In the aria of music
As the notes reel
High and low
Thy pulse shall dance
With a rhythm
Such an unmatched fervor!

In the aria of music
While the symphony matures
A new game of romance
Rules the mood
Defying every holding loop

In the aria of music
The moment enriches
The thrill of the heart blooms
Into a new season
Unbridled joy shall stay
Caressing every heart beat!

In the aria of music
As the lyrics hum
In your own self
You shall be complete!

Vow Renewal ha davvero bisogno di presentazioni .Perché appartiene Gene Simmons e la abiti da sposa on line sua splendida moglie Shannon di Kiss !E.a parte il folle .folle d'amore che tutti noi sappiamo che condividono .questo duo sa anche come ospitare un impressionante bella festa - con file di Pretty in Pink .schiocchi di favoloso e una devozione a tutte le cose ballare degno.Creato da Lady Liberty Eventi + un cuore Matrimoni con fotografie di Trish Barker .c'è molto di più nella galleria .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsAl FrescoStylesModernRomantic

Dal Liberty Woodman di Lady Liberty Events.I hanno conosciuto Gene e Shannon per anni ed era così eccitato quando hanno deciso di rinnovare i loro voti alle Hawaii !Abbiamo collaborato con i talentuosi One Matrimoni cuore che gentilmente hanno contribuito a portare tutto il glamour alla vita!

Gene e Shannon volevano un incontro molto intimo dei loro più stretti amici e parenti di essere una parte del loro rinnovo di amore .Abbiamo deciso di fare un palato nero .fard e oro per riunire l'atmosfera glamour e moderno.con il suggerimento perfetto di nervosismo .Il progetto per questa occasione era semplicemente incredibile e era la rappresentazione ideale della loro morbida lato romantico mescolato con il loro rock \u0026rotolare personalità !

All'arrivo gli ospiti hanno fatto la loro strada attraverso un bianco appeso all'ingresso 25ft parete del fiore .dove erano seduti a splendide vignette in stile.Una combinazione di divani vintage.pouf e poltrone accentati con moderni cuscini neri e blush tiro .creando un ambiente opulento per i posti a sedere cerimonia.Flutti che scorre biancheria coprivano le pareti e soffitti .mentre blush e avorio nastri proposto come lo sfondo perfetto per la sposa e lo sposo a dire che faccioènuovo.Affiancato da lussureggianti centrotavola di ortensie e un corridoio personalizzato in mostra il loro monogramma .la passeggiata lungo la navata era niente timido di stordimento .gene \u0026Figlia Shannon ' .Sophie .ha messo insieme una cerimonia calorosa e cordiale e con l'aggiunta dei loro voti personali .non c'era un occhio secco in casa .Poco a poco gli ospiti sanno che ci sarebbe stata una cerimonia a sorpresa da seguire!Shannon illustra la sua sorella Sara .e il suo sposo Greg .felice di poter condividere questo giorno speciale con loro.Sara \u0026Greg ha proceduto con più di una cerimonia tradizionale stile hawaiano che ha aggiunto un'aggiunta unica e incantevole per i festeggiamenti .L'amore era certamente nell'aria !Come la coppia ri - sposato.e sposi fecero il loro ritorno lungo la navata.gli ospiti gettati petali che sono stati elegantemente presentati in sacchetti di rete a ogni sedile rosa .Gli ospiti

diretti verso l'area cocktail .che si è svolta sotto un albero magnificamente fiorito che è stato appeso con centinaia di candele appese .Un albero augurio visualizzazione degli ospitiècarte escort perfettamente ondeggiava nel piacevole brezza hawaiana .Le melodie contemporanee suonate dal duo stringa a condizione che il suono perfetto come ospiti sorseggiavano un cocktail speciali e mordicchiò bocconi .Gli ospiti

sono stati poi invitati a fare la loro strada in reception e zona pranzo .guidati dal suono di freddo jazz suonata dal vivo banda di 9 pezzi .La tavola era apparecchiata con biancheria blush frizzante .carica d'oro eposate e nero cristalleria moderna .Ogni impostazione è accentato con neri abiti da sposa on line laser taglio plexi Consiglio vetro carte.che sembrava incredibile contro il rossore e oro toni .Overhead .festoni di blush tendaggi e lampadari splendidi con sfumature nere fornito una magnifica atmosfera .Oro candelabri \u0026votive oro mercurio sono stati mescolati con le modalità lussureggianti che consisteva di fragranti rose da giardino e ortensie stabiliti nel colpire le navi nere .Le sedie erano vestiti con flirty battiscopa blush che fatica complimentato il paesaggio tavolo .La vivace verde vivente che circonda la zona e il suono luce delle cascate perfezionato l'aspetto della sala da pranzo .

L'enorme pista da ballo bianco incandescente con Gene \u0026Monogramma Shannon ' stato circondato da 4 .100 £ lampadari floreali che erano semplicemente bocca caduta .Vignette Petite circondato il pavimento e sono stati accentati con personalizzati monogramma cuscini di seta dupioni con ricami in oro .Una volta che tutti hanno fatto la loro strada verso la pista da ballo .feste la sera ' aveva appena iniziato !Shannon aveva chiesto karaoke per abiti da sposa corti la ricezione .così abbiamo pensato



così cosa c'è di meglio che avere una band suonare dal vivo come la loro musica di sottofondo !Sophie ( Gene e figlia Shannon ' ) ha iniziato le danze via con la sua interpretazione diè eeautifulèeè et Ultimoè?mentre i suoi genitori amorevolmente ballavano tra di loro e hanno accolto i loro amici e familiari a unirsi a loro sul pavimento .Gene saltò sul contrabbasso .mentre .Sophie \u0026Nick ( i loro figli ) ha cantato tutta la notte .Hanno sicuramente tutti scosso la casa .e ci siamo divertiti tutta la serata !
la serata si è conclusa .Gene e Shannon sono stati presentati con una splendida torta 3-tier .che consisteva di due livelli oro con finiture nere.e un livello inferiore di perfezione filodiffusione avorio rose .Mentre gli ospiti erano riuniti attorno .un solo cuore matrimoni avevano sorpreso gli ospiti con una giornata di modifica video l'intera attività serate .ogni ipotesi era in soggezione .E 'stato il modo perfetto per concludere questa bella raccoltaèsi poteva assolutamente sentire l'amore nell'aria

Banda : Jimmy Mac \u0026 The Kool Kats | Dress Brides 1 : . Jenny Packham | Dress Brides 2 : Badgley Mischka | Cake: DesignerCakes | Restauro : Sugar Beach Catering | Sedia Covers : Wildflower lino | Coordinatore / Progettista : Lady Liberty Eventi | Assistenza design: bianco Orchid Weddings | Designer : Matrimoni Un cuore | Fiori : Uno Matrimoni cuore | biancheria: La Tavola biancheria | Fotografia : TrishFotografia Barker | Luogo Carte : Pitbulls e Posies | String Duo : Don Lax | Luogo : Haiku Mill | caricabatterie: BBJ LinenBadgley Mischka è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .Wildflower Lino.un'orchidea da sposa bianco .INC .BBJ e Lady Liberty eventi fanno parte del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Wildflower Linen vedi portfolio un'orchidea da sposa bianco .INC vedi portfolio BBJ vedi portfolio Lady Liberty Eventi visualizza
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The great pines stand
Laden with heavy snow
Waters flow unseen
Hidden below thick sheets of ice
I caught a glimpse of her once
Or at least I believe I did
That woman long golden hair
Who walks barefoot in the snow
Signing her odd melodies
I have heard nothing like it
In all my many years
Oft I sit at the end of the woods
By the wide river bank
Hoping to hear her
Somewhere off in the distance
On but two occasions in my life
Were my ears so lucky
To be graced by her voice
I was in awe of her
And yet I was fearful
For I know she was not one of us
The old stories say she came from heaven
From a place above the sky
I do not pretend to know
Nor do I care, I simply wish
To catch a glimpse of her again
To lock with her peircing blue eyes
Brighter and fresher
Than a spring time stream
To witness her one last time
And to hear her song in full
A faint Aria in the snow

1

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.

2

Once, Paumanok,
When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing,
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,
Two guests from Alabama—two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

3

Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask—we two together.

Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

4

Till of a sudden,
May-be ****’d, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest,
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appear’d again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama.

