Mephisto Waltzes, Weinberg, Sylvie’s Bolero

煢煢

半圓形的天頂被一層月華光澤的膜緊緻地拉扯住，像一只充滿著水的氣球，虛擬著生腥的焦慮與一種無所事事的、完完全全脫離精神性的美與憂鬱。那個午后，是薄如蟬翼且裹上銀粉的新生的卵，適於討論命理與禪。雲以敏捷的腳步滑行於透明且虛弱的藍，泡沫似的溫順與漠然。青春其實是極度缺乏生命力的。在旺盛與浮躁之中貪慕假象的匱乏，而後需索從不曾或缺的旺盛；在柔弱的本質中渴求堅強與信仰，之後因對於軟弱愚蠢的不自覺與惑於自我宣稱的虛偽堅強而尋覓所謂謙恭溫潤的中庸。青春是僅只存活於對純粹的堅持下、一種具備了美卻不易碎的浪費。如果死的優雅與精神性建構了藝術中闡釋生命的美學，則生不過是為襯托死的一種附屬的存在。但是生命卻是無法磨滅的，即使蒼白而無意義，卻無止盡地散發出猩紅的血的氣味。印度神濕婆在宇宙的輪迴當中毀滅自己所創造的鏡花水月，而後使之重生，不斷重複操縱著生與死的轉輪；祂是否也感受到生命中那種匱乏虛弱的美，以及死亡中屬於生之投影的愛與信念？藍所象徵的嫌惡與非難，以清澈且充滿靈性的美存在於自然界的蒼穹。隅隅獨行的生，幾人在腐臭中仍吟哦走了調的聖詩，又幾人能擺脫所有倫常的帷幕而誠摯地憎恨與厭惡？然而這一切的思索總似時間過度充裕的青春所編織的蛛網，純白得美麗亦膚淺得軟弱。當青春終於被擺脫後，生命開始進入下一段對死複雜的戀慕和禁忌，與對消逝的水光緬懷的遺憾。





奔馬

夢先於現實。
而純粹
似花，似血，似詩
，似枯腐前消逝的生。


Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)

Dreams, a priori, then reality.
And purity
Resembles a flower, resembles blood, resembles poetry,
Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.

I am lost for words when confronted (and blessed) with such exquisite magnificence—how she tames, commands, and most importantly, marries the movements with and brings out the near-noumenal essence of Ravel’s mesmerising music... I am lost for words, except that I shall miss this feral diamond—beyond doubt, one of the greatest artists of our time—and I am grateful that I have had the privilege of seeing her on stage several times, in Europe and Asia, including a performance from her bittersweet farewell tour.

Watching Sylvie dance, watching her move—it is love and fire and electricity. Thank you Sylvie, for all that you have shared with us, for all that you have given us.

❤

cxii

That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

～Emily Dickinson (1830–86), from Part Five of The Single Hound: Poems of a Lifetime by Emily Dickinson, Boston, Little, Brown, and Company, 1914.

偽，muteness of a Chinese jar。

哥窯自縊後結晶了胭脂蜜：

Being broken by an inferior essence, a failed poem of pretense is made even more poetic than the knees of an antiquarian butterfly.

—“a violent slap of the exquisite” (a melody from the New Aristocrats manifesto)

Very drawn to artist Lukas Wegwerth's series of ceramic works “Crystallisation” displayed at Maison & Objet, Paris—
“The sure, sweet cement, lime and glue of love”* oozing out of celadon crazing of yore... (*Robert Herrick, The Kiss)

All I may, if small,
Do it not display
Larger for the Totalness —
’Tis Economy

To bestow a World
And withhold a Star —
Utmost, is Munificence —
Less, tho’ larger, poor.

～Emily Dickinson, from The Single Hound: Poems of a Lifetime (CXIII.)

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”

—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

“From my rotting body,
flowers shall grow
and I am in them
and that is eternity.”

—Edvard Munch

The Moments of Dominion

That happen on the Soul

And leave it with a Discontent

Too exquisite—to tell—

～Emily Dickinson

Troisième Symphonie de Gustav Mahler
Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris (Nolwenn Daniel & Christophe Duquenne, Mélanie Hurel & Alessio Carbone)
Deuxième Mouvement: Printemps
Choréographie de John Neumeier

A Frightening Angel

I was in high school when I read Rilke for the first time, in an underground “indie” bookstore (a real treasure trove for books) near the National University of Taiwan—an area full of “book caves” and “sequestered nooks for books”—catering for university students and academics alike. It was his Duino Elegies translated into Chinese by a famous poet, and my love affair with Rilke thus began. The verses were heartrendingly powerful in such a way that I was instantly blown away.

