[poem] wake up call, andoy castellano, 28 April 2006

wake up call
andoy castellano, 28 April 2006

Opening my eyes to two clocks
ticking in syncopation
echoing in mid-morning silence

the mat drenched in sweat
half-naked I end up slithering
to get up and out
of the drowsy morning's clasp

taking stock, my arms, my legs
my head, my ears, eyes and fingers
Me, my world

as I open my eyes
I'm thankful the world is not spinning in vertigo today
no retching belly-ache
no mountainous migraine
and nothing to do
but stare at the door, the ceiling
the twin clock facing one another
keeping time only to one another

-=0=-

Posted with the Pinoy Poets yahoogroups.
--
--andoy

Comments on "May Batang Umiiyak Habang Kumakain ng Pancake" by Edwin Padillo

Thoughts on "May Batang Umiiyak Habang Kumakain ng Pancake"

"May Batang Umiiyak Habang Kumakain ng Pancake" is a prose poem which is a vignette or a snapshot of a moment. At the same time it poses a question of emotions. Mother and baby, with their own reasons for crying. The child is hungry and the the pancake cannot fill up the hunger. The mother, too is despondent, being thrown out of house, perhaps; being more despondent because her child's crying, definitely; and of not being in control, or of having no control of her situation. The poem presents a scenario, and poses the question, which is sadder: the mother's situation or the child's need? Which is more immediate? Which fate is worse?

The poem succeeds on several levels. If it were structured with rhyme and meter, it would be longer, and might not have the same impact compared to what the poem presents right now. As a "snapshot" it is sufficient to show multiple levels or layers to a "story." And depending on the readers' bias, various stories could be told. This is not prose, as it leaves a lot to the reader to interpret; without introduction, denouement or climax, there is the crisis and the implied story, without telling the story.

Where the poem fails is in the cursory manner of presentation and the almost cavalier attitude to the (implied) problem. There is a picture presented, but it does not pull at the heartstrings. Or it does not have enough emotional appeal. I could be wrong, but the reader does not feel empathy or sympathy to the story. For this scenario the emotional appeal is important because that is what is being expected from this "snapshot." I cannot help but compare this with one of the chapters in "Like Water for Chocolate." Almost the same image, but from a different angle.

It is not very often that Edz writes a poem which professes to be of limited dimensions. Two of his earlier poems, "Halik" and "Bagyo", for instance, creates a scene then makes this an allegory for something else entirely. He does this cleanly with his poems, leaving you to wonder whether the "real" subject is the reference or the allegory. Contrary to what he usually does, or did, in this poem he does not appear to redirect the reader's attention. He writes a scene, a partial story, a framework, a snap, and leaves it there. And the reader is left to decide where the allegory is, or if there is any. (Hint: this is a poem by Edz, so if you know how he writes, you know where to find the reference. And if you read it twice, you'll find both of them.) Make no mistake, this is a poem by Edz, it has the same deliberate pace, attention to the proper word -- showing enough but never telling what it is; same multi-level of interpretation. But there is the hesitancy maybe borne of the different (or newer) format. Where others would have more action and detail to the background, Edz pulls back and limits the poem to the bare essentials.

With regards revisions, I have no idea where to start. And if I had written this, I wouldn't even begin, and I won't even try. Truth is, I'm not even sure I'm qualified to give a critique of this work from a poetic viewpoint. I am not an academician or a literary theoretician. I wish that the concept of the specific person of "Aling Josie" be expounded a bit. Maybe repeat the name another time. And may I suggest another line or sentence be added to "Kaya ngayon umiiyak ang anak mula nang inihanda, niluto at inihain ang pancake. Tuluyang umalat ang lahat."

If I were asked about a shortlist, sad to say, I might not include this. Aside from the lukewarm emotional appeal, this is not within Edz's comfort zone.

This is the first time Edz has posted a prose poem. His former posts ("Kasi Daw Valentine's" in particular) had always been clear with the images used. In this instance, it seems that he tried to cut back on describing the scene down to its bare essentials, and I think this parsimony was due to the poem format. Good description of the action, though. Another point to consider is that with this poem, he's trying to move outside of his comfort zone. Few writers are brave enough to do that. And for me it's refreshing that he has taken to challenging his own self.

