A Paradise of Poems

This is a non-editing/filtering version of a live rehearsal session between me and João Grillo (guitarist). One day later, we performed at Lovecraft Beer Lounge Aveiro :)

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…In life after life, in age after age, forever.My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,In life after life, in age after age, forever.Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,Its ancient tale of being apart or together.As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:You become an image of what is remembered forever.You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.At the heart of time, love of one for another.We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the sameShy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in youThe love of all man's days both past and forever:Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –And the songs of every poet past and forever. BGM by Katrina Stone - Digging Tunnels - Instrumental Version

  You too wanted better things, but love          forces all of us down.  Sorrow bends us more          forcefully, but the arc doesn't return to its          point of origin without a reason.           Upwards or downwards!  In holy Night,          where mute Nature plans the coming days,          doesn't there reign in the most twisted Orcus          something straight and direct?           This I have learned.  Never to my knowledge          did you, all-preserving gods, like mortal          masters, lead me providentially          along a straight path.           The gods say that man should test          everything, and that strongly nourished          he be thankful for everything, and understand          the freedom to set forth wherever he will.

BGM by Aleksey Chistilin - The Story of One Life

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me- “We play from the time we wake till the day ends. We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.” I ask, “But how am I to get up to you ?” They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.” “My mother is waiting for me at home, “I say, “How can I leave her and come?” Then they smile and float away. But I know a nicer game than that, mother. I shall be the cloud and you the moon. I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be the blue sky. The folk who live in the waves call out to me- “We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know not where we pass.” I ask, “But how am I to join you?” They tell me, “Come to the edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves.” I say, “My mother always wants me at home in the everything- how can I leave her and go?” They smile, dance and pass by. But I know a better game than that. I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore. I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with laughter. And no one in the world will know where we both are. BGM by Nsee - Frozen Lake - Slowed and Reverbed

often it is the onlythingbetween you andimpossibility.no drink,no woman's love,no wealthcanmatch it.nothing can saveyouexceptwriting.it keeps the wallsfromfailing.the hordes fromclosing in.it blasts thedarkness.writing is theultimatepsychiatrist,the kindliestgod of all thegods.writing stalksdeath.it knows noquit.and writinglaughsat itself,at pain.it is the lastexpectation,the lastexplanation.that'swhat itis.from blank gun silencer - 1991 BGM by Nsee - Bloom

No people are uninteresting. Their fate is like the chronicle of planets. Nothing in them is not particular, and planet is dissimilar from planet. And if a man lived in obscurity making his friends in that obscurity obscurity is not uninteresting. To each his world is private, and in that world one excellent minute. And in that world one tragic minute. These are private. In any man who dies there dies with him his first snow and kiss and fight. It goes with him. There are left books and bridges and painted canvas and machinery. Whose fate is to survive. But what has gone is also not nothing: by the rule of the game something has gone. Not people die but worlds die in them. Whom we knew as faulty, the earth's creatures Of whom, essentially, what did we know? Brother of a brother? Friend of friends? Lover of lover? We who knew our fathers in everything, in nothing. They perish. They cannot be brought back. The secret worlds are not regenerated. And every time again and again I make my lament against destruction. Music by Ardie Son - Folklore

I wonder about the trees.Why do we wish to bearForever the noise of theseMore than another noiseSo close to our dwelling place?We suffer them by the dayTill we lose all measure of pace,And fixity in our joys,And acquire a listening air.They are that that talks of goingBut never gets away;And that talks no less for knowing,As it grows wiser and older,That now it means to stay.My feet tug at the floorAnd my head sways to my shoulderSometimes when I watch trees sway,From the window or the door.I shall set forth for somewhere,I shall make the reckless choiceSome day when they are in voiceAnd tossing so as to scareThe white clouds over them on.I shall have less to say,But I shall be gone. Music by Break of Reality - Comfortable Silence