My senior high school years were a time I do not care much to remember: the first thing I would do after school everyday, was to go straight into a bookstore—only then would I feel able to breathe. But it was also during that time when I started writing poetry intensely, and my passion for poetry bloomed like wild roses as if they knew there were no tomorrow.

English translation by Stephen Mitchell (my personal favourite translator of Rilke’s works), from the First Elegy of Duino Elegies, 
Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1992.

ʻA Guardian of the Kingdom’ from a Persian version of Qazwini’s ʻAjāʼib al-makhlūqāt wa-gharāʼib al-mawjūdāt,’ “The marvels of creation and the oddities of existence,” commonly known as “The cosmography of Qazwini,”
circa 1500-1550 CE. (image via)

A poem is to be developed from these musings and words which arrived this early evening, and something has been on the back of my mind for quite some time—to work on “Dialogue Poetry”—quite a special genre both in a literary and visual/aesthetic sense.

So, for now, to be continued...

♪

The fifty poems that were published by Albert Giraud (born Emile Albert Kayenbergh) as Pierrot lunaire: Rondels bergamasques in 1884 quickly attracted composers to set them to music, especially after they were translated, somewhat freely, into German (1892) by the poet and dramatist Otto Erich Hartleben. (Hartleben later went on to write his own Pierrot poems—"The Harp" and five rondels titled Pierrot, Married Man.) The best known of these settings is the atonal song-cycle derived from twenty-one of the poems (in Hartleben's translation) by Arnold Schoenberg in 1912: Dreimal sieben Gedichte aus Albert Girauds Pierrot lunaire (Thrice-Seven Poems from Albert Giraud's Pierrot lunaire—Schoenberg was numerologically superstitious). But the poems have dense histories as songs and sets of songs both before and after Schoenberg's landmark Opus 21. The bullet-point that follows lists early twentieth-century musical settings chronologically and notes how many poems were set by each composer (all, except Prohaska's, are in the Hartleben translations) and for which instruments.

Pfohl, Ferdinand: 5 poems ("Moon-rondels, fantastic scenes from 'Pierrot Lunaire'") for voice and piano (1891); Marschalk, Max: 5 poems for voice and piano (1901); Vrieslander, Otto: 50 poems for voice and piano (46 in 1905, 4 more in 1911); Graener, Paul: 3 poems for voice and piano (c. 1908); Marx, Joseph: 4 poems for voice and piano (1909; 1 of 4, "Valse de Chopin", reset for voice, piano, and string quartet in 1917); Schoenberg, Arnold: 21 poems for speaking voice, piano, flute (also piccolo), clarinet (also bass clarinet), violin (also viola), and violoncello (1912); Kowalski, Max: 12 poems for voice and piano (1913); Prohaska, Carl: 6 poems for voice and piano (1920); Lothar, Mark: 1 poem for voice and piano (1921).

*extract of information on Pierrot Lunaire via Wikipedia

The Loved One: a triptyque

The Loved One

The wind dared not speak
eavesdropping
on the sonorous whispers of those ancient trees:
confusing euphony
sublime cacophony

He too was afraid, of
the marionettes dancing
abandoningly
amongst
the deepest shadows
of her eyelashes imperceptible

Stained-glass velvets drawing upon the Parisian dusk
set your eyes ablaze, and
turned the River ravenously technicoloured—
bejewelled everything magnificently martial.
Rilke's Rose-Window, disappearing
into a gluttonously musical sky.

—So much to say—
(that one must pass over in silence)
But is not all fair in Love and War?

“I don’t think these [words] are any good,” said she.
“You are my poetry,” said he.

～by Ting-Jen Hwang

+++

The tree from whose flower
This perfume comes
Is unknowable.

～Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

+++

*And... Heifetz’s hauntingly electrifying rendition of Vitali’s Chaconne, with organ. It is perhaps my favourite version of this masterpiece.

From the Poetique-Onirique Archive: The First Poem, for David

“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg before it is broken.” ～M. F. K. Fisher

+

(For my husband, whose lullaby is my breathing every night.)

All the secrets I do not share,
and all the secrets I tell no one;
all the secrets absent in my poems,
and all the secrets I do not sing, even in the silent song
of solitude permeating my veins
like the warmth and gentle scent of your amber,
these secrets are buried deep inside, within
the dreams of your belly.
They melt, and are reborn.
They grow wings, and they fly.