All in all, this lives up to what I'd expect from a poem by Edwin Padillo. Maybe, as a matter of taste, it needs just a little more empathy. But that's just me.

--andoy
PS: Edz, maraming salamat sa tula.
--same

-=0=-

Above was first posted in the Pinoy Poets' Yahoo Groups.

--
--andoy
15 April 2006

[SHARE] May Batang Umiiyak Habang Kumakain ng Pancake, Edwin Padillo

May Batang Umiiyak Habang Kumakain ng Pancake
Edwin Padillo

Umaalat kasi ang lasa ng pancake gayung itlog, arina at gatas lamang
ang laman nito. Paano kasi habang niluluto ni Aling Josie, umiiyak ang
anak.

Iniwanan sa daan ng kasintahan. Naki-angkas kasi walang pamasahe o
wala lang talagang sariling masasakyan. Nuong nakita ng may-ari ng
sasakyan, tinadyakan pa sya nito kasama ng ina pababa.

Kaya ngayon umiiyak ang anak mula nang inihanda, niluto at inihain ang
pancake. Tuluyang umalat ang lahat.

Hindi maibsan ng hikbi ang pagtangis ng ina para sa anak, anak sa ina.
Hindi maitanging ang alat pala'y pumapait sa kalaunan.

Kaya walang tigil ang pag-iyak ng anak. Habang ginagamot ng pagkain ng
pancake ang puso niyang nasugatan sa pag-angkas sa kakarag-karag na
sasakyan.

-=0=-

This was first posted in the Pinoy Poets Yahoo groups.

--
--andoy
15 April 2006

Comments on Gracia Perdiguerra's "Half is and Endless Extra"

Comments on Gracia Perdiguerra's "Half is and Endless Extra"

I was reading and rereading this poem. And I couldn't start to write about it. Whatever thoughts I had were in the middle of the comment. No beginning and no ending. Maybe because Gracia has a totally different style from what she offered last year. In that case, congratulations are in order.

Though this started out as a question of grammar, I find nothing wrong with the grammar used here. In fact, the grammar really IS terrible in a very literal sense. From the dictionary, one meaning of "terrible" is "very serious or extreme." And this is terrible indeed, it is very serious and very extreme. It does not push the envelope of what "correct" grammar is, as it stays well within boundaries, but the use of certain words give it gravity where needed: "had separated today from yesterday"; "hid behind the curtains of animosity"; "wanted to close your eyes, but heard whimpers" (was she spacing out?); "dryness of the light/on wet bodies"; "you disabled feelings and reverted to what is tangible"; "materiality of experience"; "fragment of light from a daunted dawn." This is extreme use of language, like haikus colliding with one another on a japanese metro train during rush hour – in winter; where you have attandants in white gloves pushing and packing the passengers into the trains. It's like hail falling down on a summer day in Baguio, refreshing but frightening if you're just visiting. I see nothing wrong with the grammar, only that it is terrible indeed.

Reading this feels like a peregrination. A long extensive journey, where the scenery looks more entertaining than the destination. There is the window, which image the poem keeps going back to. The sorry excuse of a clock which gave the extra half-hour like a time warp. The monitor which is not differentiated from a TV screen or a computer monitor. There is the concept or poetry as well as of love and logic. For all of that the scenery was almost random, and not giving an indication of where it was going. Save one: "We hid behind the curtains of animosity."

I ask, is this anger? Not in the sense of anger being a permanent feeling, but a mask, of something and hiding behind it. Outwardly, there may be nothing there for others to see, but this poem gives the lie to that thought. There is no animosity in the poem.

For a while there, I thought that with all these images, it was like being lost in the woods but still following a well-worn trail. You walk the trail, but have no idea how long till it ends, or where it's
going. And then you see clues, or hints. There is ambivalence, and there is a search for logic. There are tell-tale signs of personalities clashing and of questions raised.

For all the rambling, this is a question on logic in a relationship. And like all questions, it is it's own answer: there is no logic in a relationship, or there is no need of logic in this relationship. In the end the poem can serve as a thank you note for that half-hour, or half a minute, or half of anything. It may not say "I love you", not in so many words, but in more words. It is that extra: the light after the sun sets, the feared dawn breaking signaling the morning after. It is the "little things" which make a relationship worth it.

