Now

Now
by Greg Watson

I told you once when we were young that
we would someday meet again.
Now, the years flown past, the letters
unwritten, I am not so certain.

It is autumn. There are toothaches hidden
in this wind, there are those determined
to bring forth winter at any cost.
I am resigned to dark blonde shadows

at stoplights, lost in the roadmaps of leaves
which point in every direction at once.
But I am wearing the shirt you stitched
two separate lifetimes ago. It is old

and falling to ash, yet every button blooms
the flowers of your design. I think of this
and I am happy, to have kissed
your mouth with the force of language,

to have spoken your name at all.

Nicanor

blackness is night
it is the nicanor
of my heart
this blackness

seductive
invasive

calm smoothness
of these waters
guided only
by the harvest white moon

concupiscence
repose

gently guided
by the touch
of a strategic little
finger, traced bones, lines

starvation
temptation

tread gently
into high grasses
stand ten feet tall
falling into depths, of souls

pall
assuage

and you
to the top
of this page
start it all
again..
beginning or end

-Jangela

In Bed With Neruda

Sonnet LXXXI

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away; your eyes closed like two gray
wings, and I move

after, following the folding water you carry, that carries
me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

Pablo Neruda

Madonna reading "if you forget me" - by Pablo Neruda

If you forget me (Frozen) Madonna-Subtitulado MB en Yahoo! Video

Somewhere

I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete

Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

So if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
So why don't we go

This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?

- Keane

Spring has Sprung

The blossoms are blooming, birds are beaming and kite flyers are on the mall. It really is a magical time.



Le Printemps
par Théophile Gautier

Regardez les branches
Comme elles sont blanches,
Il neige des fleurs.

Riant de la pluie
Le soleil essuie
les saules en pleurs.

Et le ciel reflète
Dans la violette
Ses pures couleurs…

La mouche ouvre l’aile
Et la demoiselle
Aux prunelles d’or,
Au corset de guêpe
Dépliant son crêpe,
A repris l’essor.

L’eau gaiement babille,
Le goujon frétille
Un printemps encore !

==== English translation =========

Springtime
By Théophile Gautier

Look at the boughs,
How white they are,
It’s snowing flowers!

Scoffing at the rain,
The sun dries
The weepy willow.

And the sky reflects
In the violets
Its pure colors…

The fly opens its wings
And the dragonfly
With the golden pupils,
And the wasp-like corset,
Unfolding its silky wings,
Has resumed its flight.

The water happily babbles,
The tiny fish wriggles
It’s Springtime again!

How to make a Dadaist Poem

This is very simple and should make you feel infinitely creative. Write out the words, or turn into a peice of art by making a collage of your words. To make a Dadaist poem, simply follow these instructions, written by Tristan Tzara.

1) Take a newspaper.
2) Take a pair of scissors.
3) Choose an article as long as you are planning to make your poem.
4) Cut out the article.
5) Then cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them in a bag.
6) Shake it gently.
7) Then take out the scraps one after the other in the order in which they left the bag.
8) Copy conscientiously.
The poem will be like you. And here you are a writer, infinitely original and endowed with a sensibility that is charming though beyond the understanding of the vulgar.

Dadaist literature was a style of poetry that revolted against a world that man's intelligence had failed to control. The works were very anti-intellectual, just like the artwork which was portrayed as 'anti-art.' Some famous Dadaist and Surrealist poets are: Andre Breton, Paul Elvard, Louis Arogon, Tristan Tzara and Hugo Ball.

Here's one of my "Dada Poems..." created the nonconventional way here.

will will to day are
dream then the to...will moments
created mind space occupy will
created the must I contribute
I so I to something
change must things those things

truth

i am a little leaf
fluttering in the wind
i am a small
down feather
rustling
beneath the
breast of a dove
i am a speckle
of dust
glistening
with movement
beneath the sun
i am vapor
seen in the
chilly air
of a cold
december morn
i am the current
of water
constantly
on the move
i am the dance
you feel
on your cheek
when no one
else is around
i am the source
of the flame
as it sways
into the dark
i am the wisp
in the sky
that carries
cotton candied
dreams
i am the chill
in the night
that brings
fall to the
summer trees
i am the card
that lay
beneath
your curious
eyes
i am the
elixir
that you
thought would
save
your life
i am the secret
desire
that
you hold
so deep
inside
i am the riddle
of every man
who travels
on this
journey
i taunt
i make you pray
i give you hope
i am the closed
door
the open
one
your enigma
wrapped
within a shroud
of truth
that i persist
without
capital but
i am