In the blueness of your eyes
is the light of a deep ocean that has lived
a thousand years, a thousand years of
meditative loneliness. In your hair, the golden amber grows
into a transparent flower, fragrance of the night.
The amber flower that connects your mind
with your heart.

One day you discovered a pale feather
of an anonymous bird, colour of a pale rose.
A rare feather,
exquisite and fragile, shining under
an old tree of glittering green leaves.
It was nighttime, but the sun was out.
Your one tender kiss awoke the feather, and turned it
into the bird she once was, in a past life she had already forgotten.
The rare and exquisite and fragile bird.
And she has lived with your heart, in your heart, ever since.

Your surrender to nothingness is expansive, and
the warmest embrace there ever is, ever will be.
Your refined detachment of the closest, dearest attachment of tenderness
It gives meaning to what seems to be void of meanings at all,
resembling a delicately and beautifully
cracked porcelain vase,
its slender neck holding all the secrets which are not remembered.
The unbreaking of a broken egg, in the most perfect shade
of pearlescent ivory, with
not even the faintest lines on a rainbow-hued seashell.
I realise in this moment we are regal.
We are angels.
Your elegance is the reddest of all the red peonies
blooming between our bodies and souls.
Us.

You say I can neither understand nor imagine. I close
my eyes and think of
the most beautiful desert moon, or the saddest
love poem, or our daughter
in your arms, in the farthest and nearest yesterday
of our tomorrow.

You spoke to my philosophy professor as if
he was one of your oldest friends.
You talked about Heidegger, and game theory,
and all the dilemmas of life, in a beautiful manner which transcended them all,
as if they were lines from an old poem you had written long ago.
You say the whole life is in The Little Prince, and that you
cannot admire someone who is not an acharya,
however brilliant his thoughts,
however great his legacy.
I look at this perfect man before me, with his
bluest blue eyes and think to myself, “I married
the one rare acharya I know.”

I am your heart, as you are my poetry,
mirror of my aloneness
the soundlessness of my melodies,
the attachment of my detachment,
the meaningfulness of my meaninglessness,
the nothingness of my very own self,

my undefined/undefinable otherness.


You taught me I am myself and I am enough,
in need of no more, like Cocteau's Trinity
that binds my heart in the truest way it longs to be bound.

And so I write, different from how I have ever written poetry,
in the state of being and the state of breathing,
without striving and crafting,
without effort,

as if I was writing
for the very first and the very last time.

～June 2012

我的美麗與哀愁：some fragments on poetry and soul

“Often the object of a desire, when desire is transformed into hope, becomes more real than reality itself.” 

—Umberto Eco, The Book of Legendary Lands

A poet's soul is written down in words and expressed through the soul of his poetry. A sigh becomes the poetic essence of his soul, a recognition of this delicate and evanescent beauty that is universal, paradoxically transient and eternal at the same time. A breath, the pearlescent powder on a butterfly's wing, an evening breeze, colours of the world at dusk, a mirage on sand, a thought, a melody, a poem lasting for as long as it is sung silently, soundlessly. The efflorescence of fallen petals on a floating piano in slumber of emptiness, nonchalantly awaiting reveille from repose.

*
A poet's soul can always foresee the aching sadness that comes with/after beauty－something that "is," and not "caused"－the featherlight imprint of a butterfly's kiss upon one's heart that weighs heavier than the blood of a velvety scarlet rose...

*
This is the moon's phosphorescence... As exquisite and mysterious as the poetry of the moon, of the stirring illusion of crazing inside jade.


I shall quote from one of the poems dearest to my heart－“Invitation to the Harp” by Rafael Alberti (translated by Mark Strand):

Go even farther away than that.
Where the moon is torn between a poplar leaf and a passionate book,
where there are midnight frosts that candelabra conceal
and where death shivers in the unsteady sleep of the candles,
where a puppet in mourning dies over a tuberose,
where a voice from oblivion stirs the sleeping water of pianos.

Go always farther away, farther away.
Go where floors retain the echoes and shadows of footsteps,
where moths watch over the silence of neckties,
where a hundred years is a harp that has been forgotten.

film x-ray radiograph of roses, by bionerd (via flickr)

“Today in my heart
a vague trembling of stars
and all roses are
as white as my pain.”

―Federico García Lorca, from “Canción Otoñal” (Autumn Song)

Mughal gem set gold mounted jade mirror, Northern India, 18th century.

