They stand there and chat near the breakwater,
Their voices force the birds to take flight, leaves to shed.
Women of who knows which eras.
There are times when the world comes to a standstill
Some day together we had pressed flowers to dry
In a scrapbook.
Women are something like that
Who knows when, where, suddenly,
It turns out we have lived a voice
they had left with us.
My hands have a gift for art, Master
My language for cursing, my heart for pain
Is death all I get
All I get, Master?
Which way is love, Master
Which way is grief
Is solitude all I get
All I get, Master?
Which way is away, Master
Which way is home
Is longing all I get
All I get, Master?
translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Each time I think of you
A gazelle jumps down, drinking
Water among the reeds.
Each evening a green olive
And a piece of sky take me
Boldly to your arms.
Each time I think of you
Roses grow at my fingers,
I give water to horses,
Loving the mountain more.
Whereas a glass of water was enough to wet your hair,
A slice of bread, two olives to fill our stomachs
If I kissed you once, the second felt itself neglected,
If I kissed you twice, the third bent its neck in sadness. . .
translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
There is something like alcohol in this air;
It’s making a guy like me feel bad, bad,
Especially if I’m also homesick;
Your lover one place,
You someplace else;
It’s making a person like me feel sad, sad.
There is something like alcohol in this air;
It’s making a guy like me drink, drink.
My mother died
In a dream
Last night
And my waking up
Crying
Reminded me
Of my crying when
One holiday morning
My balloon slipped through my fingers
And I watched it
Rise
Into the sky.
translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
I’m waiting.
Come when the weather is such
That there can be no turning back.
translated by Talat Sait Halman
I was bored yesterday towards the evening.
Two packages of cigarettes didn’t do me a thing;
Tried to write, no good either;
For the first time in years I played the violin,
Walked around,
Kibitzed watching people play backgammon,
Sang songs off key,
Caught flies–a boxful.
Finally, damn it,
I came here to see you.
Marco Polo describes a bridge, stone by stone.
“But which is the stone that supports the bridge?” Kublai Khan asks.
“The bridge is not supported by one stone or another,” Marco answers, “but by
the line of the arch that they form.”
Kublai Khan remains silent, reflecting. Then he adds, “Why do you speak to
me of stones? It is only the arch that matters to me.”
Polo answers: “Without stones there is no arch.”
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 