Ad Hoc #1. Not Even a Little Bit

Yesterday evening I watched a movie instead of reading a book. The American teen romantic comedy '10 Things I Hate About You' (1999). The movie was a bit over the top for my taste but all in all: lovely.

I loved it when Kat read her poem:

P.S. Source of the poem: script TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU written by Karen McCullah Lutz & Kirsten Smith (Revision November 12, 1997) based on 'Taming of the Shrew" by William Shakespeare: here.

P.P.S. Spring has arrived. The trees, bushes and hedges are slowly turning green again.

Yellow Leaves

Poem 'Matins' from Louise Glück (1943-2023):

"I see it is with you as with the birches:
I am not to speak to you
in the personal way. Much
has passed between us. Or
was it always only
on the one side? I am
at fault, at fault, I asked you
to be human--I am no needier
than other people. But the absence
of all feeling, of the least
concern for me--I might as well go on
addressing the birches,
as in my former life: let them
do their worst, let them
bury me with the Romantics,
their pointed yellow leaves
falling and covering me."

P.S. This poem is from her book 'The Wild Iris' (1992). The picture 'Birch Forest in The Morning Sunlight' is from RF Library Wall Murals.

Soffio Eterno Che Cerca

 

Poem 'Prati' (1931) from Antonia Pozzi (1912-1938). Source poem in Italian en English: here and here (translation by Amy Newman).

P.S. Source picture: here.

P.P.S. No letters from me the next five weeks. I'll be offline for my summer holiday #2023. I wouldn't mind if you write me in private.

Whose Face is the Wind

 

 

Poem 'Before You the Rain' from Tuvya Ruebner. Translation from Hebrew: here.

P.S. Source picture: https://easydrawingguides.com/how-to-draw-the-wind/

Follow

 But I didn't ... - you know all too well.

P.S. Poem 'Whale-watching' from Constantinos Papageorgiou: here.

Vineyard of Bliss

   

Poem 'from In the Garden of Joy' from Túbọ̀sún Ọládàpọ̀. Source: here.

Tout Doucement Sans Faire de Bruit

A poem from Esther Jansma from her book 'Waaigat' (1993). Original in Dutch and translation into English (made by google translate):

Source poem:  here.

Title is a line from Yves Montands song, 'Les feuilles mortes' (1946): here. Translation into English: here.

Sem Esperança

A poem from Filipa Leal. Translated into English by Juliana Brina:

P.S.  Source poem: here.

Who Else?

Who else would long for you the way I do?

P.S. Poem 'Lágri di Amor' is from Miguel de Senna Fernandes. Its language is Patuá, a creole language that fuses Portuguese, Malay, Konkani and Spanish. It's spoken - but nearly extinct - by the Macau people near Hong Kong.

P.P.S. Picture 'Moonshine over Macau' (2012) is made by Sinh Truong. Source: here.

Tudu Bong

Standard Dutch is my first language. Not the local dialect in the little village I was born in. I comprehend it with ease and sometimes use one of its words (usually the names of plants and fruit) but I don't speak it. Nevertheless, it apparently influences my choice of words and melody. My son T. always says, "You speak differently when you talk to grandpa." His observation must be true but I don't even notice it myself. This happens completely automatically.

Linguists estimate that by the end of this century 3,500 languages - half of the 7,000 languages spoken today - will fall silent. Caused by globalisation and urbanisation people all over planet Earth shift to a more prestigious majority language. Social and economic mobility at the expense of their own language.

Below a bilingual (Kristang-English) poem from Martha Fernandez. 'Kristang' is a Creole language by Eurasians of Portuguese descent that learned their language from Portuguese traders who settled in the ports of Malacca, West Malaysia, Singapore and Macau.  

A poem about using a first language that sounds like music, feels safe and was found again. A language that makes feel whole again: tudu bong (literally: all good).

P.S. Source poem: here.

P.P.S. Did you know that Cleopatra VII could speak ten languages? She spoke: Koine Greek, Egyptian, Ethiopian, language of the "Troglodytes", Hebrew (or Aramaic), Arabic, the Syrian language (perhaps Syriac), Median, Parthian, and Latin. Her first language was Koine Greek. Source: Plutarch, 'Life of Anthony', 27.3-4 (here) and wikipedia (here).

Memória Desses

They finally kissed! Who? Meave and Otis, of course. The two protagonist of Netflix series 'Sex Education'. Remember my post 'And Move On' (2-2020)?

Something else. I read Carlos Drummond de Andrade, 'O amor naturel' (1992) in a bilingual translation (Portuguese-Dutch). It's a collection with poetry. Most of his poems are too vulgar for my taste. Those things belong in a bedroom. Whispered in ears. Between you and me. In letters full of longing and hunger. Reminisce. Hoping for more.  

I love this poem (from 'O amor natural'):

Did you know that in Leiden, The Netherlands his poem 'Papel' is a wall poem on Middelstegracht 87 (more)? Complete list with all wall poems in Leiden: here.

