Happy Christmas!
I wish you a wonderful holiday &
all the best things for the New Year!
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Sarah Brightman - First of May
Happy Christmas!
I wish you a wonderful holiday &
all the best things for the New Year!
Monday, 15 December 2008
Enya - How Can I Keep From Singing?
Three Songs of Healing:
Bob Marley - Three Little Birds
Prayer to Kwan Yin
Enya - How Can I Keep From Singing
My life goes on in endless song
above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that rock I'm clinging
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can i keep from singing.
While though the tempest loudly roars,
I know the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness 'round me close,
songs in the night it giveth.
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear it's music ringing,
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
When tyrants tremble in their fear
and hear their death knell ringing,
when friends rejoice both far and near
how can I keep from singing?
In prison cell and dungeon vile
our thoughts to them are winging,
when friends by shame are undefiled
how can I keep from singing?
Friday, 12 December 2008
The Disconsolate One (Gérard de Nerval)
I am the Darkness, — the Widowed, — the Scream,
The prince of Aquitaine, his Tower abolished:
My only Star is dead, — and my celestial lute
Bears the black Sun of Melancholy.
In the night of the Tomb, you who consoled me,
Bring me back Posilippo and the Italian sea,
The flower that so pleased my aching heart
And the trellis where the Vine and the Rose entwine.
Am I Love or Phoebus? … Lusignon or Biron?
My forehead is still red with the kiss of the Queen,
I dreamt in the Grotto where the Siren swims …
And twice a victor I crossed the Achéron stream
Modulating by turns on the lyre of Orpheus
The sighs of the Saint and the cries of the Fairy.
___________________________
This is my version of Gerard de Nerval’s “El Desdichado” (1854), translated from the French. The original may be found here.
And I just found another excellent page with lots of explanation and interpretation here.
My only Star is dead, — and my celestial lute
Bears the black Sun of Melancholy.
In the night of the Tomb, you who consoled me,
Bring me back Posilippo and the Italian sea,
The flower that so pleased my aching heart
And the trellis where the Vine and the Rose entwine.
Am I Love or Phoebus? … Lusignon or Biron?
My forehead is still red with the kiss of the Queen,
I dreamt in the Grotto where the Siren swims …
And twice a victor I crossed the Achéron stream
Modulating by turns on the lyre of Orpheus
The sighs of the Saint and the cries of the Fairy.
___________________________
This is my version of Gerard de Nerval’s “El Desdichado” (1854), translated from the French. The original may be found here.
And I just found another excellent page with lots of explanation and interpretation here.
Searching Google books, I found another translation in the Penguin of Nerval’s selected works by Richard Sieburth. I hadn’t seen this, but his translation is incredibly similar to mine!
Also, a further commentary here… http://everything2.com/title/El+Desdichado
Sunday, 7 December 2008
Castles In the Sky
Set to time lapse photography by Rob George.
Do you ever question your life?
Do you ever wonder why?
Do you ever see in your dreams
All the castles in the sky?
Oh tell me why, do we build castles in the sky?
Oh tell me why, all the castles way up high?
Please tell me why, do we build castles in the sky?
Oh tell me why, all the castles way up high?
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Fear
The only Thing
That we must Fear
Is Fear Itself
That gnaws the Heart
The Good lie fallen
Men beat their Breasts
Lost in Anguish
A Cry goes up
They rise as one
The Wave breaks
And leaves its Ashes
Upon the Desert Shore
But some recall
What came before
And slowly climb
An ancient Stream.
Upon its Banks
They lay their Load
And there in Time
Love grows a Rose.
—okei
—okei
Thursday, 27 November 2008
The Rubaiyat (Omar Khayyam & Edward Fitzgerald)
The Rubaiyat, slightly edited and abridged so that it only
has 29 verses, the same as the number of days in a lunar month. It was
not written as a whole poem, but literally a set of verses, most of
which can stand alone, so I’m not barbarizing the original, or if you
think I am, then at least not to the extent that Fitzgerald himself did
in trying to re-write his translation, which he did several times making
it progressively worse, and this is why everyone uses his 1st edition.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has cast the Stone that sets the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
And as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted — “Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.”
Now, the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ringed Cup where no one knows
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
And David’s Lips are locked; but in divine
High piping Pehleví, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!” — the Nightingale cries to the Rose
So to her yellow Cheeks incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look — a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke — and a thousand scattered into Clay
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.
But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot!
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper — heed them not.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
We’ll pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Think, in this battered Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter — the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River’s Lip on which we lean —
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears —
Tomorrow? — Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
Lo! Some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage pressed.
They drank their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Must we beneath the Couch of Earth descend
Ourselves to also make a Couch — for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End!
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand laboured it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped —
“I came like Water, and like Wind I go.”
Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
‘Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
For in and out, above, about, below,
‘Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Ah Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane,
The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me in vain!
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass,
And in your joyous Errand reach the spot
Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass!
(Omar Khayyam trans. —Edward Fitzgerald)
Has cast the Stone that sets the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
And as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted — “Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.”
Now, the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ringed Cup where no one knows
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
And David’s Lips are locked; but in divine
High piping Pehleví, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!” — the Nightingale cries to the Rose
So to her yellow Cheeks incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
And look — a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke — and a thousand scattered into Clay
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.
But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot!
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper — heed them not.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
We’ll pity Sultán Mahmúd on his Throne.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
Think, in this battered Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter — the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River’s Lip on which we lean —
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears —
Tomorrow? — Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.
Lo! Some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage pressed.
They drank their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Must we beneath the Couch of Earth descend
Ourselves to also make a Couch — for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans End!
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand laboured it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped —
“I came like Water, and like Wind I go.”
Up from Earth’s Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravelled by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
‘Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
For in and out, above, about, below,
‘Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Played in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Ah Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane,
The Moon of Heav’n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me in vain!
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass,
And in your joyous Errand reach the spot
Where I made One — turn down an empty Glass!
(Omar Khayyam trans. —Edward Fitzgerald)
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