Life is Fine

 

Alpgiray Kelem

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 cold

I might’ve sunk and died.

    But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold!

I took the elevator

Sixteen floors above the ground.

I thought about my baby

And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!

I stood there and I cried!

If it hadn’t a-been so high

I 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!

Langston Hughes

in,The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes 

Tree

 

StockCake

Yes, often an olive wants to be a fish,

An almond often wishes to be a bird

I am pretty well accustomed to being like this now

Just a while ago I changed into human form

For a few minutes

My supple soft skin, my bones and the flesh wrapping around them

They all felt eerie to me

But in a while when I revert to being a tree

How fondly I will reminisce

About the human body I have now

My fingers, nails, and joints

How marvelous!

I have bones; I have muscles to pull my bones,

And skin covers all

My blood is coursing on and on

I can move myself, like this, any way I want to

I can point at the sky

I can stroke my hair!

Grasses, leaves, fruit or branches cannot do what I can –

They stretch their branches, turn their leaves

Lazily toward the light,

Yes, really, “lazily” as you’d say in human tongue

But when I was a tree, it did not feel so lazy

Rather, it was more like securely

Rather, it was more like steadily

What is this fury inside the human body?

It makes me dizzy

Look

Bones and muscles shed their old selves

To make new bones and muscles

Much has changed between now and just a while ago

When I first met you

So this is what aging means, isn’t it?

Uh,

Your two manly hands

Like rough palm leaves

Rest on my two shoulders

What is this numbing warmth your hands convey

To my muscles and bones?

To speak

We trees don’t have words

Time is running out

Once the time comes, I won’t ever be

A human like this, forever

Tell me

How else are humans different from trees?

What is this?

What is this mysterious warmth

That comes to me through your fingers?

Tell me,

Something I missed doing

Not much time left

Yes –

What a pleasant thing to do, to respond.

Please, tell me.

As I place my hand here like so

The sound of your blood rushing in your chest

Grows so fast

Time is running out. Please, please tell me

What is the biggest thing I missed doing.

I feel as if there is something I should do, something fervent

Something I’d move my muscles for

Something I’d violently rub my joints for

To chat

Isn’t there something else that is more important?

What is it?

What is this something humans do to be wholly human?

Just a while back

When you placed your manly hands on my womanly shoulders

My female muscles and bones felt a certain

Fulfillment and warmth

Doesn’t that have much to do with

What I have yet to do?

Am I not missing something

Something violent

That goes well with the fury of metabolism

In this human body that holds bones and muscles?

But maybe I am wrong

Am I just babbling human words

While thinking like a tree?

What?

Are you saying I’ve missed doing something?

Tell me

Please

Why do you hesitate?

So you are saying, aren’t you, it is different from

Talking,

Pointing,

Jumping,

Counting numbers and the like?

Goodness, how pained you look!

I thought humans had a wonderful thing called words

Which allow you

To convey, to inform or to express anything you want to,

But there are things that words can’t help –

Ah, there’s no time left

I want to know

What it is that I missed doing

With no words,

This

Is what you can tell me, isn’t it?

As you clasp my shoulder as you are doing now

With your five fingers wrapped around my shoulder

Your thumb

Your forefinger

Your middle finger

Your ring finger

And your little finger

Five shocks run through me

Hurry! Time is running out!

Hiroshi Kawasaki

On Growing Old

 

Tony Luciani

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; 

My dog and I are old, too old for roving. 

Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, 

Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. 

I take the book and gather to the fire, 

Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute 

The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, 

Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. 

I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander 

Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys 

Ever again, nor share the battle yonder 

Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. 

Only stay quiet while my mind remembers 

The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers. 

Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power, 

The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace, 

Summer of man its sunlight and its flower, 

Spring-time of man all April in a face. 

Only, as in the jostling in the Strand, 

Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud, 

The beggar with the saucer in his hand 

Asks only a penny from the passing crowd, 

So, from this glittering world with all its fashion, 

Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march, 

Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion, 

Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch. 

Give me but these, and, though the darkness close, 

Even the night will blossom as the rose. 