P.S. Translation into English is made by Tim Kahl: source.

A Thousand Hints

 "I Wanted to Ask

whether you missed me.
Perhaps you remembered
the smell of my fingers,
times I phoned you for small talk
and you answered
with a thousand pointless questions
but never asked:
How are you?
Do you still love me?
Would you like to go to the movies?

I wanted to say
I never knew
how to find a simple sentence
that could hold my love for you,
my pains and fears,
my shut-eyed, secret wishes
so I gossiped about myself
and all the others.
I dropped a thousand hints
instead of saying:
I love you!
I miss you!
Come!

I wanted you to see
that I am not as beautiful
as I was with you,
as I was in your life
that beauty is a mirror
hung in your hallway.
Now that you don’t know
my address, I’ve covered
my mirrors with black cloth
and laid my dreams
in the middle of the room. I said
Don’t come back!
Don’t meet me!
Don’t call me any more!

but even
as I closed the door
and put my back against it
and slid down to the door
and hoped nobody would enter,
it was you I wanted to phone
ask if there was any way
you could miss me,
if there was any chance ..."

P.S. This is a poem from Salome Benidze: here. Originally written in Georgian: here.

P.P.S. 'I love you!' is in Georgian: „მიყვარხარ!“ („miq’varkhar!“).

P.P.P.S. Mack Lajos made this vase in 1899-1900. 

Bow in Service

Poem 'Because even The Word Obstacle Is An Obstacle' from  Alison Luterman

***

Try to love everything that gets in your way:
the Chinese women in flowered bathing caps
murmuring together in Mandarin, doing leg exercises in your lane
while you execute thirty-six furious laps,
one for every item on your to-do list.
The heavy-bellied man who goes thrashing through the water
like a horse with a harpoon stuck in its side,
whose breathless tsunamis rock you from your course.
Teachers all. Learn to be small
and swim through obstacles like a minnow
without grudges or memory. Dart
toward your goal, sperm to egg. Thinking Obstacle
is another obstacle. Try to love the teenage girl
idly lounging against the ladder, showing off her new tattoo:
Cette vie est la mienne, This life is mine,
in thick blue-black letters on her ivory instep.
Be glad she'll have that to look at all her life,
and keep going, keep going. Swim by an uncle
in the lane next to yours who is teaching his nephew
how to hold his breath underwater,
even though kids aren't allowed at this hour. Someday,
years from now, this boy
who is kicking and flailing in the exact place
you want to touch and turn
will be a young man, at a wedding on a boat
raising his champagne glass in a toast
when a huge wave hits, washing everyone overboard.
He'll come up coughing and spitting like he is now,
but he'll come up like a cork,
alive. So your moment
of impatience must bow in service to a larger story,
because if something is in your way it is
going your way, the way
of all beings; towards darkness, towards light.

***

Like a cork? Something like this 'anthenea'? 

P.S. Poem from The Sun magazine, January 2010.

You Must Change Your Life

A poem Rilke (1875-1926) wrote in 1908 after he saw this ancient Greek torso in the Louvre, Paris, France (more). Rhyme scheme:  abba cddc eef gfg. In German (original) and English

Like Wildflowers

William Faulkner's poem 'Une Ballade des Dames Perdues' (around 1920):

"I sing in the green dusk
Fatuously
Of ladies I have loved
- Ça ne fait rien!  Hélas, vraiment, vraiement

Gay little ghosts of loves in silver sandals
They dance with quick feet on my lute strings
With the abandon of boarding school virgins
While unbidden moths
Amorous of my seraglio
Call them with soundless love songs
A sort of etherial seduction

They hear, alas
My women
And brush my lips with ghostly kisses
Stealing away
Singly, their tiny ardent faces
Like wildflowers from some blown garden of dreams
To their love nights among the roses

I am old, and alone
And the star dust from their wings
Has dimmed my eyes
I sing in the green dusk
Of lost ladies - Si vraiment, vraiment charmant." 

P.S. Watercolor 'Happy Poppies' is from Debra and Dave Vanderlaan (source).
P.P.S. Source poem: here.

Still Here Sea and Sky and Seasons

Sophia. I read two books with poems from Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen (1919-2004).

Here the sixs poems I like best (Portuguese original and English translation). Between [] the image I love.

Dionysos [The abundance of fruits]

Entre as árvores escuras e caladas
O céu vermelho arde,
E nascido da secreta cor da tarde
Dionysos passa na poeira das estradas.

A abundância dos frutos de Setembro
Habita a sua face e cada membro
Tem essa perfeição vermelha e plena,
Essa glória ardente e serena
Que distinguia os deuses dos mortais.

Oásis [The linen white and fresh]

Penetraremos no palmar
A água será clara e o leite doce
O calor será leve o linho branco e fresco
O silêncio estará nu - o canto
Da flauta será nítido no liso
Da penumbra

Lavaremos nossas mãos de desencontro e poeira

Quem como eu [Se dispersa nas coisas e nos dias]
Quem como eu em silêncio tece
Bailados, jardins e harmonias?
Quem como eu se perde e se dispersa
Nas coisas e nos dias?