________________________________

feel me harder, move closely
move slower
i don't want to be here anymore

breathe me deeply, touch softly
glide gently
open your eyes see the open door

moving silk with naked hand
unable to change the fate
this land

brush me, stroke me, see clearly
unable to focus
reach deeply into my core

whet yourself upon cool breath
slowly slipping
holding this hand

moving silk with naked hand
unable to change the fate
this land

Il Postino

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

Doing A 365

I haven't written in a really long time it seams, and it has been even longer since I have written anything from the heart, or with feeling. So today, I thought I would do just that. Before I board another plane or train, embark on another meeting - say another goodbye or hello - I thought that I would commit myself to writing. The last few months I have missed words, the last few years I have missed the connection of words to my own heart. For anyone that doesn't believe that words cannot connect to your soul, or even bring you a connection to others in the world around you... I simply ask you to "pretend" as though I am reciting these words, in a soft tone, while sitting next to you at home, on the couch, during the most pleasant of summer days - while a gentle breeze strolls through the window;

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I'm happy;
Happy that it's not true

The name of the poem is "I Like You to be Still." By Pablo Neruda. I thought of it today because the word melancholy has been in the deep recesses of my mind. Likely because in a strange state of melancholy some friends have called after hearing about Heath Leger, afraid I might fall victim to his "ailment." I realize I have issues sleeping, but I don't take sleeping medication. So, melancholy is the word of the day. And Pablo Neruda is the balm - for any ailment.

Anyway, for a good while I have been trying my best to capture something regarding the past year (at least since my birthday). So, I figured somewhat late into the New Year is better then never. And rather than be too complex, I figured I would keep it simple. Three hundred and sixty five days, so what does this represent? Well…it represents the sum of days in a year, and for me, in retrospect, the period from one year to the present is pretty staggering. It’s almost cliché to say, “Time goes by so quickly.” But, time certainly passes by quickly and what you do with those seconds, days, and hours, matters – because time is irrecoverable. Do more good, make things count, just make it last. I have to say that one of the more impressionable bits of wisdom shared with me this past year is to try to experience everything as though it were the first time and savor it as though it might be the last. This, more than anything, has stuck with me, and moments actually feel better because I am more present. It has taken practice and focus, but this simple notion has brought a bit of clarity and joy with such simplicity. In 2007, there were many roller coaster moments, but by the time the New Year came – I had some pretty impressive memories and moments that I never would have imagined for myself that year.

As far as travels and crossing things off of my since updated “bucket list”, I visited Angkor Wat and Machu Picchu. Cambodia is an interesting place. Stepping away from Angkor Wat, I was so stricken by the power of the site - by my utmost and compelling desire to be there for so long, that I had to fight back tears of emotion, sweeping from the ground and through me like a strong wind. The site was far more impressive than I could have ever imagined.

I visited about 8 other sites throughout Siem Riep. Although I had a driver, he was more of a "dropper offer." I arrived at 8:30am, began wandering around 11 and was out at the temples until after sunset. Quite beautiful. Night swimming beneath the stars there was quite spectacular, much of it is unfortunately marred by the desperate poverty - where tuition for school almost seems to be "expected" from the pockets of foreigners. The children are much wiser than their years from working on the streets and carry an edge no child should ever know, inducing a feeling, which feels so out of place in such majestic scenery.

In two days I did much hiking and climbing, likely a good 16 hours worth, I can say that earnestly, if you explore the +300 photos since the inception of my travels, the temples do not really have stairs and most of the signs (if you are allowed to ascent) say "climb at your own risk." They are quite steep, the roads - with the exception of main roads, are almost nonexistent. I was grateful for two things on the Cambodia trip - my hiking boots and my havanas (flip flops). Between the two, my feet did quite well.

My journey to Peru in December was beautiful. I have told countless listeners that I could easily move to Cusco and be a waitress (works well in my mind anyway). It is easy to see why Hemmingway was so smitten with the country. I will certainly be back. My journey was 10 days. 4 to complete the Inca Trail. 3 days in Cusco and 3 days in Lima (I stayed at the guest house of artist Victor Delfin, absolutely spectacular). Macchu Piccu was as magical as anything I could have ever dreamed. Although Charis and I have been trying to figure out our “twin” tattoos, I have decided my next tattoo will be the condor (Charis has firmly decided I lost my mind on this one) – but, really – the Andes captured a distinct part of my soul and the Condor is symbolic of that. For a great deal of my life I have felt an uncanny sense of biophilia for Africa. But after experiencing the Andes first hand, I can understand the sense of connection the Incans felt for madre tierra.