John Masefield

On the Death of the Beloved

 

Shutterstock

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,

Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn

Brightening over our lives

Awakening beneath the dark

A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice

Found for us

A new music

That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze

Quickened in the joy of its being;

You placed smiles like flowers

On the altar of the heart.

Your mind always sparkled

With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,

Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer

From the old distance of our names;

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,

As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,

We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,

Smiling back at us from within everything

To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,

Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,

Beside us when beauty brightens,

When kindness glows

And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,

Darkest winter has turned to spring;

May this dark grief flower with hope

In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love

Until we see your beautiful face again

In that land where there is no more separation,

Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,

And where we will never lose you again. 

John O’Donohue

Suturing

 

Fadly Hj Halim

Someday I too will be dead but not rotten. 

The undertaker will have drained my blood 

into the floor sink that leads to a flood 

of sewer waste and all I will have gotten 

was eye gloss and rouge and my lips sewed tight. 

My lost possessions will fill city dumps. 

My organs will set in formalin clumps. 

My skin will be glossy, waxy, and white. 

That is not the worst. I will not recall 

revisiting these lines, like parents placed 

in homes to rest. I worry at my haste 

to erase, to rewrite, not let it all 

be enough, this conceptual time, 

the writing, the reading, the letting go 

of words held too tightly for them to flow 

like ink, or blood, or tears, or sense, or rhyme. 

Richard Stimac

On the Death of the Beloved

  

Style Arena

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,

Where no storm or night or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn

Brightening over our lives

Awakening beneath the dark

A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice

Found for us

A new music

That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze

Quickened in the joy of its being;

You placed smiles like flowers

On the altar of the heart.

Your mind always sparkled

With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,

Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer

From the old distance of our names;

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,

As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,

We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,

Smiling back at us from within everything

To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,

Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,

Beside us when beauty brightens,

When kindness glows

And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,

Darkest winter has turned to spring;

May this dark grief flower with hope

In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love

Until we see your beautiful face again

In that land where there is no more separation,

Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,

And where we will never lose you again. 

John O’Donohue

In Lieu of Flowers

 

Aleksandar Nakic

Although I love flowers very much, I won’t see them when I’m gone. 

So in lieu of flowers:  Buy a book of poetry written by someone still alive, 

sit outside with a cup of tea, a glass of wine, and read it out loud, 

by yourself or to someone, or silently.

Spend some time with a single flower. A rose maybe. Smell it, touch the petals. 

Really look at it. 

Drink a nice bottle of wine with someone you love.

Or, Champagne. 

And think of what John Maynard Keynes said, 

“My only regret in life is that I did not drink more Champagne.” 

Or what Dom Perignon said when he first tasted the stuff: 

“Come quickly! I am tasting stars!” 

Take out a paint set and lay down some colours.

Watch birds. Common sparrows are fine. Pigeons, too. Geese are nice. Robins.

In lieu of flowers, walk in the trees and watch the light fall into it. 

Eat an apple, a really nice big one. I hope it’s crisp. 

Have a long soak in the bathtub with candles, maybe some rose petals.

Sit on the front stoop and watch the clouds. 

Have a dish of strawberry ice cream in my name. 

If it’s winter, have a cup of hot chocolate outside for me. 

If it’s summer, a big glass of ice water. 

If it’s autumn, collect some leaves and press them in a book you love. I’d like that. 

Sit and look out a window and write down what you see. Write some other things down. 

In lieu of flowers, 

I would wish for you to flower. 

I would wish for you to blossom, to open, to be beautiful.

Shawna Lemay 

in, The Flower Can Always Be Changing.  

Do not stand at my grave and weep

 

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

FECHA-ME OS OLHOS

 

 Fecha-me os olhos devagar, com um beijo leve,

com três palavras apenas:

dorme, parte, adeus.

Assim tenho de me despedir.

Deixo uma buganvília à entrada da porta branca,

um bairro de sombras floridas,

um cão a quem dei o meu nome.

Deixo a casa amarela,

o limoeiro, as hortênsias, duas estrelícias na

jarra vermelha,

translúcida,

sobre a mesa de mogno.

Deixo alguns livros,

algumas paisagens de litorais desvanecidos,

alguns naufrágios que desenhei com o lápis das

tempestades.