The Landscape by Don Paterson A Version I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer those lilacs and roses whose breath filled the broad woods, where the sail of a flame lay at the end of each arrow-straight path. I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer that storm whose white nerve sparked the castle towers, or left the mind unrhymed, or flared an instant, just where the road forked. It is the star struck under my heel in the night. It is the word no book on earth defines. It is the foam on the wave, the cloud in the sky.    As they age, all things grow rigid and bright. The streets fall nameless, and the knots untie. Now, with this landscape, I fix; I shine. Music by Diamonds And Ice - Blue

YOU NEVER KNEW MY MIND 1967 I know you feel the way I change But you can't change the way I feel Sometimes I'm a stranger to you one of a kind I chink some way you'll make it Though you don't know how to take it You can't deal with how I'm thinkin' Cause you never knew my mind There were times of lots of laughter And you felt you understood me We were carefree, open, honest Loving easy, true and kind I suppose you never doubted then That we had it all together Then you say the changes painfully, and knew You never knew my mind My silence holds the secrets when I answer, but don't answer You didn't see me well enough to recognize the signs You didn't want to know it's over You never looked close enough to know You never knew my mind Music by Ardie Son - Sunken Days

By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule-From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,Out of SPACE- out of TIME.Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of fire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters- lone and dead,-Their still waters- still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily.By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead,-Their sad waters, sad and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily,-By the mountains- near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-By the grey woods,- by the swampWhere the toad and the newt encamp-By the dismal tarns and poolsWhere dwell the Ghouls,-By each spot the most unholy-In each nook most melancholy-There the traveller meets aghastSheeted Memories of the Past-Shrouded forms that start and sighAs they pass the wanderer by-White-robed forms of friends long given,In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.For the heart whose woes are legion'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-For the spirit that walks in shadow'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!But the traveller, travelling through it,May not- dare not openly view it!Never its mysteries are exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringed lid;And thus the sad Soul that here passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule. Music by Kyle Preston - Paragon

I went down to the river,I set down on the bank.I tried to think but couldn't,So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered!I came up twice and cried!If that water hadn't a-been so coldI might've sunk and died.      But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold! I took the elevatorSixteen floors above the ground.I thought about my babyAnd thought I would jump down. I stood there and I hollered!I stood there and I cried!If it hadn't a-been so highI might've jumped and died.      But it was      High up there!      It was high! So since I'm still here livin',I guess I will live on.I could've died for love—But for livin' I was born Though you may hear me holler,And you may see me cry—I'll be dogged, sweet baby,If you gonna see me die.      Life is fine!      Fine as wine!      Life is fine! Music by Tristan Barton - Full Bloom

I think about things that might have been and never were. The treatise on Saxon myths that Bede omitted to write. The inconceivable work that Dante may have glimpsed As soon as he corrected the Comedy's last verse. History without two afternoons: that of the hemlock, that of the Cross. History without Helen's face. Man without the eyes that have granted us the moon. Over three Gettysburg days, the victory of the South. The love we never shared. The vast empire the Vikings declined to found. The globe without the wheel, or without the rose. John Donne's judgment of Shakespeare. The Unicorn's other horn. The fabled Irish bird which alights in two places at once. The child I never had. BGM: Simon Wester - Among Us

In space in time I sitThousands of feet aboveThe sea and meditateOn solitude on love Near all is brown and poorHouses are made of earthSun opens every doorThe city is a hearth Far all is blue and strangeThe sky looks down on snowAnd meets the mountain-rangeWhere time is light not shadow Time in the heart held stillSpace as the household godAnd joy instead of willKnows love as solitude Knows solitude as loveKnows time as light not shadowThousands of feet aboveThe sea where I am now BGM: Simon Wester - Hope