5

Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.

6

Yes, when the stars glisten’d,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

He call’d on his mate;
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know.

Yes, my brother, I know;
The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note;
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listen’d long and long.

Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother.

7

Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon—it rose late;
O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
With love—with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;
Surely you must know who is here, is here;
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would;
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth;
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want.

Shake out, carols!
Solitary here—the night’s carols!
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless, despairing carols.

But soft! sink low;
Soft! let me just murmur;
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint—I must be still, be still to listen;
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.

Hither, my love!
Here I am! Here!
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you;
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.

Do not be decoy’d elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice;
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful.

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.

Yet I murmur, murmur on!
O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.

O past! O life! O songs of joy!
In the air—in the woods—over fields;
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my love no more, no more with me!
We two together no more.

8

The aria sinking;
All else continuing—the stars shining,
The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling;
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching;
The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting,
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering,
The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying,
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing,
To the outsetting bard of love.

9

Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,
Now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake,
And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
Never to die.

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me;
O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;)
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;)
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves around me!
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea!
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me;
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved!
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?

10

Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break,
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH;
And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death,
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart,
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over,
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

Which I do not forget,
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs, at random,
My own songs, awaked from that hour;
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
The sea whisper’d me.

There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.

There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.

There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,

There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.

There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,

There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,

There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,

There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,

There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.

There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.

There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.

in this other side air took other color forms
emphasizing details, scanning asymptotes, like hearts
burning on pristine snow, of winter coming
in october already, even in the sun, in the sun above all, almost
red, like the air that took your form, hiding
walls and faces, of concealed rooms you make insomniac
and abruptly clear away, as you pour them in sealess salt

——————————————
Italian version from “Chieti, Scalo”, 2014:

asintoti obliqui

in quest’altra parte l’aria prese altre forme di colore,
insistendo sui dettagli, scandendo asintoti, come cuori
bruciati sulla precocissima neve, dell’inverno che viene
già di ottobre, anche nel sole, soprattutto nel sole, quasi
rosso, come l’aria che ha preso forma di te, celando
volti e pareti, di segrete stanze che componi insonne
e sparecchi di colpo, versandole in un sale senza mari

I remember the last day very well.

How happy we were to be away from the rest of them.

How fun it was sitting in your car, and screaming out lyrics to songs we would one day want marked on our bodies.

How we happily giggled and allowed every ounce of insecurity to melt away into the air around us.

How the sunlight streamed in through my windows and covered your golden skin in a thin film of white.

How it felt to kiss your lips.

How it felt to hold you close.

How your body pressed to mine created one continuous aria of love.

How my last words were "text me when you're safe and sound"

How I didn't know I would be leaving my heart in your shirt pocket.

"Will do"


(i. r)

Se c'è una cosa che dovete sapere su di me .è che io sono ossessionato con la caramella .Zuccherino.fruttato .cioccolatoso caramelle.il termine " golosi " e mi vanno di pari passo .Quindi questo capolavoro candy- ispirato di un matrimonio catturato da Ozzy Garcia Fotografia ?Beh.mi ha colpito con il suo bouquet caramelle ( SI ) .fiori rosa -riempita da Ocean Fiori e un infinito visualizzazione dolci.Clicca qui per tutti i dettagli squisiti .E ' al di là abbastanza .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsOutdoorStylesTraditional Eleganza

Da Sposa.Yoav e ** iniziato .scegliendo un luogo che potesse ospitare il nostro matrimonio all'aperto .l'aria calda Miami .una tregua benvenuto da inverni ventoso di Chicago e



Amsterdam e un minimo cambiamento climatico per i nostri 30 membri della vestiti da sposa famiglia che hanno fatto il viaggio dalla lontanaIsraele.La nostra visione per la sera era comfort casual con un lato di zucchero e un paio di sorprese lungo la strada.Jessica Masi di JCG eventi assicurato che questa visione è venuto a vita e Ozzy Garcia .di Ozzy Garcia Fotografia .artisticamente catturato questa visione e immortalato esso .
Avevamo fratello Yoavs officiare una parte della cerimonia .perché abbiamo ritenuto che quando si trattava di integrare i dati personali .chi poteva raccontare la nostra storia meglio di qualcuno che è stato lì fin dall'inizio ?Abbiamo voluto questo per impostare il precedente e il tono per il matrimonio a tutti i presenti .testimoniando il primo giorno della nostra vita in coppia .sono stati tutti .personaggi integrali amare nella nostra storia .

amore è dolce .il mio amore per la caramella è ancora più dolce .e ** sempre saputo che volevo il mio bouquet di essere fatto di caramelle .Alcune persone si asciugano i loro mazzi di fiori .alcune persone li salvano .avevo intenzione di mangiare la mia.Grazie alla Donut Divas .** avuto un ottimo spuntino a tarda notte sulla mia prima notte di nozze !Alcuni dei miei dolci preferiti di zucchero .marshmallow e M \u0026 Ms .sono stati abilmente collocato in un cono di cialda gigante.Il vantaggio di avere un matrimonio in giro per le vacanze di Pasqua è che anche l'erba nel bouquet era commestibile .

Oltre alla mia dipendenza da zucchero .credo davvero che ci sono pochi prodotti alimentari in questo mondo che può farmi felice come una torta di compleanno Publix negozio di alimentari .Al fine di condividere il mio amore per questa confezione con gli altri.dolci display ci ha fatto diversi stand torta di legno colorati .a cui Ocean Fiori aggiunto qualche scintilla .e abbiamo avuto diversi gusti di 8 pollici torte Publix poste sulle tavole di accoglienza .Il piano era quello di rimuovere le torte dopo cena e li hanno tagliati per dessert .ma i nostri ospiti seduti a questi tavoli è diventato così possessivo nei dolci sul loro tavolo che non avrebbe permesso a nessuno di toccarli .I nostri ospiti scavate con le loro forchette .senza nemmeno togliere dalla torta stare !

Oltre a tutti gli elementi fugaci di zucchero che è andato in nostro giorno speciale - le carte escort .il bouquet .i pop anello caramelle .lecca-lecca ragazza di fiore.il candy bar .le torte Publix - Penso che uno dei nostri ricordi preferiti dail giorno è venuto da Erin Una Chainani .** letto di Erin online circa due anni fa dopo googling Miami ritrattista .** chiamato Erin e le ** chiesto se lei sarebbe così incline a frequentare il nostro matrimonio e dipingere una scena.Non solo era pronto.ma ha dipinto due scene di boot!Ha catturato uno della cerimonia e uno del nostro primo ballo in coppia .

Quando il mio nuovo marito ed io stavamo confrontando le note dopo il matrimonio .entrambi abbiamo notato abiti da sposa corti che molte persone ci hanno offerto questo consiglio .amare ogni secondo di questa giornata perché va così veloce .E mentre il giorno ha fatto andare in fretta .non abbiamo mai avuto l'impressione che abbiamo perso tutte le occasioni per tutto dentro E grazie a Erin e Ozzy .abbiamo ricordi che ci ricordano del giorno del nostro matrimonio per sempre .Fotografia

: Ozzy Garcia Fotografia | Floral Design : Mare Flowers | Abito da vestiti da sposa sposa: Pronovias | Wedding Cake: Temptations eleganti | Scarpe : Mojo Moxy | capelli: Tanya Maquez | Abbigliamento dello sposo : Completo di supporto | Cake Stands : Sweet Visualizza | Cake Topper: Questo è il mio Topper | Torte (piccolo ) : Publix Bakery | Candy Profumo: Donut Divas | Cigar Roller : Acope Cigars | Dress Sash : Blue Bird Studio | Orecchini : Matrimoni 826 | Pianificazione + Design : GCP Eventi LLC | Flower Girl Dresses :pretty Flower Girl | Scarpe Flower Girl : Toms | Trucco : Rachel Blair Shapiro | Ritratto Artista : Erin Una Chainani | Wedding Venue : The Palms hotel \u0026
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Ti ** mai detto che io sono un pollone completo per una storia d'amore ?Probabilmente capito che fuori già



.ma io amo sentire come fuori di tutte le persone del mondo .due persone è capitato di trovare l'altro - e quando finisce in un matrimonio bello come questo.mi rivolgo in poltiglia .Catturato da Heather Pipino Fotografia questa storia d'amore ha un finale molto felice.Vedere ancora di più qui .
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsFallSettingsHotelStylesTraditional Elegance