We hardly ever see the moon any more
                                                          so no wonder
   it’s so beautiful when we look up suddenly
and there it is gliding broken-faced over the bridges
brilliantly coursing, soft, and a cool wind fans
       your hair over your forehead and your memories
              of Red Grooms’ locomotive landscape
I want some bourbon/you want some oranges/I love the leather
                jacket Norman gave me
                                                and the corduroy coat David
     gave you, it is more mysterious than spring, the El Greco
heavens breaking open and then reassembling like lions
                                                 in a vast tragic veldt
     that is far from our small selves and our temporally united
passions in the cathedral of Januaries


     everything is too comprehensible
these are my delicate and caressing poems
I suppose there will be more of those others to come, as in the past
                                                  so many!
but for now the moon is revealing itself like a pearl
                                                  to my equally naked heart

～Avenu A, by Frank O’Hara

*
One's heart can be a riddle to oneself. Is it possible, could it be an intimation of not loving one's own soul would there be a soulmate out there with whom one was not in love?

*

“La noche habla suspiros de hojas.

En el silencio,

una sombra camina la huella de mi susurro.”

"Walk my sigh.

I knew there was none reflected in each step."

“It was the night sea

deep breathing silence.

The message of the conch you told in your look from sirens

where dream gorges of fire.

Ancestral Elixir

walking the stone beating.”

～Three poems: Untitled i & ii, and Deep Blue by Nube Alix

from the series Dialog, 1973, by Rudolf Bonvie (via)

Spices, Perfumes, Toxins!

"Spices, Perfumes, Toxins!" by Avner Dorman: I am desperately in need of the CD or DVD of this full-length concert...








The title Spices, Perfumes, Toxins! refers to three substances that are extremely appealing, yet filled with danger. Spices delight the palate, but can cause illness; perfumes seduce, but can also betray; toxins bring ecstasy, but are deadly. The concerto combines Middle-Eastern drums, orchestral percussion, and rock drums with orchestral forces – a unique sound both enticing and dangerous.

Spices, Perfumes, Toxins! is a result of years of collaboration with PercaDu. While we were still students at the Rubin Academy of Music in Tel-Aviv, Tomer and Adi asked me to write a piece for them. All three of us aimed at a piece that would be markedly Israeli and would reflect young Israeli culture. The process of composing the piece involved working closely with PercaDu on my ideas and testing them on the instruments long before the piece was done. In hindsight, I believe that the most important choice in making the piece sound Israeli was the use of four Darbukas and Tom-Toms in addition to the Marimbas. The piece, Udacrep Akubrad (PercaDu Darbuka spelled backwards) became one of PercaDu’s signature pieces and my most performed composition and is the basis for the first movement of the concerto.

Spices – the first movement draws its inspiration from the music of our region (extending its boundaries to the east as far as the Indian sub-continent). The piece is largely based on Middle-Eastern and Indian scales and uses the Indian system of Talas for rhythmic organization. I use these elements within a large-scale dramatic form and employ repetitive minimalism as it appears in the music traditions of the East and in the works of Western minimalists of the past forty years. Approximately at the movement’s golden section there is a cadenza that precurses the last movement of the concerto.

In Perfumes, the sonic world changes as one of the percussionists leaves the marimba and plays on a vibraphone. In Perfumes I use what I call multicultural polyphony. The opening theme of the movement (in the marimba) is reminiscent of Baroque arias. The three flutes that accompany the melody (regular, alto, and bass) echo the ornamental nature of the melody and transform it into lines characteristic of Middle-Eastern folk music. At the same time, the bass line borrows its sound from the world of Jazz. Each part of the texture contributes the “soul” of its genre, so to speak, in an effort to create a humanistic whole that express the diversity of our time and culture. As the movement progresses the soloists and orchestra embark on a colorful journey from the seductive to the dangerous.

In Toxins! the soloists use the entire variety of percussion instruments at their disposal. The movement is based on alternation between an aggressive rhythmic pattern (played on drumsets) and passionate outbursts in the orchestra. It swings like a pendulum between extreme joyous ecstasy and obsessive anxiety, pain, and delusions. As the movement develops, the music becomes increasingly fanatical until the final outburst of catharsis and death.

{*text via Avner Dorman website linked above}

徽宗之天青潤澤: Huizong's Celadon Tone Poems singing in Whistler's Visions

雨過天青雲破處，者般颜色做將來。 

Clouds part after the morning rain, colour of the sky,

Such is the colour of the days beyond.

白如玉、薄如纸、明如镜、聲如磐。

Fair as jade, fine as paper, brilliant as mirror, and sounds of grandeur.