Most journeys, like life and love, are long extensive walks. Where the destination doesn't really matter. This is an enjoyment of that journey. If you notice the dinghy water, the sunset and the dawn, the clock separating days, then you are probably enjoying that moment. The journey is the destination.

Why do I like Gracia's poems? I like them because her socially conscious poems are deliberate, multi-faceted and thickly layered works. And all these layers are hidden or intertwined with the personal. There is empathy.

However, this is not one of those socially-conscious poems. But the empathy is there. This is a personal non-political poem of digressions which bring meaning to a relationship. It is thick with questions, and even thicker with answers. And can serve as a grammar lesson to boot.

This poem reminds me of the first time I tasted sangria, the spanish wine. It felt thick, like heavy juice, not like wine as I knew it, thicker than merlot, but in a different way. And, surprisingly, it smelled and tasted of apples. Years later, I still space out on that experience, thick and fragrant, forcing me to ask questions and finding the answers in the questions.

Maraming salamat po.

----

--andoy
15 April 2006

[SHARE] Half is an Endless Extra, Gracia Perdiguerra, 041006 [Rev.1]

Half is an Endless Extra
Gracia Perdiguerra, 041006

The alarm clock, strangely, had knocked its short arm, wound the
thin line until it drooped on its oval chest. It had separated today
from yesterday.

The glass window had recorded the night's portrait on reel. It had
light circling on the surface of the stagnant, greasy water. The
images had wallowed in dirt.

The morning had shared half an hour of the day. Extra. That was, if
there is Extra. Shades of gray had flinched on bawdry images—

wanton touch of dots, of networks— of networks of dots. I could not
count the lines from a small screen; how much had it sent in the
ruthlessness of our game?

still, we managed to put a little love in it, a little glitter, a
little of everything, like a B movie, seemingly, third rate but
entertaining.

So, the next evening— I was still hoping of a show, that would make
the minor glitches connect; that energies would pull up and make
strings from hyphens,

relieve estrangement from smileys, touch the hub from the surface,
unplug all illusions, and direct satellite links in the hearts--
yield in time. But there seemed to be

no concept of time— Time was space ticking somewhere in our bodies:
wounds counted in seconds, coagulating with the minutes, a scar of
an hour that won't heal

in the crevices of virtual walls. We hid behind the curtains of
animosity. Praised each performance on the plane of benevolence:
until you realized, there was a mistake in the float—

this was not the dance of light that you had expected. You wanted to
close your eyes, but heard whimpers— small moans that could not ease
the dryness of the light

on wet bodies. Skin dries with the persistence of light in
continuity, seething without the sun: a memory melding in space.
Science knows nothing of these things.

But, how you disabled feelings and reverted to what is tangible.
This is insane, you said. Then, turned your back on it. Insane as it
was: it was its logic.

I believe that there were no contracts, really. Just signs. There
was no need to agree, or continue to agree on the materiality of
experience. Non sequitur.

Love is never logical. It doesn't need contracts. It is not for the
mind. It is not its philosophy, or politics, or governing body. It
persists

even if it ceased on half a step. Extra. It clings to the word, a
phenomena. So, what is it? Really? A story of an hour? A fragment of
light from a daunted dawn?

A mind slipping from the pages of poetry? Or just plain poetry, that
I couldn't write, for it is always incomplete. Imagined but not
written.

Written but not realized. Realized only when imagined in such
inconclusiveness. Or, it is its own relief. The dread of uncertainty
is its meaning.

A touch on the forehead of the cloud could mean the sun smiling
without complaint— There is logic in the rising and setting of the
sun:

there is no logic in seeing light after the sun goes down. And
looking down, even if its just the moon peeping, looking through
your glass window,

I was dejected by the opaqueness of light. Still, I'm smiling half:
your extra. Counting endless dots, networking towards oblivion,
waiting for the dark

to commence. So that I may see light, once again, in the mind's eye.
Minor glitch of a major impulse. Light stays brightest tonight, my
élan vital— light of life.

--

This was first posted on the Pinoy Poets yahoo groups.

--andoy
15 April 2006

Seed: Getting Physical

From Seed Magazine. Another way of viewing things. And I've always thought that physicists and mathematicians lead boring sex lives.