Da Heather Pipino Fotografia. "Quattro anni fa non avrei maiè èe credevoè ñessere qui in piedi con una ragazza che camminava in un negozio di caffè che indossa un cappello Dodgers .ditutte le cose . abbiamo aspettato quasi due mesi prima che ci incontrassimo a vicenda . Dopo che tutti i testi .e-mail e telefonate abbiamo tenuto il nostro respiro e ha preso un salto .e abbiamo imparato nella vita.che tutto ciò che serve è venti secondi di coraggio folle afare qualcosa di grande accadere. "

Quelle parole erano solo una porzione di dolce voti Sam 'a Lindsey .ma danno una buona sbirciatina per i bellissimi cuori e amore stimolante che Sam e condividere Lindsey .Sono entrambi persone così gentili e genuini e la loro vita e l'amore riflettere sul fatto che in ogni modo.E 'doesnè èimporta quanto tempo siè èe li noti .Sam e abiti da sposa corti Lindsey sono il tipo di persone che ti accolgono con un caloroso abbraccio e lascerà piena di gioia .Essi vi invitano nel loro mondo e ti fanno abiti da sposa on line sentire come seè èe stati amici per anni .E ' questo amore che essi hanno per l'altro e per le persone intorno a loro che hanno fatto il loro giorno di nozze così incredibile .In una bella giornata in California.presso la Estancia Resort a La Jolla .amici e parenti si sono riuniti per sostenere e amare questa coppia che aveva toccato ciascuna delle loro vite .E 'stata una giornata piena di lacrime di gioia .il romanticismo .l'amore e la bellezza .e Sam e Lindsey meritato ogni singolo istante.

Da Bride.How ci siamo incontrati : Le nostre mamme lavorano insieme in una scuola nella Bay Area .Una volta che la sua mamma ha imparato che vivevo a San Diego .ha pensato che sarebbe stata una buona idea per me di mostrare il suo figlio in giro come gli era stato appena assunto lì .Lei e mi aveva viaggiato a Parigi circa sette anni fa con mia mamma e un altro insegnante .Mi ricordo che lei mi dice allora che avevo bisogno di incontrare suo figlio ma eravamo entrambi risalenti altre persone al momento .Ero titubante a incontrarlo fino a quando ** fatto un po ' di Facebook stalking.voglio dire .la ricerca .Mi fu colpito in primo click.The prima richiesta di amicizia è stata inviata e tanti.tanti .( molti) messaggi e fino a tarda notte dopo.i messaggi si rivolse a testi e testi voltai per le telefonate .Questo è durato per un certo periodo come i sentimenti si erano formate veloce e siamo stati nervosi e ansiosi di incontrarsi other.Finally un incontro è stato fissato al Coffee Bean a Carlsbad .Eravamo lì per quattro ore e quasi chiudiamo il posto in fondo .Il giorno dopo.unè edata irstèè stata impostata e il resto è storia !

Il nostro matrimonio ha avuto luogo a La Jolla .in California presso l' Estancia Hotel.Abbiamo scelto questa posizione perché è rilassato eleganza .giardini mozzafiato .ed è vicino a dove viviamo .Perché ci siamo incontrati e viviamo qui a San Diego e volevamo festeggiare il nostro amore qui .La maggior parte dei nostri ospiti di nozze erano da fuori città .abbiamo voluto l' atmosfera di essere caldo.accogliente.e una volta tutti vorremmo amare .

I colori erano nero.bianco e verde e il tema era classica .semplice eleganza.Volevamo la sede per parlare di se stesso in modo non volevo fiori eccessivamente fatto .ma felci semplicemente dichiarati e fiori bianchi .Isari Floral Studio ha fatto un lavoro incredibile catturare la nostra visione .

Volevamo il matrimonio per avere tocchi di tutti noi in tutto.Abbiamo parcheggiato la nostra hot rod (1932 Ford Roadster ) nel modo di entrata dell'hotel.Mio padre aveva una splendida "Just Married " segno gessato per noi.così abbiamo potuto avere un scappare con stile !Il nostro cane (leggi : nostro figlio ) . Non poteva essere sulla proprietà .purtroppo .così abbiamo avuto una foto incorniciata di lui fatta con un cartello appeso al collo che diceva : " Sono contento che tu sia qui a festeggiare con i miei genitori prega di godere il cagnolinoborse da me . Woof .Lux " .Su quel tavolo .avevamo sacchetti di biscotti monogramma di Michele Coulon Dessertier .Per il nostro libro degli ospiti .abbiamo lavorato con un graphic designer per fare quello di un manifesto sorta di nostra sede .Ora abbiamo questa grande opera d'arte.con parole gentili di tutti appendere in casa nostra .Sulle pareti della Sala Grande .avevo il nostro invito fatto saltare in aria e sparsi sui muri nelle loro cornici .Tutti questi tocchi davvero reso il giorno così memorabile .

nostro incredibile team di venditori e la nostra famiglia e gli amici sono ciò che veramente ha reso questa giornata il giorno più speciale della nostra vita finora.Siamo così fortunati ad aver avuto un bel matrimonio tale .Sono entusiasta di essere sposata con Sam per il resto della nostra vita !Fotografia

: Heather Pepin Fotografia | dell'artista: Aqua Vivus Productions | Event Design : Sherry Glommen | Pianificazione : Swann Soirees | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Floral Design : Isari Flower Studio | Cake : la zia della sposa | Inviti : Smitten Onpaper | Cerimonia Luogo : Estancia La Jolla | Banco Luogo : Estancia La abiti da sposa on line Jolla | Bridesmaids Dresses : Nordstrom | capelli: Jessica / Michelle - Koda Salon | Calligraphy : Brown Fox Calligrafia | Abbigliamento da Groomsmen : Nero risvolto | officiante : Cerimonie Per Bethel | pipistrelli pergroomsmen : Louisville Slugger | vestito nuziale : Tara Keely | sposa / damigella d'onore Abiti : Abbastanza Plum zucchero | Cookies : Michele Coulon Dessertier | Guest Book Graphic Designer : Designs J Gal | Musica live / DJ : Collin Elliot -Ancora Ascolto Productions | Trucco : FioreBeauty | Photobooth : Photobooth mobileHayley Paige e Jim Hjelm occasioni sono membri della nostra Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .Fiore Bellezza .Isari Fiore Studio + Design Event .Plum Piuttosto Zucchero.JLM Couture .Inc. e Mobile Photo Booth sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Fiore di bellezza VIEW PORTFOLIO Isari Fiore Studio vedi portfolio Plum graziosa Zucchero vedi portfolio JLM Couture Wedding Gown Bouti ... vedi portfolio Mobile Photo Booth VIEW
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I am thirteen
    when the mean girls call
me weird—
I do not shave
I do not wear makeup.
I do wear basketball shorts
and messy ponytails.
I am pressured to be her—
Aria.
I shave relentlessly
    for the next two years.

I am fifteen
    full of discomfort
    and anger
breaking my bones like they
    are glass
reckless rage—
all reckless no brave
    depraved of a home
    inside my own skin.

I am fifteen when I
learn what gender dysphoria is.

I am fifteen when I
    realize I am a boy
that I always have and will be
    a boy.

I am fifteen—
putting holes in wall and
    overdosing on advil
like it is a sport
championing my own self demise.

I am fifteen afraid and closeted—
I write my name as
ALEX
on my school assignments
I always change it back
before I turn them in.  

I am fifteen
    convinced everyone loves the girl
I am not
    and will never love me as the boy
I actually am.

I am sixteen crying on the floor
    of a psych ward
    this is my fifth hospitalization
in fourteen months.
Pretending to be her is
killing me.
I choke back tears as I tell
my mom that I am
transgender.
She tells me she loves me,
    and she saw me writing
    ALEX on my papers.

It will take five years
for her to let her daughter go.

I am seventeen when I am shoved
    to the floor in a men's bathroom
    slammed and slurred across the tile—
It will not be until six months into
    Hormone Replacement Therapy
that I use the men's public restroom.
I am eighteen when my moms boyfriend of the
time pulls me aside
and tells me I am making a mistake.
He would wear his mothers dresses and heels,
    hiding in her closet
    all of this is to say
    this is a phase.
When people say that this is a phase—
    I am sixteen
    sobbing on linoleum floors
    covered in cuts
    wanting nothing more than death
    if I have to pretend to be her
    for more than one second longer.

