Oct 10, 2008

Sealed Moments, S.D.Turann

By Santiago del Dardano Turann

Each moment holds its revelation:

They mostly fade away

And wither in the mute contraction

Of time's unending play

On cliff sides of extinction.

Man leaves the half-unmolded clay

To melt beneath a thousand

Thin frazzled thoughts that through the day,

A waving magician's hand,

Are so much wind-torn hay.

What is the key to that green land

That gives life to each moment?

Is it lost in the starry band

From which it can't be rent

To fall as dew upon the sand

A silver secret sent?

Those Who Dance...Cayci/McCormick

Those Who Dance to the Rhythm of Their Own Music
By Üzeyir Lokman Cayci
Translated by Joneve McCormick

Those who nourish themselves on meats, dairy products and desserts
Cannot estimate you at your fair value.

Even if stone cracked, you cannot make them open
The windows of their farm …
People like you are not included in their center of interest
You do not exist …
Hereafter you must know
That they do not have time to bless you!

Their eyes are always fixed from above you
While they bow
With smiles above their double chins
Before the sovereign...the sultan.
Do you think for an instant that they acknowledge you?

If you ask my opinion on this subject
It is because the ends of their twine
Are in the hands of other people.
Don't take exception to the fact
That they are taken for kings!

Do not wait for them
In the wrong places
Vainly hoping
They will consider you a man …

Even if you write hundreds of letters
To these men of the closed doors
Intending to see or speak to them
You will not receive a single response …
Be wary and attentive;
Above everything
Allow them their haughty airs.
By thinking themselves important
They will look at you scornfully!

They well like fondling
Each others' backs …
It is no longer to the point
To listen to their dialogues "with admiration"
To extol their writings "enthusiastically"
To reward their facts "by clapping" …

Do not waste your time
Or put your attention here …
Think of other things.

Laptev Sea, R.Wink

Laptev Sea
By Richard Wink

An artist picks up a piece of broken glass
he plucks his body hair
like guitar strings.
His mother shows concern by bringing him a tray of cheese on toast
Careful, we are talking about a tortured artist
there should be squalor
and pitiful wallowing
and yet what can we hear.
The sound of a running water
a nice hot bath
with bubbles spilling over
the side of the tub

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