--andoy
-=0=-

Seed: Getting Physical

Physics & Math

Email Print

Getting Physical

Einstein, Feynman and other famous swingers.

by Joshua Roebke • Posted March 1, 2006 12:21 AM

Credit: Sam Weber

Late last year, researchers in England published a study purporting to establish a link between creative output and number of sexual partners. As the lead author (under)stated, “Creative people are often considered to be very attractive and get lots of attention as a result.”

The theoretical physicists of the 20th century were no exception. Promiscuous chasers by profession, physicists ever-pursue objects that lie partially hidden to the immediate senses, but are evidently there behind nature’s many layers. The best physicists are able to tease a peek beneath all that partially-covered exterior, as any pickup artist would: with a mix of cleverness and straightforward arrogance. This is hardly just simple metaphor; for many of the greatest physicists, this libertine modus operandi also fueled their private lives.

Schrödinger, Curie, Einstein, Feynman, Oppenheimer…the finest names of pre-Cold War 20th-century physics, some of whom gave us the most concise theories ever posited, form a roster of lamentable philanderers. Albert Einstein was completely “given to flirtation” and had legions of affairs. Caltech professor and bestselling raconteur Richard Feynman was probably the only Nobel Prize winner to befriend porn stars, claim a foolproof manner for bedding women and do his calculations on napkins in strip clubs. And it wasn’t just the guys: Marie Curie was relentlessly hounded by the press for seducing away her late-husband’s former student from his wife and kids.

“Libertines, both male and female, have always been around in math and physics,” says Jennifer Ouellette, who writes on physics history and is associate editor of the American Physical Society’s newsletter. Yet today, while physicists still spend day and night chasing nature, the era of chasing skirts — or knickers—seems to have passed. Where have all the physics playb—er, sociable persons gone?

Between the world wars, physicists hunted the big ideas and had the big personalities—and sex drives—to match. They worked and played under a unique confluence of circumstance. The sexual norms of the time, their status, the sexiness of their projects and achievements all conspired to make the top physicists supremely desirable.

The most shameless cad of the group was Richard Feynman. When he once nearly crashed his car while eyeing a passing beauty, his only excuse was, “I only see the women, the rest is all a blur.” He even kept a picture in his office of one acquaintance, buxom adult film star Candi Samples, signed, “To Big Dick, Love from Candi.”

Remarkably, some physicists’ trysts seem to have actually led to physical insight: While once floundering on a problem, Erwin Schrödinger shacked up in an alpine villa for an extended holiday with “an old girlfriend” and, in the “late erotic outburst” that followed, produced the eponymous equation that would net him the Nobel.

At the atomic bomb project in Los Alamos, the assembled brain trust was as hard-partying as a troop of college kids on spring break. Weekends with the physicists were “big and brassy,” replete with poker and booze. They played so hard that the program tried to quarantine the women’s dorms; as one boss euphemized, “The girls had been doing a flourishing business of requiting the needs of our young men.” So many babies resulted that Robert Oppenheimer (or his boss, nobody’s really sure), himself having tried to run off with the wife of Linus Pauling and bed the wife of another colleague, was told to halt the extracurricular activities. (Oppenheimer didn’t.)

So what’s happened since? Not to bemoan the loss of machismo, but today’s physicists seem to lack that same rat-pack panache that old-school physicists brought to the blackboard. Considering the unparalleled prestige that the Atomic Era physicists enjoyed, it’s hardly astonishing that sexual power plays —like those that often transpire between an executive and assistant, or even a president and an intern —could have resulted. And though modern theoreticians still pursue big ideas, their intellectual forebears revealed so many of nature’s broad physical features that, now, only the finer areas are left to explore.

Ouellette points to another possible explanation: “This stuff still goes on, we just don’t hear about it. The history books on the great physics personalities of the late 20th century have yet to be written.” She points to a famous professor whom “everyone knows ditched” one woman for another: “it’s gossiped about, but you never read about it [because] the science is what really matters.” There’s also Stephen Hawking, whose affair was detailed in the British tabloid. Perhaps there are others.

And perhaps, with the new Large Hadron Collider ready to go online next year—if physics is now “just another discipline,” as Nature recently editorialized—its time will come again. In the meantime, it might help to remember Richard Feynman’s truth-laden maxim, “Physics is like sex: Sure, it may give some practical results but that’s not why we do it.”