I am nineteen hopeful
    and naive.
Voice cracking and hair sprouting
    I am coming into my own body.
    I have learned that there
    are things much worse than needles.

I am twenty out of the
    ashes of abuse and trauma
    I am finally becoming
    the man I have always been
    meant to be.

I.
Nothing lasts long enough
To out live its time line
So I weave mine into
A concert celebrating the sound
That our bodies beat to
This organic clockwork armada
Of single cell ships singing lions roars
Before time aligns my spine with the dirt

And though I know gray hair will claim crowns
Overthrowing the royalty of youth
These ball headed blessings
Are nothing more then a water park river slide
We must all ride toward oblivion

So my fatal flawed form
Speaks a beautiful broken clock symphony
For these poems to fill up
Facing the future as if it was an old friend
To bed down with
Laughing at how long it’s been
Since we claimed tomorrow
As a carpe diem doctrine
To rock in

And I hope that when the waterfall of my life
Meets rock-bottom-spray-mist-rainbow-prism-old-age-epiphany  
My grandchildren will cling to me
Like vines to a towering oak tree
So I can whisper to them through a white Walt Whitman mane

"I may be a washed up old lion
But you
You are the roar of a crescendo
To an aria arranged before the birth of music
As if each note was placed purposely to hang in harmony
With the budding of your bones
They sing in the same key as the fickler flashbulbs
Of the stars you were forged in
Who sweet talk to you in your sleep nightly"  
Saying
        Listen my lovelies
        To the lullaby of the universe
        As it sings itself toward salvation
Which when translated into night
        Says come gather your dreams
        In the concert of my body
Babies
You were born
        As a single rift
        In the solo
Of some Charlie parker bird flight ascension
So let this bedtime word weaving remind you of the halo about your head
For you
Were born as angels
Back when the big bang band first leaned how to blow

So if you stagnate
         Like we all do
Fearing that you are all alone in the prison cell of your skin
Remember the old lions still roaring in your gut
Listen close
        For there has never been a moment of silence
        And there will never been a moment of silence
Cause there is music buried beneath your bones my children
Come sing in the choir of your forefathers the winds
        Your solo is about to begin

Ma Jalouse, Mon Unique, Mon Ultime
Sais-tu ce que Lord Invader, Sam Manning
Cyril Monrose, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong
Jack Sneed et Ernest Rangling
Sans oublier Blue Glaze Mento Band et Phil Madison ?
Et je m'arrête là pour l'instant,
Sais-tu ce qu'ils ont en commun ?
Eh bien vois-tu, ce sont tous mes ombres.
Tu ne pourras jamais me comprendre
Si tu ne les comprends pas
Et si tu ne sais pas ce que représentent pour moi
La mangouste et le raccoon.
De même que pour te comprendre il faut avoir lu tout Dostoievski
Pour me comprendre il faut avoir écouté tout Sly Mongoose
Car peut être n'as-tu vu en moi qu'aria et boléro, symphonie et concerto
Alors je t'explique : pour comprendre, n'essaie pas de philosopher
Lève-toi et bouge tout simplement et tu toucheras l 'essence
C'est du folklore, c'est du reggae, c 'est du mento, c'est du calypso, c'est du jazz,
C'est instrumental ou c'est vocal
C'est moi, mes ascendances et descendances.
Sly Mongoose c'est mes Frères Karamasov
Smerdiakov, Aliocha, Ivan et Dmitri
C'est mon Idiot, mon prince Lev Mychkine
C'est mon Joueur, mon Alexei Ivanovitch

Mon Rêve d'un Homme Ridicule
Et Raskolnikov errant dans la nuit dans Crime et Châtiment.
Sly Mongoose c'est l'histoire d'une mangouste maline
Qui a baptisé la fille du pasteur
De son eau sainte
Et qui fuit la Jamaïque
Et part à l'étranger
Après son forfait.
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui vole les poules les plus grasses de la cuisine
Et qui les met dans la poche de son veston
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui entre dans la cuisine d'un prédicateur
Et qui repart avec une des poules les plus grasses
Et tous les chiens savent son nom.
il s'appelle Sly Mangoose
Il est malin, il est vicieux, le compère
C'est mon ombre, que veux-tu
Et parfois pour échapper aux prédateurs
Il prend l'apparence de l'ombre d'un raccoon.

There's a girl bopping her head to the music,
A boy wanderin' 'round with a guitar
Who don't know how to use it.
Traffic fills my ears and eyes,
Onions and smoke and fries.

Beat up sneakers and flip flops
Bandanna people with orange tops,
Hipsters, tricksters
Hustlers and saints
Empty, wandering, full of complaints.

Broken, discordant conversations
Elaborate, intricate exaggerations
Dusty, ugly sidewalk
Happy, ugly small talk.

Sighs and trees...
Silent pleas
From the lost
Who couldn't pay the cost
To belong:

An aria for the wrong.

From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”

It sings to me
On the dark side of midnight.
The deep, throbbing song
Courses through my veins.

It robs me of sleep
With its hurtful music;
Woven throughout me a
Sadistic opera of pain.

Screeching aria’s fill my
Head with brain-snapping sound,
While the chorus accompanies
With low, deep down thrumming.

Once begun, this opera of horror
Will sing for hours at a time.
No breaks allowed for this
Captive audience of one.

It sings until satisfied
My body won’t be worth a ****.
Wrung limp from the awful music
Of the tortuous performance.

Sung to me from the dark side of midnight.


4/1/11   (c) Peggy Montgomery

Uyghur Poetry Translations

With my translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets and their people, who are being sent in large numbers to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps which have been praised by Trump as "exactly" what is "needed."

Perhat Tursun (1969-????) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. Apparently no one knows his present whereabouts or condition.

Because Perhat Tursun quoted Hermann Hesse I have included my translations of Hesse at the bottom of this page, including "Stages" or "Steps" from his novel "The Glass Bead Game" and excerpts from "Siddhartha."



Elegy
by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

"Your soul is the entire world."
―Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?

Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?

In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?

When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes,...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?

In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?

TRANSLATOR NOTES: This is my interpretation (not necessarily correct) of the poem's frozen corpses left 300 years in the past. For the Uyghur people the Mongol period ended around 1760 when the Qing dynasty invaded their homeland, then called Dzungaria. Around a million people were slaughtered during the Qing takeover, and the Dzungaria territory was renamed Xinjiang. I imagine many Uyghurs fleeing the slaughters would have attempted to navigate treacherous mountain passes. Many of them may have died from starvation and/or exposure, while others may have been caught and murdered by their pursuers.



The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”

I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.

After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.

While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.

Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.

For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.

Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.

The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.



The Encounter
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God.
I asked her, anything else? She said her People.
I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul.
I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not.



The Distance
by Tahir Hamut
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades.
Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building
the nurses watch our outlandish party
with their absurdly distorted faces.

Drinking watered-down liquor,
half-****, descanting through the open window,
we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls.
The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in,
wrecking critical parts of our dissertations.

The others dream up excuses to ditch me
and I’m left here alone.

The cosmopolitan pyramid
of drained bottles
makes me feel
like I’m in a Turkish bath.

I lock the door:
Time to get back to work!

I feel like doing cartwheels.
I feel like self-annihilation.



Refuge of a Refugee
by Ablet Abdurishit Berqi aka Tarim
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I lack a passport,
so I can’t leave legally.
All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety,
but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border
and I can’t afford the trafficker.

I’m a smuggler of love,
though love has no national identity.
Poetry is my refuge,
where a refugee is most free.

The following excerpts, translated by Anne Henochowicz, come from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abdurishit Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants...

I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through?

Chen Quanguo, the Communist Party secretary of Xinjiang, has said it’s “like the instruction at school, the order of the military, and the security of prison. We have to break their blood relations, their networks, and their roots.”

On a scorching summer day, Tarim came to Tel Aviv from Haifa. In a few days he would go back to Urumqi. I invited him to come say goodbye and once again prepared Sichuan cold noodles for him. He had already unfriended me on Facebook. He said he couldn’t eat, he was busy, and had to hurry back to Haifa. He didn’t even stay for twenty minutes. I can’t even remember, did he sit down? Did he have a glass of water? Yet this farewell shook me to my bones.