The genius designers built Macchu Piccu in such way that the Sacred City looks like a majestic old Condor flying west where the sun goes to sleep, to the Milky Way and the Hanan Pacha (the upper world). On his back the biggest bird in the world carries the most important religious symbols of the people of the Andes, so that the Old Bird is the messenger from humankind to eternity, to the infinite.

The environment of the complex, the acrobatic building and the magical neighborhood capture every visitor to the Sacred City. Many books are written about Machu Picchu, millions of pictures are taken every year, but nothing can touch the experience of the sensation being in person on this sacred place, no picture, no film, no description can give the impression of how Machu Picchu really is as a majestic complex.

In addition to some fabulous travels, I also had the opportunity to welcome some exceptional new people into my life. I have always found it odd how certain people randomly appear in our lives at unexpected times, in unexpected ways. I can only say that more than being able to see the world – I am enormously blessed to have met and come to know and continue knowing such caring and wonderful people. I know you come into and leave this life alone, but ultimately life is a journey, which is meant to be shared. The moments between those two points are what matter most.

So, on that note, au revoir and Feliz Año Nuevo! I leave you with this great little video from JibJab. Next up – a review of © Murakami at MOCA (Los Angeles) and my latest adventures with Charis. I’ll soon be reviewing Ashes and Snow from Mexico City as well so – stay tuned!

Amor y paz,
J

Conference of the Birds

Sweetly parading you go my soul of soul, go not without me;
life of your friends, enter not the garden without me.
Sky, revolve not without me; moon, shine not without me;
earth travel not without me, and time, go not without me.
With you this world is joyous, and with you that world is joyous;
in this world dwell not without me, and to that world depart not without me.
Vision, know not without me, and tongue, recite not without
me; glance behold not without me, and soul, go not without me.
The night through the moon's light sees its face white; I am
light, you are my moon, go not to heaven without me.
The thorn is secure from the fire in the shelter of the roses
face: you are the rose, I your thorn; go not into the rose garden without me.
I run in the curve of your mallet when your eye is with me;
even so gaze upon me, drive not without me, go not without me.
When, joy, you are companion of the king, drink not without
me; when, watchman, you go to the kings roof, go not without me.
Alas for him who goes on this road without your sign; since
you, O signless one, are my sign, go not without me.
Alas for him who goes on the road without my knowledge;
you are the knowledge of the road for me; O road-knower, go not without me.
Others call you love, I call you the king of love; O you who are
higher than the imagination of this and that, go not without me.
- Rumi

Many people are familiar with the works of, Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi-Rumi, or "Rumi" as he is commonly known in the English speaking world. Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. Throughout the centuries he has had a significant influence on Persian as well as Urdu and Turkish literatures. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages in various formats, and BBC News has described him as the "most popular poet in America". For anyone who isn't familiar with his work, I absolutely urge you to purchase "Rumi, A Gift of Love"(composed by Richard Horowitz, who also plays keyboard and ney for the album, felt the need to make a plug). The album is a fabulous introduction to Rumi. The general theme of his thoughts, like that of the other mystic and Sufi poets of the Persian literature, is essentially about the concept of Tawhīd (unity) and union with his beloved (the primal root) from which/whom he has been cut and fallen aloof, and his longing and desire for reunity.

Recently, I have begun reading "The Conference of the Birds" by Farid al-Din 'Attar. The Conference of the Birds metaphorically maps out the journey of the human spirit in its quest for truth. The story begins when the birds of the world gather together to seek out their King. They are told by their leader, the hoopoe, that they have a King whose name is the Simorgh but that he lives far away and the journey to him is fraught with dangers. Each bird has a special significance, and a corresponding didactic fault. The guiding bird is the hoopoe, while the nightingale symbolizes the lover. The parrot is seeking the fountain of immortality, not god and the peacock symbolizes the "fallen soul" who is in alliance with Satan. The birds are at first anxious to begin their search, but when they realize how hazardous the journey is, they begin to make excuses. The nightingale, that aspect of self caught in the exterior form of things, cannot leave the rose, the hawk is satisfied with his position in court waiting on earthly Kings, the sparrow is too afraid even to set out. The hoopoe, the symbol of inspiration, persuades them to continue their search despite the hardship.