[POEM] isang pintig ng alaala,andoy castellano, 3 February 2006

isang pintig ng alaala
andoy castellano, 3 February 2006

sa bawat kisap ng laman
nararamdaman at naiipit
ng ala-alang nararanasang muli
at humihinto ang panahon, mundo, mga tao at sasakyan
habang ninamnam
ang nakaraan
bago tumawid ng daan

sa pagpikit ng mata
biglang buhos ng mga sandaling pagkabilis-bilis
dala'y lahat ng tibok at pintig
ahon at alon
ng dagat, kidlat at ulan
sa gitna ng dilim
sa harap ng salamin
isang baha ng emosyon dala ng bagyong umaanod
at nagpapanumbalik ang halimuyak at lasa
ng tamis ng nectar ng gumamelang sinisipsip ng bata

at pagpatuloy ng kasalukuyan
dumadagundong ang puso
sa lakas ng ingay ng ungol
ng nakalipas

at nawalan ng saysay ang init ng araw
ingay ng sasakyan, at rami ng mga taong
tumatawid ng daan

--

There are days when you just space out.

--andoy
3 February 2006

SHARE: ga-daliring kaligayahan, jen macapagal, 02/03/06

ga-daliring kaligayahan
jen macapagal, 02/03/06

singhaba ng gitnang daliri
ang kaligayahang natatamo
ng aking katabi- ngayon -
ko natanto na wala sa [sukat
ng] haba ng panahon
ang pag-iibigan, pagtitinginan,
(maging) ang paglalandian
upang masuma ang kahalagahan
ng isang ga-daliring kaligayahan.

--
Posted with the Pinoy Poets yahoogroups.

--andoy
3 February 2006

SHARE: Kung Paano Kita Naisulat Sa Aking Katawan, gracia perdiguerra,020206

Kung Paano Kita Naisulat Sa Aking Katawan
gracia perdiguerra, 020206

(pasintabi kay Jeannette Winterson)

Tumutulay ako sa mahabang linya
ng salitang itinutulak ng daliri

mula sa laman ng aking laman

iniuukit ang ikaw sa kamalayang
nananalamin sa magkadaop na dibdib

tinatahi ang dilang maglalapit

sa kaluluwa, sa pagtatalik ng diwa
at malayang pag-iisa sa ating kalawakan.

--

Reminds me of "Undertones".

--andoy
3 February 2006

SHARE: You Fit Into Me, Margaret Atwood

You Fit Into Me
Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

--
This was shared as a post with the Pinoy Poets mailing group. Nice
sentiments, great sense of humor and a great way of stating the pain.

--andoy
3 February 2006

POEM: Thinking about what is unsaid, notes to self on Khalil Gibran's "The Prophet": where is "On Sex"?

One of those days when I just want to write something which means
nothing. I was having a bad day yesterday, Feb. 2.

-=0=-

Thinking about what is unsaid, notes to self on Khalil Gibran's "The
Prophet": where is "On Sex"?
Andoy Castellano, 2 February 2006

Reading and not reading
for twenty-five years
and now I wonder what did Khalil Gibran write about sex?

Not reading and scanning
it was all there:
Friendship, Love, Marriage, Children,
Giving, Clothes, Joy and Sorrow,
Freedom, Reason and Passion,
Talking, Time, Pleasure, Beauty,
Prayer, Religion, Death
The Farewell

Reading but not learning
I gasp and sigh.

-=0=-

--andoy
3 February 2006

Share: You And Me, Lifehouse

"You And Me"
Artist: Lifehouse

What day is it? And in what month?
This clock never seemed so alive
I can't keep up and I can't back down
I've been losing so much time

Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do
Nothing to lose
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

All of the things that I want to say just aren't coming out right
I'm tripping on words
You've got my head spinning
I don't know where to go from here

Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do
Nothing to prove
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

There's something about you now
I can't quite figure out
Everything she does is beautiful
Everything she does is right

Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do
Nothing to lose
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you
and me and all of the people with nothing to do
Nothing to prove
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

What day is it?
And in what month?
This clock never seemed so alive

-=0=-

Lifehouse were guests in one of the Smallville episodes. This song was playing while Clark Kent was dancing with Lana Lang, while Lois Lane and Chloe were watching on the sidelines.

