milosz poem
Dreams of Red
Posts: 203
To My Daimonian
II
My daimonian it is certain I could not have lived differently.
I would have perished if not for you. Your incantation
Would resound in my ear, fill me,
And I could only repeat it, instead of thinking
About my bad character, the decline of the world,
Or about a lost laundry ticket.
And it seems that while others loved,
Strove, hated, despaired,
I have only been busy with listening intently
To your unclear notes, to change them into words.
I had to accept my fate, called today karna,
For it was as it was, though I did not choose it--
And get up every day to honor work,
Even if there is no guilt of mine in it and no merit.
--czeslaw milosz
II
My daimonian it is certain I could not have lived differently.
I would have perished if not for you. Your incantation
Would resound in my ear, fill me,
And I could only repeat it, instead of thinking
About my bad character, the decline of the world,
Or about a lost laundry ticket.
And it seems that while others loved,
Strove, hated, despaired,
I have only been busy with listening intently
To your unclear notes, to change them into words.
I had to accept my fate, called today karna,
For it was as it was, though I did not choose it--
And get up every day to honor work,
Even if there is no guilt of mine in it and no merit.
--czeslaw milosz
i'm a thief... and a liar...
see Ed's church?--he's breathing fire.....
see Ed's church?--he's breathing fire.....
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
Breathtaking, thank you.
Where are you always sneakin' off to dreams...?
to answer your question... some body has to get some sleep around here!
see Ed's church?--he's breathing fire.....
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
flippant
the pages of past lives and dreams blow in the wind
on a bench
painted red but dingy with black residue
the books of yesterdays gone
taken from their homes amidst the shelves of classic history
are carried and read anew
in days marked by sunlight swarms and moonlit dancing
where maidens in knee-high skirts twirled before bonfires and brass-bands
the ideas of yesterdays gone
revolve
i might call this: flippant revolve