He said, “Maybe when I get off the plane, before I enter the airport, they’ll take me to a separate room and beat me up, and I’ll disappear.”

Looking at my shocked face, he then said, “And maybe nothing will happen …”

His expression was sincere. To be honest, the Tarim I saw rarely smiled. Still, layer upon layer blocked my powers of comprehension: he’s a poet, a writer, and a scholar. He’s an associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute. He can get a passport and come to Israel for advanced studies. When he goes back he’ll have an offer from Sichuan University to be a professor of literature … I asked, “Beat you up at the airport? Disappear? On what grounds?”

“That’s how Xinjiang is,” he said without any surprise in his voice. “When a Uyghur comes back from being abroad, that can happen.”…



This poem helps us understand the nomadic lifestyle of many Uyghurs, the hardships they endure, and the character it builds...

Iz (“Traces”)
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We were children when we set out on this journey;
Now our grandchildren ride horses.

We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey;
Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert.

We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys
Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves.

But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars
their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers!

We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance;
The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains.

The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin,
But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces.

The original Uyghur poem:

Yax iduq muxkul seperge atlinip mangghanda biz,
Emdi atqa mingidek bolup qaldi ene nevrimiz.
Az iduq muxkul seperge atlinip chiqanda biz,
Emdi chong karvan atalduq, qaldurup chollerde iz.
Qaldi iz choller ara, gayi davanlarda yene,
Qaldi ni-ni arslanlar dexit cholde qevrisiz.
Qevrisiz qaldi dimeng yulghun qizarghan dalida,
Gul-chichekke pukinur tangna baharda qevrimiz.
Qaldi iz, qaldi menzil, qaldi yiraqta hemmisi,
Chiqsa boran, kochse qumlar, hem komulmes izimiz.
Tohtimas karvan yolida gerche atlar bek oruq,
Tapqus hichbolmisa, bu izni bizning nevrimiz, ya chevrimiz.

Other poems of note by Abdurehim Otkur include "I Call Forth Spring" and "Waste, You Traitors, Waste!"



My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.

The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.

Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.

Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.



To My Brother the Warrior
by Téyipjan Éliyow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I accompanied you,
the commissioners called me a child.
If only I had been a bit taller
I might have proved myself in battle!

The commission could not have known
my commitment, despite my youth.
If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me,
I'd have given that enemy rabble hell!

Now, brother, I’m an adult.
Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon.
Soon enough, I’ll be by your side,
battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender!

Another poem of note by Téyipjan Éliyow is "Neverending Song."

Keywords/Tags: Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, elegy, Kafka, China, Chinese, reeducation, prison, concentration camp, desert, nomad, nomadic, race, racism, discrimination, Islam, Islamic, Muslim, mrbuyghur



Chinese Poets: English Translations

These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang E, Huang O, Li Bai, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo.



Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (701-762)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring breeze knows partings are bitter;
The willow twig knows it will never be green again.



A Toast to Uncle Yun
by Li Bai (701-762)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords;
Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine.



The Solitude of Night
by Li Bai (701–762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At the wine party
I lay comatose, knowing nothing.
Windblown flowers fell, perfuming my lap.
When I arose, still drunk,
The birds had all flown to their nests.
All that remained were my fellow inebriates.
I left to walk along the river—alone with the moonlight.



Li Bai (701-762)    was a romantic figure who has been called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770)    were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, which has been called the 'Golden Age of Chinese poetry.' Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T'ai-po, and Li T'ai-pai.



Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alone in your bedchamber
you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon.

Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an...

A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets!
In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade!

Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?



Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight the Fu-Chou moon
watches your lonely bedroom.

Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an...

By now your hair will be damp from your bath
and fall in perfumed ringlets;
your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight!

Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?



Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (712-770)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries querulously for his companions.

Who feels kinship for that strange wraith
as he vanishes eerily into the heavens?

You watch it as it disappears;
its plaintive calls cut through you.

The indignant crows ignore you both:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.

Du Fu (712-770)    is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means 'Long-peace.'



The Red Cockatoo
by Po Chu-I (772-846)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A marvelous gift from Annam—
a red cockatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.

So they did what they always do
to the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred cage
and shut it up.

Po Chu-I (772-846)    is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi.



The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c.1084-1155)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The migrant songbird on the nearby yew
brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills:
another spring gone, and still no word from you...



The Plum Blossoms
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c.1084-1155)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This year with the end of autumn
I find my reflection graying at the edges.
Now evening gales hammer these ledges...
what shall become of the plum blossoms?

Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi'an.



Star Gauge
Sui Hui (c.351-394 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much lost so far away
on that distant rutted road.

That distant rutted road
wounds me to the heart.

Grief coupled with longing,
so much lost so far away.

Grief coupled with longing
wounds me to the heart.

This house without its master;
the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils.

The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils,
and you are not here.

Such loneliness! My adorned face
lacks the mirror's clarity.

I see by the mirror's clarity
my Lord is not here. Such loneliness!

Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. And her 'Star Gauge' or 'Sphere Map' may be the most impressive poem written in any language to this day, in terms of complexity. 'Star Gauge' has been described as a palindrome or 'reversible' poem, but it goes far beyond that. According to contemporary sources, the original poem was shuttle-woven on brocade, in a circle, so that it could be read in multiple directions. Due to its shape the poem is also called Xuanji Tu ('Picture of the Turning Sphere') . The poem is now generally placed in a grid or matrix so that the Chinese characters can be read horizontally, vertically and diagonally. The story behind the poem is that Sui Hui's husband, Dou Tao, the governor of Qinzhou, was exiled to the desert. When leaving his wife, Dou swore to remain faithful. However, after arriving at his new post, he took a concubine. Lady Su then composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of silk embroidery, and sent it to him. Upon receiving the masterwork, he repented. It has been claimed that there are up to 7,940 ways to read the poem. My translation above is just one of many possible readings of a portion of the poem.



Reflection
Xu Hui (627-650)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Confronting the morning she faces her mirror;
Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile.
It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile,
So why would she answer a man's summons?

Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her.



Waves
Zhai Yongming (1955-)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly,
and so the world abuses my body—
accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy...



Monologue
Zhai Yongming (1955-)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am a wild thought, born of the abyss
and—only incidentally—of you. The earth and sky
combine in me—their concubine—they consolidate in my body.

I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh,
and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you.

I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women.
Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit.

When you leave, my pain makes me want to ***** my heart up through my mouth—
to destroy you through love—where's the taboo in that?

The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body.
I have my ways.

A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me?
What is life?

Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. She was one of the instigators and prime movers of the 'Black Tornado' of women's poetry that swept China in 1986-1989. Since then Zhai has been regarded as one of China's most prominent poets.



Pyre
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You and I share so much desire:
this love―like a fire—
that ends in a pyre's
charred coffin.



'Married Love' or 'You and I' or 'The Song of You and Me'
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You and I shared a love that burned like fire:
two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire
molded into twin figures. We two.
Me and you.

In life we slept beneath a single quilt,
so in death, why any guilt?
Let the skeptics keep scoffing:
it's best to share a single coffin.

Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)    is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. A famous poet of the early Yuan dynasty, she has also been called 'the most famous female painter and calligrapher in the Chinese history... remembered not only as a talented woman, but also as a prominent figure in the history of bamboo painting.' She is best known today for her images of nature and her tendency to inscribe short poems on her paintings.



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard my love was going to Yang-chou
So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan.
For just a moment as he held me in his arms
I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still.



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Will I ever hike up my dress for you again?
Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face?



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Night descends...
I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover.
Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved?



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt;
I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window;
If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly,
I'll blame it on the unruly wind!



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When he returns to my embrace,
I'll make him feel what no one has ever felt before:
Me absorbing him like water
Poured into a wet clay jar.



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze.
Night deepens.
My lover loves me,
And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him.



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do you not see
that we
have become like branches of a single tree?



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed!
I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere―
disembodied voices calling my name!
Helplessly I cried 'Yes! ' to the phantom air!



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have brought my pillow to the windowsill
so come play with me, tease me, as in the past...
Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses,
how much longer can love last?



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no?
But your disdain for me is nothing new.
Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door
where no one enters anymore.



Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I remain constant as the Northern Star
while you rush about like the fickle sun:
rising in the East, drooping in the West.

Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh)    was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c.400 BC)    also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ('midnight songs') . Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a 'sing-song' girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a 'wine shop girl' and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po)    was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very ****)    poems of the 'sing-song' girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's 'The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter.' If the ancient 'sing-song' girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch



The Day after the Rain
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the day after the rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart endlessly rises with wind,
gusts with wind...
away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves...
away the clouds like smoke...
vanishing like smoke...



Music Heard Late at Night
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Xu Zhimo

I blushed,
hearing the lovely nocturnal tune.

The music touched my heart;
I embraced its sadness, but how to respond?

The pattern of life was established eons ago:
so pale are the people's imaginations!

Perhaps one day You and I
can play the chords of hope together.

It must be your fingers gently playing
late at night, matching my sorrow.

Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) , also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin.



Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again
Xu Zhimo (1897-1931)  
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
quietly I wave good-bye
to the sky's dying flame.

The riverside's willows
like lithe, sunlit brides
reflected in the waves
move my heart's tides.

Weeds moored in dark sludge
sway here, free of need,
in the Cam's gentle wake...
O, to be a waterweed!

Beneath shady elms
a nebulous rainbow
crumples and reforms
in the soft ebb and flow.

Seek a dream? Pole upstream
to where grass is greener;
rig the boat with starlight;
sing aloud of love's splendor!

But how can I sing
when my song is farewell?
Even the crickets are silent.
And who should I tell?

So quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
gently I flick my sleeves...
not a wisp will remain.

(6 November 1928)  

Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include 'On Leaving Cambridge, ' 'Second Farewell to Cambridge, ' 'Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, '  and 'Taking Leave of Cambridge Again.'



These are my modern English translations of poems by the Chinese poet Huang E (1498-1569) , also known as Huang Xiumei. She has been called the most outstanding female poet of the Ming Dynasty, and her husband its most outstanding male poet. Were they poetry's first power couple? Her father Huang Ke was a high-ranking official of the Ming court and she married Yang Shen, the prominent son of Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe. Unfortunately for the young power couple, Yang Shen was exiled by the emperor early in their marriage and they lived largely apart for 30 years. During their long separations they would send each other poems which may belong to a genre of Chinese poetry I have dubbed 'sorrows of the wild geese' …

Sent to My Husband
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wild geese never fly beyond Hengyang...
how then can my brocaded words reach Yongchang?
Like wilted willow flowers I am ill-fated indeed;
in that far-off foreign land you feel similar despair.
'Oh, to go home, to go home! ' you implore the calendar.
'Oh, if only it would rain, if only it would rain! ' I complain to the heavens.
One hears hopeful rumors that you might soon be freed...
but when will the Golden **** rise in Yelang?

A star called the Golden **** was a symbol of amnesty to the ancient Chinese. Yongchang was a hot, humid region of Yunnan to the south of Hengyang, and was presumably too hot and too far to the south for geese to fly there.



Luo Jiang's Second Complaint
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The green hills vanished,
pedestrians passed by
disappearing beyond curves.

The geese grew silent, the horseshoes timid.

Winter is the most annoying season!

A lone goose vanished into the heavens,
the trees whispered conspiracies in Pingwu,
and people huddling behind buildings shivered.



Bitter Rain, an Aria of the Yellow Oriole
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These ceaseless rains make the spring shiver:
even the flowers and trees look cold!
The roads turn to mud;
the river's eyes are tired and weep into in a few bays;
the mountain clouds accumulate like ***** dishes,
and the end of the world seems imminent, if jejune.

I find it impossible to send books:
the geese are ruthless and refuse to fly south to Yunnan!



Broken-Hearted Poem
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My tears cascade into the inkwell;
my broken heart remains at a loss for words;
ever since we held hands and said farewell,
I have been too listless to paint my eyebrows;
no medicine can cure my night-sweats,
no wealth repurchase our lost youth;
and how can I persuade that ****** bird singing in the far hills
to tell a traveler south of the Yangtze to return home?



Hermann Hesse

Hermann Karl Hesse (1877-1962) was a German-Swiss poet, novelist, essayist, painter and mystic. Hesse’s best-known works include Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, Demian, Narcissus and Goldmund and The Glass Bead Game. One of Germany’s greatest writers, Hesse was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1946.

"Stages" or "Steps"
by Hermann Hesse
from his novel The Glass Bead Game
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As every flower wilts and every youth
must wilt and exit life from a curtained stage,
so every virtue—even our truest truth—
blooms some brief time and cannot last forever.
Since life may summons death at any age
we must prepare for death’s obscene endeavor,
meet our end with courage and without remorse,
forego regret and hopes of some reprieve,
embrace death’s end, as life’s required divorce,
some new beginning, calling us to live.
Thus let us move, serene, beyond our fear,
and let no sentiments detain us here.

The Universal Spirit would not chain us,
but elevates us slowly, stage by stage.
If we demand a halt, our fears restrain us,
caught in the webs of creaturely defense.
We must prepare for imminent departure
or else be bound by foolish “permanence.”
Death’s hour may be our swift deliverance,
from which we speed to fresher, newer spaces,
and Life may summons us to bolder races.
So be it, heart! Farewell, and adieu, then!



The Poet
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Only upon me, the lonely one,
Do this endless night’s stars shine
As the fountain gurgles its faery song.

For me alone, the lonely one,
The shadows of vagabond clouds
Float like dreams over slumbering farms.

What is mine lies beyond possession:
Neither manor, nor pasture,
Neither forest, nor hunting permit …

What is mine belongs to no one:
The plunging brook beyond the veiling woods,
The terrifying sea,
The chick-like chatter of children at play,
The weeping and singing of a lonely man longing for love.

The temples of the gods are mine, also,
And the distant past’s aristocratic castles.

And mine, no less, the luminous vault of heaven,
My future home …

Often in flights of longing my soul soars heavenward,
Hoping to gaze on the halls of the blessed,
Where Love, overcoming the Law, unconditional Love for All,
Leaves them all nobly transformed:
Farmers, kings, tradesman, bustling sailors,
Shepherds, gardeners, one and all,
As they gratefully celebrate their heavenly festivals.

Only the poet is unaccompanied:
The lonely one who continues alone,
The recounter of human longing,
The one who sees the pale image of a future,
The fulfillment of a world
That has no further need of him.
Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one cares or remembers him.



On a Journey to Rest
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't be downcast, the night is soon over;
then we can watch the pale moon hover
over the dawning land
as we rest, hand in hand,
laughing secretly to ourselves.

Don't be downcast, the time will soon come
when we, too, can rest
(our small crosses will stand, blessed,
on the edge of the road together;
the rain, then the snow will fall,
and the winds come and go)
heedless of the weather.



Lonesome Night
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dear brothers, who are mine,
All people, near and far,
Wishing on every star,
Imploring relief from pain;

My brothers, stumbling, dumb,
Each night, as pale stars ache,
Lift thin, limp hands for crumbs,
mutter and suffer, awake;

Poor brothers, commonplace,
Pale sailors, who must live
Without a bright guide above,
We share a common face.

Return my welcome.



How Heavy the Days
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How heavy the days.
Not a fire can warm me,
Nor a sun brighten me!
Everything barren,
Everything bare,
Everything utterly cold and merciless!
Now even the once-beloved stars
Look distantly down,
Since my heart learned
Love can die.



Without You
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My pillow regards me tonight
Comfortless as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To face the night alone,
Not to lie asleep entangled in your hair.

I lie alone in this silent house,
The hanging lamp softly dimmed,
Then gently extend my hands
To welcome yours …
Softly press my warm mouth
To yours …
Only to kiss myself,
Then suddenly I'm awake
And the night grows colder still.

The star in the window winks knowingly.
Where is your blonde hair,
Your succulent mouth?

Now I drink pain in every former delight,
Find poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To face the night alone,
Alone, without you.



Secretly We Thirst…
by Hermann Hesse
from his novel The Glass Bead Game
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Charismatic, spiritual, with the gracefulness of arabesques,
our lives resemble fairies’ pirouettes,
spinning gently through the nothingness
to which we sacrifice our beings and the present.

Whirling dreams of quintessence and loveliness,
like breathing in perfect harmony,
while beneath your bright surface
blackness broods, longing for blood and barbarity.