A Nation of trees, drab green and desolate grey In the field uniform of modern wars, Darkens her hills, those endless, outstretched paws Of Sphinx demolished or stone lion worn away. They call her a young country, but they lie: She is the last of lands, the emptiest, A woman beyond her change of life, a breast Still tender but within the womb is dry. Without songs, architecture, history: The emotions and superstitions of younger lands, Her rivers of water drown among inland sands, The river of her immense stupidity Floods her monotonous tribes from Cairns to Perth. In them at last the ultimate men arrive Whose boast is not: "we live" but "we survive", A type who will inhabit the dying earth. And her five cities, like five teeming sores, Each drains her: a vast parasite robber-state Where second hand Europeans pullulate Timidly on the edge of alien shores. Yet there are some like me turn gladly home From the lush jungle of modern thought, to find The Arabian desert of the human mind, Hoping, if still from the deserts the prophets come, Such savage and scarlet as no green hills dare Springs in that waste, some spirit which escapes The learned doubt, the chatter of cultured apes Which is called civilization over there.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

The World Cup, a global stage, Where nations come to play, A spectacle of skill and strength, A test of will and might. From distant lands they come, These titans of the game, To battle on the pitch, In search of victory and fame. For one bright month, the world will watch, As players clash and scores are fought, A drama of sweat and tears and blood, A contest of both skill and luck. And when the final whistle blows, And the champion is crowned, We'll look back on the tournament, And all its highs and lows. For the World Cup is more than just a game, It's a celebration of the human spirit, A triumph of will and determination, A test of what we're truly worth. p.s. this is an experiment with chatGPT read by @camelliayang

Football, the beautiful game, A source of passion and of shame, A battle on the pitch of life, Where heroes rise and villains thrive. With leather ball and studded boots, We chase and kick and score and hoot, A symphony of cheers and groans, As players clash and tackles flown. For ninety minutes and beyond, We fight for every inch of ground, A contest of both mind and might, Where victory is our sole delight. So let us play with all our heart, And never from the game depart, For football is a noble art, A test of strength, a test of spirit. So let the whistle blow, my friends, And let the match begin, For football is a game that never ends, A source of joy and sorrow and sin. p.s. this is an experiment with chatGPT read by @camelliayang

II My gaze is clear like a sunflower. It is my custom to walk the roads Looking right and left And sometimes looking behind me, And what I see at each moment Is what I never saw before, And I'm very good at noticing things. I'm capable of feeling the same wonder A newborn child would feel If he noticed that he'd really and truly been born. I feel at each moment that I've just been born Into a completely new world... I believe in the world as in a daisy, Because I see it. But I don't think about it, Because to think is to not understand. The world wasn't made for us to think about it (To think is to have eyes that aren't well) But to look at it and to be in agreement. I have no philosophy, I have senses... If I speak of Nature it's not because I know what it is But because I love it, and for that very reason, Because those who love never know what they love Or why they love, or what love is. To love is eternal innocence, And the only innocence is not to think... 8 March 1914

Countless lives inhabit us. I don't know, when I think or feel, Who it is that thinks or feels. I am merely the place Where things are thought or felt. I have more than just one soul. There are more I's than I myself. I exist, nevertheless, Indifferent to them all. I silence them: I speak. The crossing urges of what I feel or do not feel Struggle in who I am, but I Ignore them. They dictate nothing To the I I know: I write. © Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith From: Fernando Pessoa & Co. – Selected Poems Publisher: Grove Press, New York, 1998

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

My work is loving the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird— equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. Here the clam deep in the speckled sand. Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished. The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.

Last week, I invited you to share your favourite love poems. Here are a few submissions by listeners, read in English, Chinese and German. Enjoy ：） 1. A love letter from the movie Green Book, read by Valerie Zhang 2. Lösch mir die Augen aus, read by Mr Liu (Lois Hong's dad) 3. A glimpse, read by Linda Leng 4. 致橡树 (To the Oak Tree), read by Jielin Liu 5. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? read by Monica Tong 6. On the beach, read by Ya Sun Music by Cristof Walters Subscribe to the YouTube Channel

