If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

-George Herbert


Friday, June 17, 2011

I DRINK WINE FROM THE CUP-BEARER

I drink wine from the cup-bearer
At an inn higher than the sky.
Our souls are goblets in His hands,
Deep in His ecstasy we lie.

At our private place of meeting,
Where our hearts are scorched with yearning
Like moths, the Sun and Moon ring
Our candle whose flames are high.

Yunnus, don't tell these words of trance
To those steeped in dark ignorance.
Can't you see how swiftly the chance
Of ignorant men's lives goes by?

- Yunus Emre, 1238-1321 (translated from the Turkish by Talat S. Halman)

1 comment:

  1. My art:

    WWW

    ---

    I said: "The theologians really know
    their topic; are these people smart like eighty-
    one people quite like you together, so
    just do like me and pray and trust them, Katie,

    their knowledge adds to a tremendous mass
    of safe and very holy gravitation!"
    – "Oh yes?" said Katie, "What if all that jazz
    is very simple at the final station

    what do you say? I don't want to be rude
    not even really to oppose your mission.
    But tacitly this concept may include
    an untold power, that's my slight suspicion,

    I mean, that Truth was never too complex –
    You may say 'God'; the real thing still is Sex!"

    My poetry:

    Single Swingle

    ---

    Algorithm of Being

    To live reactively, responsively, creatively, as an artist, act the way your life forms the best possible narrative, like a novel or a film, towards Death, End of the Story. According to Heidegger, Life is what Is. Sorge. Being kind of your own God? Primacy of Aestethics over Ethics.

    My philosophy:

    GAMMABLIXT

    Et ma poésie...

    LE FRUIT DU CIEL
    .
    Un orage nocturne illmuna maintenant l'Amazonie, franchis les Andes, envoya des jeux de cartes gigantesques et frappantes en bas à la Pampa –


    Puis: petit déjeuner à melon; café fumant !


    À la bague du cigare tu lis, étonné: GÉOGRAPHIE.

    Poétudes

    In Totenstadt kann Nichts wachsen,
    Nacht bebaut die grüne Bezirke.
    Wache, Kind, wache!
    Es kommt ein Mann zum Haus.

    Es läuft das Gerücht um schwarze
    Schein von brennende Schächte.
    Wache, Kind, wache!
    Er öffnet die Tür zum Zimmer.

    Das Mond der Nachkriegszeit fällt
    seine Auge über allen Gärten.
    Wache, Kind, Wache!
    Der König hat er gestürzt.

    Deine Atemwende wird leicht als Tod
    und Erwartung in der Himmelskapelle.
    Träume, Kind, träume!
    Dein Vater ist immer bei dir.

    FREMDE GEDICHTE

    -----

    Reciprocity! You do me a favor promoting YOUR blogs on mine.

    - Peter Ingestad, Sweden

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