
                           Yet I knew you loved me from the beginning;
                               all the knots you tied yourself up in
                          were merely a means
                                  of telling yourself
                               otherwise.
                                  Perception starts
                               with imagination
                              but what you saw in me
                                 was real
                             before you lost it
                               to the ghost.





                                        -matt shadow iris


they say that breakin' up is hard to do











.....

haiku

                                                                     





                                                                




                                                                This cold winter night,
                                                        that old wooden-head Buddha
                                                               would make a nice fire






 

                                                                                           Buson   (1716-1784)

                                                                                           trans.   Sam Hamill









.

inscribed on an egyptian statue, 1500 BC

 

O  my beloved

how sweet it is

to go down

and bathe in the pool

before your eyes

letting you see how

my drenched linen dress

marries

the beauty of my body.
 

Come,  look at me.

.

czerwonemaki na monte cassino

D'you see those ruins on the hill top?
There your foe hides like a rat!
You must, you must, you must
Grab his neck and cast him from the clouds!
And they went, heedless of danger
And they went, to kill and avenge
And they went stubborn as ever,
As always - for honour - to fight.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

They charged through fire like madmen,
Countless were hit and fell,
Like the cavalry at Samosierra,
Like the men at Rokitno years ago.
They attacked with fury and fire,
And they got there. They climbed to the top,
And their white and scarlet standard
They placed on the ruins 'midst clouds.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

D'you see this row of white crosses?
Polish soldiers did honour there wed.
The further you go, the higher,
The more of such crosses you'll meet.
This soil was won for Poland,
Though Poland is far away,
For Freedom is measured in crosses
When history from justice does stray.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood.
As the soldier crushed them in falling,
For the anger was more potent than death.
Years will pass and ages will roll,
But traces of bygone days will stay,
And the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

   - translation of {feliks konarski} lyrics