Por favor,

não digam que fui feliz, se não me viram

caminhar pelas ruas desertas,

esmagando a serpente dos dias,

construindo muralhas,

que pouco depois se desmoronavam.

Eles também se despediram, os amigos.

Quando me lembro deles,

há um cântico negro,

com labaredas altivas, um eco de metal que vibra.

Não está certo que assim seja, que se soltem do

nosso peito, um após outro,

os delicados fios de ouro da ternura.

Deixo-vos as maçãs verdes sobre a mesa.

Com o tempo, tudo há-de amadurecer.

JOSÉ AGOSTINHO BAPTISTA

in, Esta voz é quase o vento

Weep not for me

 

Weep not for me though I have gone

Into that gentle night

Grieve if you will, but not for long

Upon my soul’s sweet flight

I am at peace, my soul’s at rest

There is no need for tears

For with your love I was so blessed

For all those many years

There is no pain, I suffer not

The fear is now all gone

Put now these things out of your thoughts

In your memory, I live on

Remember not my fight for breath

Remember not the strife

Please do not dwell upon my death

But celebrate my life

Constance Jenkins

Paz aos Mortos

 

 Ana Junko

Detestei sempre os arquitectos de infinito:

como é feio fugir quando nos espera a vida!

Nunca tive saudades do futuro

e o passado… o passado vivi-o, que fazer?!

– e não gosto que me ordenem venerá-los

se eu todo não basto a encher este presente.

Não tenho remorsos do passado. O que vivi, vivi.

Tenho, talvez, desprezo

por esta débil haste que raramente soube

merecer os dons da vida,

e se ficava hesitante

na hora de passar da imaginação à vida.

As pazadas de terra cobrindo o que já fui

sabem mal, às vezes; noutros dias

deliro quando lanço à vala um desses seres tristonhos

que outrora fui, sem querer.

Adolfo Casais Monteiro

in, ‘Sempre e Sem Fim’

Oferenda aos mortos

 

Philip Larkin memorial stone in Westminster Abbey

No comfort, but no tears,

assim era o obituário de Larkin

na Time. Lembro-me do título

e da fotografia de a one-piece suit man

sentado num banco alto, atrás de si uma coluna de pedra,

e atrás da coluna uma bicicleta parcialmente encoberta.

Um inglês insuportável que escrevia

poemas rentes à lucidez, sem ilusões ou precipitações.

A one-piece poem man que escutava o vento.

Night-music, Climbing the hill

within the deafening wind, The north ship,

e, sobretudo, Portrait,

onde o último verso diz

«And no wind will trouble to break her grief».

Este bibliotecário em Hull ensinou-me que o vento

jamais perturba a paz dos cemitérios. No meu sangue

imprime-se a indelével certeza disso,

mas admito, cegamente, que

Larkin, afiados versos em riste,

estivesse afinal errado. O vento desfaz a memória

e os seus nós, agita a lembrança,

e promete o apaziguamento

de novas, extemporâneas ficções.

O vento, búzio inconsútil,

arrasta-me já sem dor, mas agita

cemitérios, traz os mortos, exige de nós

uma oferenda aos mortos, esses irmãos.

E tu estás morta. Eu desvendo-te

os segredos da corrupção que te desfigura já.

Aceito, escuto o vento.

Luís Quintais

SE EU MORRER AMANHÃ

 

 Se eu morrer de manhã

abre a janela devagar

e olha com rigor o dia que não tenho.

Não me lamentes. Eu não me entristeço:

ter tido a morte é mais do que mereço

se nem conheço a noite de que venho.

Deixa entrar pela casa um pouco de ar

e um pedaço de céu

- o único que sei.

Talvez um pássaro me estenda a asa

que não saber voar

foi sempre a minha lei.

Não busques o meu hálito no espelho.

Não chames o meu nome que eu não venho

e do mistério nada te direi.

Diz que não estou se alguém bater à porta.

Deixa que eu faça o meu papel de morta

pois não estar é da morte quanto sei.

Rosa Lobato de Faria

in, "Poemas Escolhidos e Dispersos"

Morrer por um bocadinho

 

O sol é sempre o mesmo e o céu azul

ora é azul, nitidamente azul,

ora é cinza, negro, quase verde…

Mas nunca tem a cor inesperada.