+++

“You could say that when I slowly descended those rarely used steps to the small, always deserted beach, I was making use of a magical process in order to bring myself closer to the possible monad that is my self.”

～Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

“...having shed its bright load, the relieved leaf unbent. Tip, leaf, dip, relief - the instant it all took to happen seemed to me not so much a fraction of time as a fissure in it, a missed heartbeat, which was refunded at once by a patter of rhymes: I say 'patter' intentionally, for when a gust of wind did come, the trees would briskly start to drip all together in as crude an imitation of the recent downpour as the stanza I was already muttering resembled the shock of wonder I had experienced when for a moment heart and leaf had been one.”

～Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

+++

*Two paintings by Whistler: “Nocturne Blue and Silver － Cremorne Lights” (1872) & “Nocturne, Blue and Silver: Battersea Reach”

Whistler’s emphasis on sensation and atmosphere over detailed description has been compared by some to the philosophy underpinning Gardner’s whole museum. “I see the entire museum as a correlative to these shadowy tone poems,’’ wrote the poet and critic Wayne Koestenbaum of Whistler’s nocturnes. (The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum)

Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851), On Lake Lucerne, looking towards Fluelen, around 1841. Watercolour, with scraping out and marks made with the thumb, over graphite on wove paper, 223 x 283mm. The Courtauld Gallery, London.

‘The aim of the great inventive landscape painter must be to give the far higher and deeper truth of mental vision, rather than that of the physical facts.’ ～John Ruskin

"Lord, there is no such city anywhere, But all a vision."

And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes
So long, that even to him they seemed to move.
Out of the city a blast of music pealed.
Back from the gate started the three, to whom
From out thereunder came an ancient man,
Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?'

Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil,
Who leaving share in furrow come to see
The glories of our King: but these, my men,
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist)
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come
From Fairyland; and whether this be built
By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens;
Or whether there be any city at all,
Or all a vision: and this music now
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.'

Then that old Seer made answer playing on him
And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail
Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens,
And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air:
And here is truth; but an it please thee not,
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me.
For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King
And Fairy Queens have built the city, son;
They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft
Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand,
And built it to the music of their harps.
And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son,
For there is nothing in it as it seems
Saving the King; though some there be that hold
The King a shadow, and the city real:
Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame
A man should not be bound by, yet the which
No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear,
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide
Without, among the cattle of the field.
For an ye heard a music, like enow
They are building still, seeing the city is built

To music, therefore never built at all,
And therefore built for ever.'

 ～ Idylls of the King (1872) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

An Ode to Entanglement & Modigliani Suite

Ode to Hands
(written by Halina Poświatowska, translated by Anna Gąsienica-Byrcyn)


Greetings to you my palms, my grasping fingers, and my finger smashed by the car door. My X-rayed palm looks like a sprained wing, like a tiny piece of bone drawn by its own contour. My left hand's ring finger once decorated by a band is widowed now, deprived of its adornment. The one who gave me the ring long since has no fingers. His arms are woven with the tree's roots into one.

My hands have so often touched the frozen palms of the dead, and the warm, strong palms of the living. They know how to caress unusually by touch losing the space that separates existence from existence, and heaven from earth. My hands knowing the pain of helplessness cling to each other like two frightened birds, homeless, blindly seeking everywhere the trace of your hands.

the body of my garden
woven from the living and painful branches
cries at night
recalling the down of birds' wings
the moon's face wet among the leaves
it peers into a nest full of absence
the green fingers quiver
clenched in the throat of the wind
dawn

the seeing fingers dance
on black and white keys
I greet them with my breath
with my hand I touch the lips
with my smile I bring to life
the colors and I use the most beautiful of them
to write in red blood: myself

in our eternal departures
on outstretched wings
we are ever closer
to each other and earth

you are my hand
I am your hair
and that shadow behind us
is neither this nor that

the shadow—our united lips enclosing
all-
embracing
both love and death

I broke off the bough of love
I buried it in the earth
and look
my garden has blossomed

one cannot kill love
if you bury it in the earth
it grows back
if you toss it into the air
it grows leaf-like wings
dropped into the water

it flashes with gills
immersed in the night
it shines

so I wanted to bury it in my heart
but my heart was home to my love
my heart opened its heart's door
and it rang out with song from wall to wall
my heart danced on my fingertips

so I buried my love in my head
and people asked
why my head has blossomed
why my eyes shine star-like
and why my lips are brighter than the dawn

I wanted to tear this love to pieces
but it was supple it entangled my hands
and my hands are bound with love
people ask whose prisoner I am 

*To read more of Poświatowska's poetry, visit here.