Spinning aimlessly in emptiness,
dancing (as if without distress), always ready to play,
yet, secretly, we thirst for reality
for the conceiving, for the birth pangs, for suffering and death.

Doch heimlich dürsten wir…

Anmutig, geistig, arabeskenzart
*******unser Leben sich wie das von Feen
In sanften Tänzen um das Nichts zu drehen,
Dem wir geopfert Sein und Gegenwart.

Schönheit der Träume, holde Spielerei,
So hingehaucht, so reinlich abgestimmt,
Tief unter deiner heiteren Fläche glimmt
Sehnsucht nach Nacht, nach Blut, nach Barbarei.

Im Leeren dreht sich, ohne Zwang und Not,
Frei unser Leben, stets zum Spiel bereit,
Doch heimlich dürsten wir nach Wirklichkeit,
Nach Zeugung und Geburt, nach Leid und Tod.



Across The Fields
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Across the sky, the clouds sweep,
Across the fields, the wind blunders,
Across the fields, the lost child
Of my mother wanders.

Across the street, the leaves sweep,
Across the trees, the starlings cry;
Across the distant mountains,
My home must lie.



EXCERPTS FROM "THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN"
by Hermann Hesse
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the house-shade,
by the sunlit riverbank beyond the bobbing boats,
in the Salwood forest’s deep shade,
and beneath the shade of the fig tree,
that’s where Siddhartha grew up.

Siddhartha, the handsomest son of the Brahman,
like a young falcon,
together with his friend Govinda, also the son of a Brahman,
like another young falcon.

Siddhartha!

The sun tanned his shoulders lightly by the riverbanks when he bathed,
as he performed the sacred ablutions,
the sacred offerings.

Shade poured into his black eyes
whenever he played in the mango grove,
whenever his mother sang to him,
whenever the sacred offerings were made,
whenever his father, the esteemed scholar, instructed him,
whenever the wise men advised him.

For a long time, Siddhartha had joined in the wise men’s palaver,
and had also practiced debate
and the arts of reflection and meditation
with his friend Govinda.

Siddhartha already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words,
to speak it silently within himself while inhaling,
to speak it silently without himself while exhaling,
always with his soul’s entire concentration,
his forehead haloed by the glow of his lucid spirit.

He already knew how to feel Atman in his being’s depths,
an indestructible unity with the universe.

Joy leapt in his father’s heart for his son,
so quick to learn, so eager for knowledge.

Siddhartha!

He saw Siddhartha growing up to become a great man:
a wise man and a priest,
a prince among the Brahmans.

Bliss leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw her son's regal carriage,
when she saw him sit down,
when she saw him rise.

Siddhartha!

So strong, so handsome,
so stately on those long, elegant legs,
and when bowing to his mother with perfect respect.

Siddhartha!

Love nestled and fluttered in the hearts of the Brahmans’ daughters when Siddhartha passed by with his luminous forehead, with the aspect of a king, with his lean hips.

But more than all the others Siddhartha was loved by Govinda, his friend, also the son of a Brahman.

Govinda loved Siddhartha’s alert eyes and kind voice,
loved his perfect carriage and the perfection of his movements,
indeed, loved everything Siddhartha said and did,
but what Govinda loved most was Siddhartha’s spirit:
his transcendent yet passionate thoughts,
his ardent will, his high calling. …

Govinda wanted to follow Siddhartha:

Siddhartha the beloved!

Siddhartha the splendid!

…

Thus Siddhartha was loved by all, a joy to all, a delight to all.

But alas, Siddhartha did not delight himself. … His heart lacked joy. …

For Siddhartha had begun to nurse discontent deep within himself.

Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.

We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.

Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.

Most days.

I am only words.

But some days, I am more.

Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..

I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.

And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.

I am still.

I am calm.

I am still calm.

I am still calmly waiting.

It's worth mentioning that we never made love.

Now. Everything is different.

I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"

And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."

Some days I am lost.

Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?

Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.

Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.

I am walking a tightrope of strength and..

Something else. Something else entirely.

Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.

And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.

Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.

And this is how I will end it.

I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.

And all wonderful happy lies.

I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.

And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...

I once allowed myself to seem less.

I guess...

I just needed to get you off my chest.

Waxing Eloquent: Life, Death, and Everything in Between

Sessions:
I: Birth of a Song
II: Experience of All
III: Loving and Longing
IV: Life
V: Adventures at the Edge
VI: Transition
VII: What Comes After
VIII: Another Brick in the Wall


Old age hath yet his honor and his toil,
Death closes all: But something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done.
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: The slow moon climbs: the Deep
Moans round with many voices, Come my Friend!

I:

I beat away several pounds of unneeded and unwanted flora. The brush was becoming increasingly thick. Sad, but I had no choice. The fruit that had sustained me had shriveled, disappeared! My choices were few. Either stay in the oasis where now only water remained, or take my chances with whatever lay beyond, outside of my paradise.
How loathe I was to leave the oasis!
I looked around, distraught with my efforts. It was getting hotter and hotter. It was sweltering outside, and it felt as if my entire body was being compressed and beaten down by the heat. The cool breeze and the rippling water were far behind me now. The jungle held no care. I pushed on.
The path narrowed. I tried several times to push my way forward, but something held me back. The jungle tried to stop me but I continued pushing the greenery away. I could feel it! There was a clearing up ahead. I can even see it now!
But it was so far away! I couldn’t go on… there was no relief, the jungle was relentless!
But with a sudden, final, desperate heave, I was through!
What is this? The entire land is white! I squint and peer a bit harder; The world comes into focus.

……

Dear God,
The Beauty!

II:

The top of the mountain is a lonely place. Overlooking the crystal peaks from my frozen sanctuary, it’s as if everything seems like nothing really matters. The problems of the earth are no longer my concern. I must be content with being the watcher. I have no true power however; no true reason for my haughty airs. It is simply an illusion granted by the monolith.
The cold is near unbearable. The skies don’t show it though. There is no sign of all the freezing rain, and all the snow that lies below. All that exists is a single moment of perfect clarity and reflection, untainted by anything.
The sun hangs at the lower edge of the eastern sky, partially obscured by the crystal peaks. Such power! Even the sun cannot move them, Its rays blocked by their forms. A lightshow emerges, terrific hues play over the scene, giving the entire skyscape a pastel aura; Orange near the horizon, and red, then purple, and finally a dark, dark blue as the sky reveals itself. A single bold star defies the sun, refusing to give up it’s light just yet. The moon is the stars consort, and they stand together in inevitable rebellion.
It is a time of compromise however; The sun and the moon can coexist. They agree for that a few moments, they can share the sky. The harmony remains unbroken for the moment.
Poetry? Prose? No. It is simply an experience. A discovery for the curious and bold; The ones of wit and cunning. The sun paints no picture, there is no armistice in the heavens. The sun and the moon hold no compacts, and I?

I start back down the mountain.


III.


A winter’s day came through with eyes for me,
And it gave to my person a lovely gift,
One of sweet charm and a passionate wit
Who would come with me to the Azure Sea.
True, unworthy I was of her, indeed-
But even her longing look was a lift!-
Given to me by one of perfect lips,
And a stout heart beside her perfumed breeze.
Her smile would give Queen Helen envy,
And her gaze could melt a man’s icy heart,
Her laugh would give pleasure never-ending,
And a frown could give a titan a start.
I simply cannot be without this light,
And I will fight forever for the right.

Will you join me for forever, and go to the Azure Sea together?

IV.

The man looked over the edge of the cliff, contemplating his fate. Thoughts raged through his mind; the doom at the bottom of the ravine, the loss of his Lady, the end of the world. Well, his world at least.
It was a terribly folly he had made the autumn day, as the leaves were burning. After everything he had done, seeing the Cascading Falls, watching the Pandorian Sunrise, climbing Mount Gaze, it was as if everything was a dream. Could his misfortune be real? Surely there was no such injustice in this world! No kind God would allow such things to occur. She didn’t deserve such a fate that befell her! The Azure Sea would have to wait, there was no reason for him to pursue it any longer.
He threw her ruby brooch off of the cliff.
“I am only a man! Do I deserve no sympathy?” The wind wailed, but not for him.
He stepped over the edge of the abyss.

........