Hello, my dear listeners. I'm Camellia. The narrator of this podcast. Thanks a lot for listening to my show over the past two years. I'm glad to have you along the journey with me to feel the beauty of those classic and modern poems. Today is Chinese Valentine's Day, and I'd like to create a special episode featuring your favourite LOVE poetries. I'd like to invite you to read one of your favourite LOVE poems and send the audio recording to my email box (ymedianz@gmail.com). It can be in different languages and from various countries; as long as it's your favourite love poetry, that's good. The recording quality doesn't need to be perfect, and you can use your mobile phone or computer to record. I'll collect all submissions early next week and make them into a special episode to post here with your name or any other links you'd like to include. Thanks again for your love and support. I look forward to hearing back from your soon! And here is one of my favourite love poems: Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window. It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul. "Tell my, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them." My soul does not reply. "Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?" My soul remains silent. "Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics." Not a word. Can my soul be dead? "Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!" At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"

When a heavy lid of low sky covers a soul moaning with ennui and fright, and the whole horizon is rounded by a black day pouring down, sadder than any night; When the earth is turned to a muggy dungeon where Hope is the shadow of a bat, feeling with feeble, flapping wings along the grunge on walls and bumping its head against a putrid ceiling; When the crawling spiders of scattershot rains drop cold bars that imprison us, water trickles along the channels in our brains, and the people around us feel poisonous— the bells speak out suddenly with fury and lance the sky with dreadful howls, and frightened strays and exiles, sorry and homeless, rage from deep within their bowels. Long hearses roll, slow, silent, hypnotic, through my soul. Hope, defeated, cries out its atrocious anguish—despotic. A black hood slides over my ferocious eyes.

at high noon at a small college near the beach sober the sweat running down my arms a spot of sweat on the table I flatten it with my finger blood money blood money my god they must think I love this like the others but it's for bread and beer and rent blood money I'm tense lousy feel bad poor people I'm failing I'm failing a woman gets up walks out slams the door a dirty poem somebody told me not to read dirty poems here it's too late. my eyes can't see some lines I read it out- desperate trembling lousy they can't hear my voice and I say, I quit, that's it, I'm finished. and later in my room there's scotch and beer: the blood of a coward. this then will be my destiny: scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls reading poems I have long since become tired of. and I used to think that men who drove buses or cleaned out latrines or murdered men in alleys were fools.

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest damned things ever, the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies, week after week, month after month, year after year, getting old together, reading on to tiny gatherings, still hoping their genius will be discovered, making tapes together, discs together, sweating for applause they read basically to and for each other, they can't find a New York publisher or one within miles, but they read on and on in the poetry holes of America, never daunted, never considering the possibility that their talent might be thin, almost invisible, they read on and on before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands, their wives, their friends, the other poets and the handful of idiots who have wandered in from nowhere. I am ashamed for them, I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other, I am ashamed for their lisping egos, their lack of guts. if these are our creators, please, please give me something else: a drunken plumber at a bowling alley, a prelim boy in a four rounder, a jock guiding his horse through along the rail, a bartender on last call, a waitress pouring me a coffee, a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway, a dog munching a dry bone, an elephant's fart in a circus tent, a 6 p.m. freeway crush, the mailman telling a dirty joke anything anything but these.

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

O, Death! a black and pierceless pall Hangs round thee, and the future state; No eye may see, no mind may grasp That mystery of Fate. This brain, which now alternate throbs With swelling hope and gloomy fear; This heart, with all the changing hues, That mortal passions bear— This curious frame of human mould, Where unrequited cravings play, This brain, and heart, and wondrous form Must all alike decay. The leaping blood wili stop its flow;2 The hoarse death-struggle pass; the cheek Lay bloomless, and the liquid tongue Will then forget to speak. The grave will take me; earth will close O'er cold dull limbs and ashy face; But where, O, Nature, where shall be The soul's abiding place? Will it e'en live? for though its light Must shine till from the body torn; Then, when the oil of life is spent, Still shall the taper burn? O, powerless is this struggling brain To rend the mighty mystery; In dark, uncertain awe it waits The common doom, to die.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe? Berkeley, 1955

Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the RCA Building and gaze at my world, Manhattan— my buildings, streets I've done feats in, lofts, beds, coldwater flats —on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind, its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men walking the size of specks of wool— Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine, sun go down over New Jersey where I was born & Paterson where I played with ants— my later loves on 15th Street, my greater loves of Lower East Side, my once fabulous amours in the Bronx faraway— paths crossing in these hidden streets, my history summed up, my absences and ecstasies in Harlem— —sun shining down on all I own in one eyeblink to the horizon in my last eternity— matter is water. Sad, I take the elevator and go down, pondering, and walk on the pavements staring into all man's plateglass, faces, questioning after who loves, and stop, bemused in front of an automobile shopwindow standing lost in calm thought, traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me waiting for a moment when ... Time to go home & cook supper & listen to the romantic war news on the radio ... all movement stops & I walk in the timeless sadness of existence, tenderness flowing thru the buildings, my fingertips touching reality's face, my own face streaked with tears in the mirror of some window—at dusk— where I have no desire— for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese lampshades of intellection— Confused by the spectacle around me, Man struggling up the street with packages, newspapers, ties, beautiful suits toward his desire Man, woman, streaming over the pavements red lights clocking hurried watches & movements at the curb— And all these streets leading so crosswise, honking, lengthily, by avenues stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums thru such halting traffic screaming cars and engines so painfully to this countryside, this graveyard this stillness on deathbed or mountain once seen never regained or desired in the mind to come where all Manhattan that I've seen must disappear. New York, October 1958

I lived with visions for my company Instead of men and women, years ago, And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know A sweeter music than they played to me. But soon their trailing purple was not free Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow, And I myself grew faint and blind below Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be, Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts, Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same, As river-water hallowed into fonts), Met in thee, and from out thee overcame My soul with satisfaction of all wants: Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say, "I love her for her smile—her look—her way Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"— For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

I can't touch you. His face always returns; we exchange long looks in each bad dream & what I see, my God. Honey, sweetheart, I hold you against me but nothing works. Two boats moored, rocking between nowhere & nowhere. A bone inside me whispers maybe tonight, but I keep thinking about the two men wrestling nude in Lawrence's Women in Love. I can't get past reels of breath unwinding. He has you. Now he doesn't. He has you again. Now he doesn't. You're at the edge of azaleas shaken loose by a word. I see your rose-colored skirt unfurl. He has a knife to your throat, night birds come back to their branches. A hard wind raps at the door, the new year prowling in a black overcoat. It's been six months since we made love. Tonight I look at you hugging the pillow, half smiling in your sleep. I want to shake you & ask who. Again I touch myself, unashamed, until his face comes into focus. He's stolen something from me & I don't know if it has a name or not— like counting your ribs with one foolish hand & mine with the other.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise – Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday – or holinight Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight, But, as I've read love's missal through to-day, He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

Nice to meet you, I said I admire your strength You have courage and patience I once only dreamt You stand tall and move forward with passion, yet grace Your rivers are flowing, there is light on your face And it emanates to all of the people around And to me, I can see, there is something you've found It's something I was searching, a long while ago A gem in the sand, a stone in the snow I looked under, and over, past mountains, ‘round bends And wandered, miles yonder, to the rainbow's end The journey was thorough But also quite long I got tired and weathered Lost the words to my song May I ask you to help me To teach me what you know To move forward with strength With the peace that you show Well, you see, darling girl, you can pass rainbow's end And another, and another, it's an infinite ascend Or you can feel with your heart, put your toes in the sand And know all you need is right where you stand Life is here, it is now You have more than you know Look inside, not out there Close your eyes and let go Listen in to the sound of the voices within The way trees talk to roots, and clouds talk to wind There you'll find all the answers you've been searching for And the light that is dim will shine once more Oh, thank you! I said, full of joy and much glee Then I noticed There was something familiar to me I saw who she was This woman was me

Who includes diversity and is Nature, Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also, Who has not look'd forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing, Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover, Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the aesthetic or intellectual, Who having consider'd the body finds all its organs and parts good, Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories, The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States; Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons, Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.

Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their feet Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. The front line withers. But they are troops who fade, not flowers, For poets' tearful fooling: Men, gaps for filling: Losses, who might have fought Longer; but no one bothers. II And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling, And Chance's strange arithmetic Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling. They keep no check on armies' decimation. III Happy are these who lose imagination: They have enough to carry with ammunition. Their spirit drags no pack. Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache. Having seen all things red, Their eyes are rid Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. And terror's first constriction over, Their hearts remain small-drawn. Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle Now long since ironed, Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. IV Happy the soldier home, with not a notion How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack, And many sighs are drained. Happy the lad whose mind was never trained: His days are worth forgetting more than not. He sings along the march Which we march taciturn, because of dusk, The long, forlorn, relentless trend From larger day to huger night. V We wise, who with a thought besmirch Blood over all our soul, How should we see our task But through his blunt and lashless eyes? Alive, he is not vital overmuch; Dying, not mortal overmuch; Nor sad, nor proud, Nor curious at all. He cannot tell Old men's placidity from his. VI But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, That they should be as stones. Wretched are they, and mean With paucity that never was simplicity. By choice they made themselves immune To pity and whatever moans in man Before the last sea and the hapless stars; Whatever mourns when many leave these shores; Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.

What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny Day in spring? What are you thinking here, where the wind Blowing from the Vistula scatters The red dust of the rubble? You swore never to be A ritual mourner. You swore never to touch The deep wounds of your nation So you would not make them holy With the accursed holiness that pursues Descendants for many centuries. But the lament of Antigone Searching for her brother Is indeed beyond the power Of endurance. And the heart Is a stone in which is enclosed, Like an insect, the dark love Of a most unhappy land. I did not want to love so. That was not my design. I did not want to pity so. That was not my design. My pen is lighter Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden Is too much for it to bear. How can I live in this country Where the foot knocks against The unburied bones of kin? I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot Write anything; five hands Seize my pen and order me to write The story of their lives and deaths. Was I born to become a ritual mourner? I want to sing of festivities, The greenwood into which Shakespeare Often took me. Leave To poets a moment of happiness, Otherwise your world will perish. It's madness to live without joy And to repeat to the dead Whose part was to be gladness Of action in thought and in the Only two salvaged words: Truth and justice.

a trembling old man dreams of a chinese garden a comical old man dreams of newspapers under his rabbi's hat a simple tavernkeeper dreams of icicles & fisheyes a sinister tavernkeeper dreams of puddles with an angel of the law in every drop the furrier's plump daughter is dreaming of a patch of old vanilla the furrier's foreign daughter is dreaming of a hat from which a marten hangs the proud accountant dreams of a trolleycar over the frozen river the reluctant accountant dreams of his feet sleep in a fresh pair of red socks the silly uncle dreams of a history written by a team of Spanish doctors the uncle in the next apartment dreams of the cost of Katmandu the retired gangster dreams of a right turn into a field of sacred lemons the dancing gangster dreams of a carriage, a donkey, & a hand that holds the ace of spades the grim man with a proposition dreams of his fingers entering a pair of gloves the excited man with a proposition dreams of the letter E torn from the title of his poem the remarkable elevator operator dreams of the marriage of karl marx the easy elevator operator dreams of a seashell at the entry to the thirteenth floor the candid photographer dreams of a wooden synagogue inside his brother's camera the secret photographer dreams of a school of golden herrings drifting out to sea the yiddish dadaist dreams of rare steaks & platonic pleasures the rosy dadaist dreams that a honeycomb is being squashed against his face the mysterious stranger dreams of a white tablecloth on which black threads are falling the stranger whom no one sees dreams of his sister holding up a string of pearls the asthmatic tax collector dreams of a row of sacred numbers the rebellious tax collector dreams of a bathhouse set among old trees the robust timber merchant dreams of a wind that blows inside the blacksmith's bellows the sobbing timber merchant dreams that his hands have pressed the buttocks of his dreaming bride the man with a fish between his teeth dreams of a famine for forty-five days the man dressed in white dreams of a potato the savage gentile dreams of a dancer with flashy lightbulbs on her shoes the repentant gentile dreams of her fingers bringing honey to his lips the fancy barber dreams that his hands massage the captain's neck the silent barber dreams of a rooster with a thread tied to one leg the salty bridegroom dreams of horses galloping they swirl around the bridegroom's house the genuflecting bridegroom dreams of what his bride slides through her fingers he sees it white & trembling in the early sabbath light the fat man in the derby dreams that it is spring that his seed soon will be falling through an empty sky the ecstatic man in the derby dreams that if he dreams it his words will turn into flowers