--andoy
5 January 2006

tabulas.com: I Dance With Abandon

tabulas.com: I Dance With Abandon


The link above is to my poem, "Undertones." It was included in the first Pinoy Poets' Chapbook. And then it got picked up by AmyBecca and posted on her MySpace welcome page.

It's a weird Tuesday.

--andoy
3 January 2006

www.myspace.com/amyinatx

www.myspace.com/amyinatx

My friend Stephie, posted my poem, "undertones" on her blog page. And this was later picked up by a lady in Austin, Texas, USA. And it's now posted on her MySpace page.

The original posting is through this link: "undertones".

Thank you.

--andoy
3 January 2006

Share: A Kind of Burning

A Kind of Burning
Ophelia Dimalanta

it is perhaps because
one way or the other
we keep this distance
closeness will tug as apart
in many directions
in absolute din
how we love the same
trivial pursuits and
insignificant gewgaws
spoken or inert
claw at the same straws
pore over the same jigsaws
trying to make heads or tails
you take the edges
i take the center
keeping fancy guard
loving beyond what is there
you sling at the stars
i bedeck the weeds
straining in song or
profanities towards some
fabled meeting apart
from what dreams read
and suns dismantle
we have been all the hapless
lovers in this wayward world
in almost all kinds of ways
except we never really meet
but for this kind of burning.

--
--andoy
27 December 2005

Share: Half an Hour, Constantine P. Cavafy

Half An Hour
Constantine P. Cavafy

I never had you nor, I suppose,
will I ever have you. A few words, an approach,
as in the bar yesterday -nothing more.
It's sad, I admit. But we who serve Art,
sometimes with the mind's intensity
can create pleasure that seems almost physical-
but of course only for a short time.
That's how in the bar yesterday-
mercifully helped by alcohol-
I had half an hour that was totally erotic.
And I think you understood this
and stayed slightly longer on purpose.
That too was very necessary.
Because with all the imagination,
all the magic alcohol,
I needed to see your lips as well,
needed your body near me.

-=0=-

--andoy

Share: Return, Constantine P. Cavafy

Constantine P. Cavafy - Return

Return often and take me,
beloved sensation, return and take me --
when the memory of the body awakens,
and an old desire runs again through the blood;
when the lips and the skin remember,
and the hands feel as if they touch again.

Return often and take me at night,
when the lips and the skin remember....

-=0=-

This is one poem which can shake your mornings. Or evenings.

--andoy
21 December 2005

Ciel brouill�

Ciel brouill�: "Ciel brouill�

On dirait ton regard d'une vapeur couvert;
Ton oeil myst�rieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)
Alternativement tendre, r�veur, cruel,
R�fl�chit l'indolence et la p�leur du ciel.

Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, ti�des et voil�s,
Qui font se fondre en pleurs les coeurs ensorcel�s,
Quand, agit�s d'un mal inconnu qui les tord,
Les nerfs trop �veill�s raillent l'esprit qui dort.

Tu ressembles parfois �ces beaux horizons
Qu'allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...
Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouill�
Qu'enflamment les rayons tombant d'un ciel brouill�!

� femme dangereuse, �s�duisants climats!
Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,
Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiver
Des plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?

— Charles Baudelaire

Cloudy Sky

One would say that your gaze was veiled with mist;
Your mysterious eyes (are they blue, gray or green?)
Alternately tender, dreamy, cruel,
Reflect the indolence and pallor of the sky.

You call to mind those days, white, soft, and mild,
That make enchanted hearts burst into tears,
When, shaken by a mysterious, wracking pain,
The nerves, too wide-awake, jeer at the sleeping mind.

You resemble at times those gorgeous horizons
That the sun sets ablaze in the seasons of mist...
How resplendent you are, landscape drenched with rain,
Aflame with rays that fall from a cloudy sky!

O dangerous woman, O alluring climates!
Will I also adore your snow and your hoar-frost,
And can I draw from your implacable winter
Pleasures keener than iron or ice?

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

Misty Sky

One would have thought your eyes were veiled in haze
Strange eyes! (Grey, green, or azure is their gaze?)
It seems they would reflect, in each renewal,
The changing skies, dull, dreamy, fond, or cruel.

You know those days both warm and hazy, which
Melt into tears the hearts that they bewitch:
And when the nerves, uneasy to control,
Too-wide awake, upbraid the sleeping soul.