Sua beleza [A home for humanity]
Sua beleza é total
Tem a nítida esquadria de um Mantegna
Porém como um Picasso de repente
Desloca o visual

Seu torso lembra o respirar da vela
Seu corpo é solar e frontal
Sua beleza à força de ser bela
Promete mais do que prazer
Promete um mundo mais inteiro e mais real
Como pátria do ser

Será possível [Simply lost]
Será possível que nada se cumprisse?
Que o roseiral a brisa as folhas de hera
Fossem como palavras sem sentido
— Que nada sejam senão seu rosto ido
Sem regresso nem resposta — só perdido?

Quando [Just as if]
Quando o meu corpo apodrecer e eu for morta
Continuará o jardim, o céu e o mar,
E como hoje igualmente hão-de bailar
As quatro estações à minha porta.

Outros em Abril passarão no pomar
Em que eu tantas vezes passei,
Haverá longos poentes sobre o mar,
Outros amarão as coisas que eu amei.

Será o mesmo brilho, a mesma festa,
Será o mesmo jardim à minha porta,
E os cabelos doirados da floresta,
Como se eu não estivesse morta.

Já Não Sei O Que Disse E O Que Disseste

ZUCA-MAGAZINE made a special issue about Portuguese poetry: 36 poems from 32 poets translated into Dutch.

Here are the three poems I love most:

 

Original:

MARIA DO ROSÁRIO PEDREIRA - NESSE VERÃO

Nesse verão, o vento despenteou os campos e os barcos
andaram aos gritos sobre as ondas. A beleza excessiva
das crianças arrombou os espelhos; e as raparigas,
surpreendendo a intimidade dos pais, enlouqueceram
nos corredores e foram perder-se, também elas,
na volúpia dos dias. Nas árvores centenárias

rebentaram frutos que inflamavam a concha das mãos
e escorregavam para a boca com a pressa dos nomes
proibidos. O sol queimou as páginas do livro
interrompido na violência de um poema e revirou
os cantos do único retrato que resistira à moldura
do tempo. De noite, os rapazes deitaram-se às baías

atrás das estrelas; e os amantes, incomodados
com a exiguidade dos quartos, foram fazer amor
nos balneários frios da praia e acordaram nas vozes
um do outro. Já não sei o que disse e o que disseste:
o verão desarruma os sentimentos.

 

Original: 

ALBANO MARTINS - AS PEQUENAS COISAS

Falar do trigo e não dizer
o joio. Percorrer
em voo raso os campos
sem pousar
os pés no chão. Abrir
um fruto e sentir
no ar o cheiro
a alfazema. Pequenas coisas,
dirás, que nada
significam perante
esta outra, maior: dizer
o indizível. Ou esta:
entrar sem bússola
na floresta
e não perder
o rumo. Ou essa outra, maior
que todas e cujo
nome por precaução
omites. Que é preciso,
às vezes,
não acordar o silêncio.

Original:

SOPHIA DE MELLO BREYNER ANDRESEN - O MAR DOS MEUS OLHOS

Há mulheres que trazem o mar nos olhos
Não pela cor
Mas pela vastidão da alma

E trazem a poesia nos dedos e nos sorrisos
Ficam para além do tempo
Como se a maré nunca as levasse
Da praia onde foram felizes

Há mulheres que trazem o mar nos olhos
pela grandeza da imensidão da alma
pelo infinito modo como abarcam as coisas e os homens…

Há mulheres que são maré em noites de tardes…
e calma

P.S. This poetry issue can be bought: here. You can also find there the original poems in Portuguese.

Que Reste-t-il?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of that what was, must and should have been?
Of a child I've never seen?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of the rendez-vous (encore) we never made?
Of the photo that we didn't take?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of love-letters that noone will ever read?
Of your eyes on me?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of drinking coffee from the same cup as you?
Of clouds passing by slowly?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of walking hand in hand?
Of little kisses?

Que Reste-t-il ...
Of your empty hand when I flew away?

Of my empty hand when you flew away?

Que Reste-t-il ... 

O luz antiga o fim da tarde?

O saudade?

Que Reste-t-il De Nos Amours?

Epigram 1 Word

An epigram of one word in German:

(D)ICH(TUNG)

or

In German one can say in one word: I ('ich'), You ('dich') and poetry ('Dichtung'). You and I poetry - what else? Smart people those German speaking people :)

Nua no Paraíso

Me sitting naked, on a hot day in paradise, next to Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987) on Copacabana beach in Rio de Janeiro.

This picture is better. In the one above I had my socks on ;)

Why Rio? To ... look over the ocean. To decipher the night sky. A red, pure and tragic star. And its rays of glory and hope.

P.S. Last sentences and quote on bench are from poem 'Mas Viveremos', in 'A Rosa do Povo' (1945).