1 He takes a book down from his shelf & scribbles across a page of text: I am the final one. This means the world will end when he does. 2 In the Inferno, Dante conceives a Paradise of Poets & calls it Limbo. Foolishly he thinks his place is elsewhere. 3 Now the time has come to write a poem about a Paradise of Poets.

Out of the window I see the heaven's divine shine Proclaiming itself that the world belongs to mine There stands the trees green and tall but as I look far in the mountains it seems very small Out of the window I see the mankind where all in one chain are closely being bind Performing their duties like heart hated soldiers carrying in their mind like enormous boulders Out of the window I see wherever my eyes can go but it saddens me that today the world has turned into a bitter foe. P.S. Happy birthday Pratap Adhikary! Your lovely friend Gaurav wishes you a happy day and sends me this piece of the poem you wrote sitting next to him in class 11! Enjoy!

i become little i become tiny i become way bigger than myself i become something i dont care to know for sure splattered amid everything that's all around me tied free and loose bound by air interconnected intent This woven shared perception holy trancending meaning being one singular but not alone different and incomprehensible yet plural, empathetic cathartic together in desire P.S. My talented friend João wrote this piece. We are going to perform a poetry reading session in Aveiro, Portugal this weekend.

As you set out for Ithaka hope your road is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don't be afraid of them: you'll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you're destined for. But don't hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you're old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you've gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn't have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean. C. P. Cavafy, "The City" from C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Translation Copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Reproduced with permission of Princeton University Press. Source: C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1975)

It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young Though I have long wondered what it would be like To be me now No older at all it seems from here As far from myself as ever Walking in fog and rain and seeing nothing I imagine all the clocks have died in the night Now no one is looking I could choose my age It would be younger I suppose so I am older It is there at hand I could take it Except for the things I think I would do differently They keep coming between they are what I am They have taught me little I did not know when I was young There is nothing wrong with my age now probably It is how I have come to it Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth There is nothing the matter with speech Just because it lent itself To my uses Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

Then what is the answer?- Not to be deluded by dreams. To know that great civilizations have broken down into violence, and their tyrants come, many times before. When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose the least ugly faction; these evils are essential. To keep one's own integrity, be merciful and uncorrupted and not wish for evil; and not be duped By dreams of universal justice or happiness. These dreams will not be fulfilled. To know this, and know that however ugly the parts appear the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand Is an ugly thing and man dissevered from the earth and stars and his history... for contemplation or in fact... Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness, the greatest beauty is Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty of the universe. Love that, not man Apart from that, or else you will share man's pitiful confusions, or drown in despair when his days darken.

This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love. This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing. When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness. My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown. It will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road. My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things. And when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart.

May you recognize in your life the presence, power and light of your soul. May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you intimately with the rhythm of the universe. May you have respect for your own individuality and difference. May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that you have a special destiny here, that behind the facade of your life there is something beautiful and eternal happening. May you learn to see your self with the same delight, pride, and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.

The city's all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind's a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are clinging And falling one by one -- Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time has begun. I know the Bois is twinkling In a sort of hazy sheen, And down the Champs the gray old arch Stands cold and still between. But the walk is flecked with sunlight Where the great acacias lean, Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And the leaves are growing green. The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead, There falls a dash of rain, But who would care when such an air Comes blowing up the Seine? And still Ninette sits sewing Beside her window-pane, When it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time's come again. Twitter：@camelliayang Website: https://www.camelliayang.com/ Join 1,200+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.