O Mundo não se modifica.

As árvores dão flores,

folhas, frutos e pássaros

como máquinas verdes.

As paisagens não se transformam

Não cai neve vermelha

Não há flores que voem,

A lua não tem olhos

Ninguém vai pintar olhos à lua

Tudo é igual, mecânico e exacto

Ainda por cima os homens são os homens

Soluçam, bebem, riem e digerem

sem imaginação.

E há bairros miseráveis, sempre os mesmos

discursos de Mussolini,

guerras, orgulhos em transe

automóveis de corrida…

E obrigam-me a viver até à morte!

Pois não era mais humano

Morrer por um bocadinho

De vez em quando

E recomeçar depois

Achando tudo mais novo?

Ah! Se eu pudesse suicidar-me por seis meses

Morrer em cima dum divã

Com a cabeça sobre uma almofada

Confiante e sereno por saber

Que tu velavas, meu amor do norte.

Quando viessem perguntar por mim

Havias de dizer com teu sorriso

Onde arde um coração em melodia

Matou-se esta manhã

Agora não o vou ressuscitar

Por uma bagatela

E virias depois, suavemente,

velar por mim, subtil e cuidadosa,

pé ante pé, não fosses acordar

a Morte ainda menina no meu colo…

JOSÉ GOMES FERREIRA

in, ‘VIVER SEMPRE TAMBÉM CANSA’

Epílogo

Não sei o que me recordará,

se as páginas de um livro,

se um beijo nos seios de gelo da esfinge,

se as inumeráveis fontes de onde brotavam

as lágrimas,

queimando o rosto,

descendo,

não sei se o meu nome se escreverá no 

silêncio branco das lápides,

rodeadas de aflições e ciprestes,

não pergunto o que querem de mim,

o que fizeram de mim,

e não há súplica que ecoe nos templos,

onde a minha garganta contém um soluço

ou um grito,

não há arte que enalteça todas as minhas

rugas,

toda a mágoa destes braços inertes,

abertos, implorando perdão.

José Agostinho Baptista

Song of the Storm-Swept Plain

The wind shrills forth

From the white cold North

Where the gates of the Storm-god are;

And ragged clouds,

Like mantling shrouds,

Engulf the last, dim star.

Through naked trees,

In low coulees,

The night-voice moans and sighs;

And sings of deep,

Warm cradled sleep,

With wind-crooned lullabies.

He stands alone

Where the storm’s weird tone

In mocking swells;

And the snow-sharp breath

Of cruel Death

The tales of its coming tells.

The frightened plaint

Of his sheep sound faint 

Then the choking wall of white -

Then is heard no more,

In the deep-toned roar,

Of the blinding, pathless night. 

No light nor guide, 

Save a mighty tide

Of mad fear drives him on;

'Till his cold-numbed form 

Grows strangely warm; 

And the strength of his limbs is gone. 

Through the storm and night

A strange, soft light

O'er the sleeping shepherd gleams;

And he hears the word

Of the Shepherd Lord

Called out from the bourne of dreams.

Come, leave the strife

Of your weary life;

Come unto Me and rest

From the night and cold,

To the sheltered fold,

By the hand of love caressed.

The storm shrieks on,

But its work is done -

A soul to its God has fled;

And the wild refrain

Of the wind-swept plain, 

Sings requiem for the dead. 

William D. Hodjkiss

Mãe

Mãe:

Que desgraça na vida aconteceu,

Que ficaste insensível e gelada?

Que todo o teu perfil se endureceu

Numa linha severa e desenhada?

Como as estátuas, que são gente nossa

Cansada de palavras e ternura,

Assim tu me pareces no teu leito.

Presença cinzelada em pedra dura,

Que não tem coração dentro do peito.

Chamo aos gritos por ti — não me respondes.

Beijo-te as mãos e o rosto — sinto frio.

Ou és outra, ou me enganas, ou te escondes

Por detrás do terror deste vazio.

Mãe:

Abre os olhos ao menos, diz que sim!

Diz que me vês ainda, que me queres.

Que és a eterna mulher entre as mulheres.

Que nem a morte te afastou de mim!

Miguel Torga

in, 'Diário IV'