Georgia O'Keeffe — Hands, 1919
Alfred Stieglitz (American, Hobokan, New Jersey, 1864-1946 New York)
via The Metropolitan Museum of Art

 

Self-embrace on Silk Prayer

*With thanks to Hamlet-at-Sea of this incarnation, for being the final catalyst of my poem.


"Is it a blessing for a poet to be a natural poet-magnet?"
The romantic thinker wonders to herself.
'Oh you Little Fool,' she whispered,
A foolish thinker I am.

All these men, coming
in and out of me. All this pleasure and pain,
flickering like dying blue flames.
An instant garden trampled upon for hundreds of years
by those he loves with his Life－ah, such blasphemous
Beauty. An instant paradise turned
into the most exquisite ice ablaze.
A bruised garden amidst the flames.
The love and devotion that it takes to create
－such Beauty－
I can never fully comprehend.

Threads of a thousand hues are weaving themselves
in and out of each other; breathing esoteric,
breathing erotic, into
the weakest Bird of the most powerful strength－
A Bird without a name－

Can I be spared－Can I be
abstract like your patterns of this mesmerising nature, again?
I plead with my heart to be
as romantic and as abstract, like
your Little Brother, again.
Tears from the eyes of his heart are still rolling,
shining on my quill
like dews on those pink Oleander flowers－
falling, falling, fallen.

(And in case you were wondering, I was not speaking of
your little brother, I was speaking of
Mine. Like all these quests for Beauty and pleasure－I was
speaking, and thinking, of Mine.)

Breathing erotic. Breathing esoteric.
All these fiery blossoms burning way below sub-zero,
I could faint,
just listening to them.

I have no refuge in the world other than thy threshold.
There is no protection for my head other than this door. ~Hafiz
(inscription on the Ardabil Carpet)

+See also Lisa Creagh's Floriculture 1 and the artist's website.

Poetry Feature: Disbelief, Women, Minority, Periphery

Thirteen of my poems, including five pairs originally composed in Chinese and later translated into English (for most with a very long gap of time in between), are featured in Peripheral Surveys' beautiful autumn anniversary edition: Disbelief, Women, Minority, Periphery. Some of my readers (any of you out there...? ;p) might have already come across these poems in my little blog here, but the set is presented in such a visually aesthetic manner and the journal itself is a rich literary and artistic gem to delve into; hence I am linking it here to my poetic-oneiric (barely awake) space. My poetry is here. I have also written some notes on the inspirations behind the poetry and process of my translations, which for me is very much like re-creating again, for a few of the Chinese poems featured in the journal. The notes can be found in my blog post here.

Kenro Izu, Blue series, Still Life 1119b, 2004 (via)

My dear poet-philosopher-musician friend Alain Minod shared this exquisite, musical beauty with me the other day. For me, music is salvation, it is paradise. As Schopenhauer once said, what distinguishes our aesthetic consciousness from the ordinary one is that it lifts, however temporarily, the veil of perception, or maya, and blesses us with glimpses of what is transcendent, what is eternal, what is real and true, the ultimate beauty and truth. In this sense, our aesthetic experience/consciousness is similar in its essence to meditation. How is life possible without music, when life is music...?

“Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! The brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into pure continuance; it is certain never to be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short-lived creatures, beauty is a perfect abstraction and creation of life itself. Nothing is so similar to life as music.”

~Mishima Yukio

*See also Peripheral Surveys' archive of past issues.

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (I am lost to the world)

What a voice. What a heart. The soul transported and transcended in the most beautiful melodies of lyric baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, who left us in May this year. I will always miss his music.
"I am dead to the world's tumult, and I rest in a quiet realm. I live alone in my heaven, in my love and in my song..."


Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben,
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!

Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält,
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.

Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel,
Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!

{ English translation below by Emily Ezust }

I am lost to the world
with which I used to waste so much time,
It has heard nothing from me for so long
that it may very well believe that I am dead!

It is of no consequence to me
Whether it thinks me dead;
I cannot deny it,
for I really am dead to the world.

I am dead to the world's tumult,
And I rest in a quiet realm!
I live alone in my heaven,
In my love and in my song!

(*Text for 'Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,' by Friedrich Rückert, set to music by Gustav Mahler. One of Mahler's five Rückert-Lieder.)