“Wake up! You shouldn’t have drunk so much!” The man lifted his head slightly off the table to meet his wife’s gaze. Looking into her eyes, even through his alcohol-induced delirium he could see the loving look in her eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“Love, you’ll never lose me. I may go away, but in the end….” He looked at her.
“Nothing but nothing could keep us apart. Let’s get ready, our ship leaves soon. The Azure Sea waits.” The man grinned, and he sat up. Together they exited the inn’s bar.

.........

The world will never wait for those who tread it’s path slowly, for those the Azure Sea is the end. The ones who travel the Sea have had their fill of the surface life and seek to forge a new path into the great unknown, unrestricted by the laws of the world. They seek something, something out there in its waves.
The story goes that people who travel the Azure Sea must relive every moment of their life, and at the end, they will realize the truth; The reason for their existence.
And so, Life continues, and the Azure Sea will reveal all. The ship awaits, and forever will not be left alone.



V.

Bronzed waves reconcile with my bow.
Liars, they rescind and form a new front.
Doldrums are occurring now,
Foretelling travel for at least another month.
The season? I cannot truly know,
However the sea holds no such compunction.
Unforgivingly my ship is lashed with rain and snow,
And I clear it, only to find another junction.
Where? Where am I headed?
You ask - Well I can honestly say:
My purpose is to go where even God hasn’t tread,
And find my unknown self along the way.
The destination, Good Lady! Is the end of the world-
The base of the endless falls.
To find the step where Cerebrus lays curled,
To hear the trumpet echo in the Great Hall.
Hark! Over the horizon is the end!
Haste! We’re almost finished with the Azure Sea!
Keep tight! We’re almost of the great bend,
The amber light has ended, now arrives the Eve!
A hall of divinity promises a hallowed tryst,
I.. I can finally see!
Friend, I am truly sorry for this,
But I cannot let forever be.


VI.

Blazing stars will give
Themselves to a heart’s lone aria
Shining with crystal.



VII.

Pastels flow and curve in all directions, rivers
filled
With….
Wondrous!
Creeping - slowly now, over the hill….
What is this! The converse of love-
Blasted landscape, cross the line-
Involved with an eternal struggle?
Absurd!
Beauty and the Beast, An obvious choice!
But why does the light feel so cold
And the dark just the same?
A disguise to hide the truth!
A trick for those uninformed!
A world for the ignorant,
I won’t stay here-
I won’t!
Love! --…
Back to the sand, Back to nowhere land I go…


Salvation was in a single grain of sand,
The end a mist-cover rift.
(I cannot live by omnipotent hand)
I will gladly return to no-where land,
If it means I won’t accept the gift.

Angels, do you hear me?


VII.


The woman sits on the boat, her husband in her arms. Waves beat against the side of the boat, and the night sky shrouds everything. Land is just ahead of her, at most a day away.
The other end of the Azure Sea.
She cradles her husbands head and holds him close. Tears stream out of her eyes and she thinks of all the things that they went through together. Sharp pain racks her, and she sobs even more.
She looks up into the sky, her eyes blurred by her tears. She sees something….something streaming through the sky. She rubs her face and gets a better look.
A series of stars arrange themselves into glowing arches, a single ray of light dividing them. They glow with the magnificence of the divine, a chorus for the ages. Then, suddenly, the image explodes into a series of shooting stars, sending a shower of brilliant luminescence everywhere, and revealing the new sunrise. The light illuminates her husband’s face, showing the smile that she couldn’t have seen in the darkness.
“Love, did you find what you were looking for?” She asks softly.
She already knew the answer and the world faded-

Just another brick in the wall.


-

‘Tis not to late to seek a newer world!
Push off, and being well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, Until I die.

Tennyson, Ulysses

Virginia Woolf una volte scrisse che " la bellezza ha due tagli, uno di gioia, l'altro di angoscia, che ci dividono il cuore".
La prima cosa che mi passa per la testa di fronte a tali parole è che l'uomo e la donna patiscono continuamente anche quando sono felici. Quel tipo di angoscia che non ti abbandona mai, la sofferenza di fronte alle scelte fatte o non fatte, il desiderio di evasione in un mondo utopico, la volontà di essere completamente liberi e stoici. I pregiudizi sono nostri amici-nemici. Tutto dipende da come gli accogliamo nelle varie circostanze della vita.
Se ci fosse Virginia Woolf qua con me sicuramente  si arrabbierebbe; " Come puoi essere così disordinata? Non mi stavi  per caso citando? E poi sembrava che stessi cercando  di spiegare qualcosa?! Salti da un argomento all'altro per caso. Se devi essere patetica, aggiungici un sarcasmo poetico".
Scusa ma non riesco ad organizzare ancora bene i miei pensieri. Fluttuano come la polvere nell'aria dopo che hai tentato inutilmente  di pulire un armadio vecchio. Scusa Virginia, mi conoscerai meglio con il passare del tempo.  " Ecco, brava! Che sia sempre con te lo spirito di Judith Shakespeare!"




Martedì 6.  

L'artista che corre per la strada e cerca la sua musa, la trova nello specchio che tende subito a scomparire.
Lui non si è accorto del Sole, vive di notte, disegna di notte, sogna di giorno, sogna di notte. Vive.
Non vede, lui osserva, ama l'impossibile, ama il futile eterno, sogna e vede ciò che non sarà mai compreso dagli altri. Lui trema e le sue mani tengono il pennello con un eccitazione che non si può comprendere ma solo provare. L'emozione di fronte ad un opera che deve appena essere creata, immortalata, eterna come la non-realtà.
L'immagine sussiste e lui sbatte le ali del sogno, disubbidisce alla società, gode ed ama l'incomprensibile, lo respira e vive di ciò.

Lo spessore della profondità è inabbattibile. L'acqua non ti fa annegare; è il pensiero. Non pensiamo, nuotiamo, è l'istinto a prevalere eppure abbiamo scelto di morire. Per questo motivo esiste l'altro, per annegarci o salvarci. Mantieni la dignità e vivi. E dunque sanguina.


Venerdì 9.

L'uomo e la donna. La donna e l'uomo. L'uomo ha sulla testa una lampadine e la donna uno sbattitore da cucina. La natura del cane è quella di abbaiare. La natura della specie umana è quella di riprodursi. Eppure abbiamo la necessità di creare ed inventare, non riusciamo a farne a meno. Sentiamo un bisogno insostenibile di portare fuori ciò che sta dentro. Siamo continuamente alla ricerca dell'essere presenti, passati e futuri. La gioia e l'angoscia d' esistere ci turba le anime. Ci chiediamo sempre qual'è lo scopo del fare e di muoverci. Dove sta il dono o la maledizione di essere stati scaraventati sulla palla ovale che gira intorno a se stessa ed intorno ad una palla ancora più grande che ci mantiene in vita. E' questo il senso? Dipendere dalla luce del sole oppure  soltanto dall'acqua e dal pane?
Dove sta l'essere in questa stanza? E' forse disteso su questo letto a scrivere? Forse.
Oppure si trova proprio nel pensiero che crea quel' atto?
L'esistenza umana è ridotta ad anni di vita, non secoli. Ciò che ci è stato dato l'abbiamo preso ed appreso, ci siamo impossessati ed ora fa parte di noi. Ci è stata data la vita dalla Natura ed essa ci ha pure delimitati.
" Ecco, voi siete parte di me, vivete e morite". Se è così noi dipendiamo gli uni dagli altri, non ha senso vivere soli sulla terra, abbandonati da nessuno. Non possiede alcuna logica.

Mercoledì 33.

Il mare non è sempre stato blu; una volta era violaceo e tutti gli animali potevano entrare nell'acqua senza dove trattenere il fiato. Si respirava nell'acqua, si stava bene. Soltanto quando arrivò l'uomo e ci mise il piede in acqua, essa si contrasse e divenne blu, scura e profonda. Il mare scelse di non dare accesso all'uomo e a quel diverso tipo di intelletto che si preparava a conquistare tutto ciò che mai gli potrà appartenere interamente. Per colpa sua le specie che abitavano la terra ferma dovettero separarsi da quelle marine.
Più l'uomo diventava avido ed egoista più il mare diventava profondo e salato. Non voleva finire nella bocca di quel animale strano che camminava su due stecchi con cinque rami piccoli, ben allineati ma sporchi. L'uomo costrinse il mare a piangere e non capì, non poteva capirlo poichè ora era lui il padrone.