Lamps of crystal
and green mirrors.
On the darkened stage,
Parrala maintains
a conversation
with Death.
She calls Death,
but Death never comes,
and she calls out again.
The people are
inhaling her sobs.
And in the green mirrors,
her long, silk train
sways back and forth.
translated by Carlos Bauer
When I die,
bury me with my guitar
beneath the sand.
When I die,
among orange trees
and mint plants.
When I die,
bury me, if you would,
inside a weather vane.
When I die!
translated by Carlos Bauer
violence
when it comes
does not look
to the side
or behind
but straight ahead
to the heart
of the thing
takes that heart
for all
it will ever
be worth
blots it out
moves on
unrepentant
further down
the line
In the next life, after the factories end their work
If the road taking us home
In the evenings
Is not
So steep
Death
Is not a horrible thing
At all.
translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
I would like to have
only good memories
of this day
this time of year
but I just see hospitals
both parents dying
this first month bodes heartache
for me
so I approach January
tentatively
like a door on a house
one fears might be haunted
for ghosts reside here
and though I see candlelight
a woman dancing naked
friends huddled around fondue pots
three floors of live bands
parties with casinos
and people dressed as elves
dinner at the Duck House
a woman in a tuxedo
and fishnet stockings
tap dancing her way
into my heart
there are still those ghosts
hovering
like birds of prey
waiting for another soul
to stumble to fall
in the desert
that is sometimes
life
What’s in the body you’ve forgotten
and that you’ve left alone
and that you don’t want–
or what’s in the body that you want
and would die for–
and think it’s all of it–
if life’s a form to be forgotten
once you’re gone and no regrets,
no one left in what you want–
That empty place is all there is,
and/if the face’s remembered,
or dog barks, cat’s to be fed.
Ten thousand things are heard when born,
But the highest heaven’s always still.
Yet everything must begin in silence,
And into silence it vanishes.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
weary of the dead
there is no respite on this
coming horizon
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
Waiting beside a friend’s coffin
I was afraid of catching your eyes,
Of seeing the painful trembling of your lips
Which I have kissed in some room only yesterday.
I felt guilty, waiting erect
Beside the deceased
One by one my friends are dead and gone
Leaving behind them an age of grief.
Yesterday I gave you a rose, you were happy
Now I put a rose on this coffin
Side by side, strange and absurd
They flapped their wings and flew away.
Waiting beside a friend’s coffin
You and I sat through the whole night
Recalling what our generation lived through
One by one, a child plucked
all the roses in us.
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 