《我被這個世界遺棄》

詩句和音樂看似頹廢灰色的厭世表象之下，卻隱含深刻動人的真情。馬勒認為這首歌曲有一種「眼見情感已經滿溢到舌尖，卻發不出任何聲音」的感覺，甚至認為這首歌曲表達的就是他自己。樂曲裡蘊含的情感內斂醇厚，以極緩慢的速度推進；在豎琴、雙簧管和法國號的主導下，彷彿勾勒出藝術超越俗世之後達到孤絕境界的淒清美感。這對日後馬勒譜寫第五號交響曲第四樂章有明顯影響。

*上述文字取自臺灣國家交響樂團 National Symphony Orchestra 於9/26/2011晚間音樂會節目單之樂曲闡述


‎("...Mahler thought this song conveyed a certain feeling of 'sensing the emotion is already filled to the brim, right at the tip of your tongue, and yet you're not able to make a single sound.' He even thought this song was an expression of himself..." His love, emotions and feelings are so deep and intense that, instead of an avalanching outpour, it was quiet, solitude, even silence -- art and aesthetics unveiling the maya of this world and lifting it into a realm of pure beauty.)


It was a beautiful late September night, immersed in Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde and Rückert-Lieder (as well as Wagner's Lohengrin prelude). Mahler's music and love, to me, are like Rilke's poetry -- one of my favourite poets whose words always move and teach me tremendously, my hero-poet who has transcended it all and yet looks back at you like a Bodhisattva, takes your hand to walk on the path together.


Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau with Daniel Barenboim on piano


an equally heartrending rendition of Dietrich Fishcer-Dieskau with Leonard Bernstein on piano

Lhasa's Story

She reminds me so much of a friend of mine, the way she speaks, the way she always smiles when she speaks... I love the story Lhasa's father told her, and in particular the way she tells it -- with her soft, husky, almost mystic voice. What a beautiful soul she was.



When my lifetime had just ended
And my death had just begun
I told you I’d never leave you
But I knew this day would come

Give me blood for my blood wedding
I am ready to be born
I feel new
As if this body were the first I’d ever worn

I need straw for the straw fire
I need hard earth for the plow
Don't ask me to reconsider
I am ready to go now

I'm going in I’m going in
This is how it starts
I can see in so far
But afterwards we always forget
Who we are

I'm going in I’m going in
I can stand the pain
And the blinding heat
'Cause I won't remember you
The next time we meet

You'll be making the arrangements
You'll be trying to set me free
Not a moment for the meeting
I'll be busy as a bee

You'll be talking to me
But I just won't understand
I'll be falling by the wayside
You'll be holding out your hand

Don't you tempt me with perfection
I have other things to do
I didn't burrow this far in
Just to come right back to you

I'm going in I’m going in
I have never been so ugly
I have never been so slow
These prison walls get closer now
The further in I go

I'm going in I’m going in
I like to see you from a distance
And just barely believe
And think that
Even lost and blind
I still invented love

I'm going in
I’m going in
I’m going in

*          *          *

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain

Too
Frightened.

~Hafiz Sherazi

My poems featured in Deathly Romantic's (now Dark Eye Glances) "Mad Poetry"

It is a great joy and wonderful privilege for me that Deathly Romantic Magazine (now Dark Eye Glances) has selected two of my poems (Snow Leopard and Black Panther, for H. & The First Poem: for David) to be featured in the "Mad Poetry" section of its summer issue. I discovered this gem via its editor/publisher Garth von Buchholz's beautifully sensual and swooningly emotional poem Anaïs and Henry, where one can truly feel the poet's passionate heart. I recited the poem out loud after my first reading, as for me, it is almost like a play in itself, in addition to being complete and utter poetry. The poem is written as a dialogue, and according to the poet, partially inspired by The Song of Songs of Solomon. Garth is currently working on a collection of "darkly romantic" love poems for an upcoming book, which I am eagerly anticipating...

Many thanks to Garth and Deathly Romantic, once again, for featuring my poetry. This is like my birthday celebration coming early, and I feel I am closer to the realm of my idol and heroine Morticia Addams (oh, the "goth chick" in me will forever be fascinated and mesmerised by the darkly elegant and impossibly romantic Morticia and Gomez...)! More importantly, it has been a real pleasure getting to know works of other like-minded poets and artists, and I look forward to many more collaborations with Deathly Romantic in the future.


On other surety none; freely we serve
Because we freely love, as in our will
To love or not; in this we stand or fall:
And Som are fall'n, to disobedience fall'n,
And so from Heav'n to deepest Hell; O fall
From what high state of bliss into what woe!

