Friday, March 21, 2014

Viktor Tsoi - Blood Type



Viktor Tsoi was the original Soviet Russian-Korean boy-band/rock star, and he will always remain so; he passed away at such an incredibly young age (28).

A link to the lyrics of Blood Type. Many of his songs were written as a form of protest against the war in Afghanistan.

This one is goes out to anyone who remembers 1990-1991 in Russia, or is merely curious.


Thursday, March 20, 2014

the path

“We are close to waking when we dream that we are dreaming.” 
― Novalis

The pathway is a silver river
into a place where sight is not seeing,
and the walls are made of gold,
all that is gold are not walls,
they are smooth but they are honey

there is no hurry to move
but to move is to dive
into waters that do not ripple
and yet colors appear

a fan as of feathers unfolds
it is gold but it is alive
each feather has an eye
of blue or of green

and shadows forget their darkness
in the light without a sun
and the bright blush of red
becomes gold and more gold
before the silver river
until the eyes are opened.

Some paths lead into darkness,
anguish may linger as a companion.

Let all tears be scattered to naught,
when, at long last, from a distance,
silence, essence of blue wind,
word unspeakable, you approach.

If there is no more room in me for sorrow,
will you take joy as a gift from my hands?


Wednesday, March 19, 2014

A Brief, Silly Ode to the Letter "Ы"

As a small child, I softly touched branches.
I lifted breath from letters found on pages.
I discovered sounds missing from my throat:
the rustling of the leaves, the letter, ы.

If I were to draw a map formed of words,
the first country would be marked, thou--ты.
Мы--we--вы--you all--would comprise a continent.
It is plain to see--I cannot live without Ы.


(Inspired by this unbelievable article on Vladimir Zhirinovsky's temper tantrum regarding the letter, ы.)





Perhaps it has been too long since Zhirinovsky watched Crocodile Gena and Cheburashka.


A Schumann morning


Enjoying Schumann's Piano Sonata No. 1 Opus 11 this morning.

There is something so remarkable in the fact that a single pianist, at one sitting, can create a temporary universe, wrap you in a cloak of invisibility, and lead you down misty alley-ways, until you find yourself blinking, absent-mindedly, at an unfamiliar bus-stop, wondering how you arrived there.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Intimation


Though no nightingale dwells here,
dark's shell is cracked by bird's beak:

chickadee, chickee, chereek.
Snowblind and pale, moon lingers.

Time slants its scar from the wall; 
on youth's photo a smile floats.
A woman strums a guitar;
submerged song dissolves in air,

Coalesces, names her found,
beyond yesterday's stiff bonds:
known, kindled by inmost speech,
battling silent notes of bliss.

Kind words, to a battered soul
bring meat of fiercest poison,
weightier throes than burning.
Tears of joy convulse--combust.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Selke/An Mhaighdean Mhara


Ancestors of mine spoke in a tongue strange to my ears. I'm thinking of them and of their connection to the sea, today.



Selke song from the Secret of Roan Inish.

Is cosuil gura bheath tu, 
No do rugadh tu an gcrann. 
Ta an sneachta go freasach 
Fa a bhialainn ann. 
Do shiuil bi deitil, 
Is do bhealain samh, 
Suid thugaibh mEire chinnle, 
Is e an Eire naomh. 

Mathairin mhilis, 
A duirt Maire bhain, 
Ar bharr na dtoinnti, 
Is ar bhruach na tra. 
Mathair an bharr, 
Mo mhathair in ard, 
Suid thugaibh mEire chinnle, 
Is e an Eire naomh. 

Taimse tuirseach, 
Agus beidh go neal, 
Mo bha ar a bhruinne, 
Is mo phadraic ban. 
Ar bharr na dtoinnti, 
Is ar bhruach na tra, 
Suid thugaibh mEire chinnle, 
Is e an Eire naomh. 

Maybe you were born, 
Or you came from the earth 
The snow is glistening 
There is beauty there. 
Your eyes are your vision 
But your lips are silent 
I gave to them Ireland, 
Our holy saintly land. 

Sweet Mother, 
Our heavenly one 
On the crest of the waves, 
At the ebb of the tide. 
Mother most high 
Mother in the highest 
I gave to them Ireland, 
Our holy saintly land. 

I am weary now 
And soon it will be 
My scent on the branches 
And my strength in the bark 
On the crest of the waves 
At the ebb of the tide 
I gave to them Ireland, 
Our holy saintly land.


The dark one.




And another similar song of a sea-maiden:

An Mhaighdean Mhara, sung by Clannad (this is my favorite version, so far)


Is cosúil gur mheath tú nó gur thréig tú an greann
Tá an sneachta go frasach fá bhéal na trá
Do chúl buí daite is do bhéílín sámh
Siúd chugaibh Mary Chinidh is í i ndiaidh an Éirne shnámh

A mháithrín mhilis duirt Máire bhán
Fá bhruach an chladaigh is fá bhéal na trá
Maighdean mhara mo mháithrín ard
Siúd chugaibh Mary Chinidh is í i ndiaidh an Éirne shnámh

Tá mise tuirseach agus beidh go lá
Mo Mháire bhruinneall is mo Phádraig bán
Ar bharr na dtonnta is fá bhéal na trá
Siúd chugaibh Mary Chinidh is í i ndiaidh an Éirne shnámh

Tá an oíche seo dorcha is tá an ghaoth i ndroch aird
Tá an tseisreach na seasamh is na spéarthaí go hard
Ach ar bharr na dtonnta is fá bhéal na trá
Siúd chugaibh Mary Chinidh is í i ndiaidh an Éirne shnámh

The Mermaid

It seems that you have faded away and abandoned the love of life
The snow is spread about at the mouth of the sea
Your yellow flowing hair and little gentle mouth
We give you Mary Chinidh to swim forever in the Erne

My dear mother, said blonde Mary
By the edge of the shore and the mouth of the sea
A mermaid is my noble mother
We give you Mary Chinidh to swim forever in the Erne

I am tired and will be forever
My fair Mary and my blond Patrick
On top of the waves and by the mouth of the sea
We give you Mary Chinidh to swim forever in the Erne

The night is dark and the wind is high
The Plough can be seen high in the sky
But on top of the waves and by the mouth of the sea
We give you Mary Chinidh to swim forever in the Erne

when trees as gilded as bees

Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...

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