The group formally adopts the hoopoe as its leader. Once the journey has begun the birds ask questions about its course, like the pupil asking the sheikh (hoopoe) questions. The hoopoe answers using illustrative anecdotes and stories. The birds then cross seven valleys—Search, Love, Insight into Mystery, Detachment/Independence, Unity, Bewilderment, and Fulfillment in Annihilation. At the end of the quest, the birds find that the Simorgh has been with them, guiding them from within throughout the journey. The King they sought was non other than themselves. The goal of the Quest is the Self. The moment that they discover this depends on a pun: thirty (si) birds (morgh) are left at the end of the Way and the si morgh meet the Simorgh, the goal of the quest.

Sufi poet, Farid al-Din 'Attar was born in Nishapur, in northeastern Iran, in 1142. He was beheaded by the invading Mongol army in 1221. His tomb at Shadyakh is visited by many. There is little information on the formative life of the poet other than he was the son of a prosperous pharmacist and that he received an excellent education in medicine, Arabic, and theosophy at a madrasah attached to the shrine of Imam Reza at Mashhad. According to his own Mosibat Nameh (Book of Afflictions), as a youth, he worked in his father's pharmacy where he prepared drugs and attended patients. Upon his father's death, he became the owner of his own store.

Work in the pharmacy was difficult for young 'Attar. People from all walks of life visited the shop and shared their troubles with him. Their poverty, it seems, impacted the young poet the most. One day, it is related, an unsightly fakir visited the shop. The way he marveled at the opulence of the store made 'Attar uneasy; he ordered the fakir to leave. Looking the owner and the well-stocked shop over, the fakir said, "I have no difficulty with this, pointing to his ragged cloak, to leave; but you, how are you, with all this, planning to leave!"

The fakir's response affected 'Attar deeply. He pondered the fakir's reply for many days and, eventually, decided to give up his shop and join the circle of Shaykh Rukn al-Din Akkaf of the Kubraviyyah order. His new life was one of travel and exploration, very much like the fakir who had inspired him. For a long time, he traveled to Ray, Kufa, Mecca, Damascus, Turkistan, and India, meeting with Sufi shaykhs, learning about the tariqah, and experiencing life in the khaniqahs.

When finally he felt he had achieved what he had been seeking in travel, 'Attar returned to Nishapur, settled, and reopened his pharmacy. He also began to contribute to the promotion of Sufi thought. Called Tadhkirat al-Auliya (Memorial of the Saints), 'Attar's initial contribution to his new world contains all the verses and sayings of Sufi saints who, up to that time, had not penned a biography of their own.

Regarding the poetic output of 'Attar there are conflicting reports both with respect to the number of books that he might have written and the number of distichs he might have composed. For instance, Reza Gholikhan Hedayat reports the number of books to be 190 and the number of distichs to be 100,000. Firdowsi's Shahname contains only 60,000 bayts. Another tradition puts the number of books to be the same as the number of the Surahs (verses) of the Qur'an, i.e., 114. More realistic studies consider the number of his books to have been between 9 to 12 volumes.

'Attar's works fall within three categories. First are those works in which mysticism is in perfect balance with a finished, story-teller's art. The second group are those in which a pantheistic zeal gains the upper hand over literary interest. The third are those in which the aging poet idolizes the saint Ali. During this period there is no trace of ordered thoughts and descriptive skills.

One of 'Attar's major poetic works is called Asrar Nameh (Book of Secrets) about Sufi ideas. This is the work that the aged Shaykh gave Maulana Jalal al-Din Rumi when Rumi's family stayed over at Nishapur on its way to Konya, Turkey. Another major contribution of 'Attar is the Elahi Nameh (Divine Book), about zuhd or asceticism. But foremost among 'Attar's works is his Manteq al-Tayr (Conference of the Birds) in which he makes extensive use of Al-Ghazali's Risala on Birds as well as a treatise by the Ikhvan al-Safa (the Brothers of Serenity) on the same topic.

An excerpt from "Conference of the Birds"

Your face is neither infinite nor ephemeral.
You can never see your own face,
only a reflection, not the face itself.

So you sigh in front of mirrors
and cloud the surface.

It's better to keep your breath cold.
Hold it, like a diver does in the ocean.
One slight movement, the mirror-image goes.

Don't be dead or asleep or awake.
Don't be anything.

What you most want,
what you travel around wishing to find,
lose yourself as lovers lose themselves,
and you'll be that.