~John Milton: Paradise Lost, Book V

‎"Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet:
"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

 ~William Blake: The Clod and the Pebble, from Songs of Experience

La Confession (by Lhasa de Sela)

Je n'ai pas peur

De dire que je t'ai trahi

Par pure paresse

Par pure mélancolie

Qu'entre toi

Et le Diable

J'ai choisi le plus

Confortable

Mais tout cela

N'est pas pourquoi

Je me sens coupable

Mon cher ami

Je n'ai pas peur de dire

Que tu me fais peur

Avec ton espoir

Et ton grand sens

De l'honneur

Tu me donnes envie

De tout détruire

De t'arracher

Le beau sourire

Et meme ca

N'est pas pourquoi

Je me sens coupable

C'est ca le pire

Je me sens coupable

Parce que j'ai l'habitude

C'est la seule chose

Que je peux faire

Avec une certaine

Certitude

C'est rassurant

De penser

Que je suis sûre

Se ne pas me tromper

Quand il s'agit

De la question

De ma grande culpabilité

Je n'ai pas peur

De dire que j'ai triché

j'ai mis les plus pures

De mes pensées

Sur le marché

J'ai envie de laisser tomber

Toute cette idée

De "vérité"

Je garderais

Pour me guider

Plaisir et culpabilité

Two poems written for me...!

By my very dear friend, the poet-philosopher-musician Alain Minod. Thank you sincerely Alain for these beautiful creations and for allowing me to share them in my little space.
Read more of Alain's writing and poetry here, and listen to his music and poetry reading here.


Name and Sun

My name is a small shadow
He stays along
A half broken wall
The holes are stars

My name is a little iced
But he is a  stone
Thrown away
To the beats of eternity

But he is in love
With the sun

Each time that he meets him
Early
On the morning
Or
On the evening
He gathers the flowers
Of the life

During the nights
He brings several flowers
And tries
To make others names
Than the well-known

Then he is – in one’s turn –
Glittering
In the holes of the present
Then he touches the love
And – so – he breaks
A little more the wall

Every flower
That he keeps with him
Is dayfully enlightening
Amongst his shadow

Is he really looking
For my ecstasy
At any rate
He is not falling down
And – standing up –
He calls  me
In order to
Make
A little less
Shadow

And – each time –
I keep more memory !


*          *          *


For You : I would like to send : A real kiss that I lend - after all the
distance - the best of my thought - For your sound of music caught -
You the lightning presence - Dream of flower- taken on the late hour
Freedom in the air - Something in your ear - Is still falling in my mind - Something very kind - Something new from you - ( in my country happyfew ) dance like a fountain - With wind amongst men-
Here in the deepth of winter - Is that spring water ?...

Piazzolla's Saudades for Oblivion: emotional soundscapes of his poetry...

"I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another… then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

― James Joyce, closing line of Ulysses

“I loved her enough to forget myself, my self pitying despairs, and be content that something she thought happy was going to happen.”

― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's

"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

― James Joyce, closing line of 'The Dead' from Dubliners


〝醉生夢死不過是她跟我開的一個玩笑。有些事情你越想忘記，就會記得越牢。當有些事情你無法得到時，你唯一能做的，就是不要忘記。＂ 
"Living a befuddled and intoxicated life is merely a joke she made with me. The harder you try to forget about some things, the harder you remember them. When there’s something you can never get, the only thing you can do is not to forget."

― from the film Ashes of Time directed by Wong Kar-Wai


＂你知不知道有一種鳥沒有腳的？他的一生只能在天上飛來飛去。一輩子只能落地一次，那就是他死的時候。＂
"Do you know there’s a kind of bird without legs? All its life it only flies in the sky. All its life only one time it lands on earth – that is the time it dies."

(...also Wong Kar-Wai, forgot which film it is from...)

La Mélancolie (detail), by Lucas Cranach the Elder, 1532
*image via Wikipedia

One of the beautiful Piazzolla songs used in Wong Kar-Wai's Happy Together, a film about longing, time, memories, love, loss, chance, and "the end of the world"...

Wong, in regards to the interpretation of the film said: "In this film, some audiences will say that the title seems to be very cynical, because it is about two persons living together, and at the end, they are just separate. But to me, happy together can apply to two persons or apply to a person and his past, and I think sometimes when a person is at peace with himself and his past, I think it is the beginning of a relationship which can be happy, and also he can be more open to more possibilities in the future with other people." (via)




Santiago Cimadevilla performing Astor Piazzolla's "Oblivion." With the Liepaja Symphony Orchestra (Latvia), conductor Imants Resnis. Live performance in Liepaja, December 2007.