You, too, resemble such a lit horizon
As suns of misty seasons now bedizen...
As you shine out, a landscape fresh with rain
With misty sunbeams sparkling on the plain.

Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather!
Shall I adore your snows and frosts together?
In your relentless winter shall I feel
A kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel?

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)"

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If you want to read more, please go to the website: fleursdumal.org

--andoy
13 December 2005

Le Chat

Le Chat: "Le Chat

Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux;
Retiens les griffes de ta patte,
Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux,
M�l�s de m�tal et d'agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent �loisir
Ta t�te et ton dos �lastique,
Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir
De palper ton corps �lectrique,

Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard,
Comme le tien, aimable b�te
Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

Et, des pieds jusques �la t�te,
Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum
Nagent autour de son corps brun.

— Charles Baudelaire

The Cat

Come, superb cat, to my amorous heart;
Hold back the talons of your paws,
Let me gaze into your beautiful eyes
Of metal and agate.

When my fingers leisurely caress you,
Your head and your elastic back,
And when my hand tingles with the pleasure
Of feeling your electric body,

In spirit I see my woman. Her gaze
Like your own, amiable beast,
Profound and cold, cuts and cleaves like a dart,

And, from her head down to her feet,
A subtle air, a dangerous perfume
Floats about her dusky body.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

The Cat

Come, my fine cat, against my loving heart;
Sheathe your sharp claws, and settle.
And let my eyes into your pupils dart
Where agate sparks with metal.

Now while my fingertips caress at leisure
Your head and wiry curves,
And that my hand's elated with the pleasure
Of your electric nerves,

I think about my woman — how her glances
Like yours, dear beast, deep-down
And cold, can cut and wound one as with lances;

Then, too, she has that vagrant
And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant
Her body, lithe and brown.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

The Cat

My beautiful cat, come onto my heart full of love;
Hold back the claws of your paw,
And let me plunge into your adorable eyes
Mixed with metal and agate.

When my fingers lazily fondle
Your head and your elastic back,
And my hand gets drunk with the pleasure
Of feeling your electric body,

I see in spirit my personal lady. Her glance,
Like yours, dear creature,
Deep and cold, slits and splits like a dart,

And from her feet to her head,
A subtle atmosphere, a dangerous perfume,
Swim around her brown body.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974) "

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From the fleursdumal.org / Charles Baudelaire's "Flowers of Evil" web site.

--andoy
13 December 2005

Je t'adore �l'�gal de la vo�te nocturne

Je t'adore �l'�gal de la vo�te nocturne

Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne

Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne,
Ô vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne,
Et t'aime d'autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,
Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,
Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues
Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues.

Je m'avance à l'attaque, et je grimpe aux assauts,
Comme après un cadavre un choeur de vermisseaux,
Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle!
Jusqu'à cette froideur par où tu m'es plus belle!

— Charles Baudelaire

I Adore You as Much as the Nocturnal Vault...

I adore you as much as the nocturnal vault,
O vase of sadness, most taciturn one,
I love you all the more because you flee from me,
And because you appear, ornament of my nights,
More ironically to multiply the leagues
That separate my arms from the blue infinite.

I advance to attack, and I climb to assault,
Like a swarm of maggots after a cadaver,
And I cherish, implacable and cruel beast,
Even that coldness which makes you more beautiful.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

More Than Night's Vault, It's You That I Adore

More than night's vault, it's you that I adore,
Vessel of sorrow, silent one, the more
Because you flee from me, and seem to place,
Ornament of my nights! more leagues of space
Ironically between me and you
Than part me from these vastitudes of blue.

I charge, attack, and mount to the assault
As worms attack a corpse within a vault.
And cherish even the coldness that you boast,
By which, harsh beast, you subjugate me most.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

I Worship You

I worship you, O proud and taciturn,
As I do night's high vault; O sorrow's urn,
I love you all the more because you flee
And seem, gem of my nights, ironically
To multiply the weary leagues that sunder
My arms from all infinity's blue wonder.

I skirmish and I climb to the attack,
I, a worms' chorus on a corpse's back,
O fierce cruel beast, I cherish to the full
The very chill that makes you beautiful.

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

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Just a selection of Charles Baudelaire's poems.

--andoy
13 December 2005