Hello poet friends and literature-lovers! I’m one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia (Italy-based literary and artistic movement) founded under the patronage of late Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas.
May 14th marks the anniversary of the first small cast reading of Under Milk Wood on stage at the 92Y in New York ,1953 with Dylan Thomas as the narrator. Thus, 14 May has been assigned as International Dylan Thomas Day.
Upon the approval of the official UK team from Dylan Thomas Trust and on suggestion of the Editor Lidia Chiarelli of Immagine and Poesia, I have the pleasure to organize Dylan Thomas Day on my blog for the second time.
Dylan Thomas was born in Swansea, South Wales on 27 October 1914. His popular poems are “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” and “And Death shall have No Dominion”. Dylan Thomas died in 1953 at the age of 39. Thomas’s poems are poignant and they have been able to explore and reveal the depth of the subconscious mind.
A few months ago I posted a call for submission for contemporary poets to send their own original poems as a tribute to Dylan Thomas. I’m really glad to have received submissions from international poets of our time and I have the greatest pleasure to publish them on this blog today. This year, I have arranged the poets’ works by keeping a balance between simple and complex ones.
I express my sincere gratitude to all talented poets who have sent their well -crafted works. Many thanks to Hannah Ellis( granddaughter of Dylan Thomas), Andrew Dally, David Evans and Lidia Chiarelli for their support, encouragement and help in organizing this event on my blog.
Hope you will enjoy reading the following poems and continue to support Dylan Thomas’s works.
POEMS
Myth
by Michael R. Burch
after the sprung rhythm of Dylan Thomas
Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief.
Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth.
Author’s Note :
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem towards the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18 in late 1976. To my recollection, this is my only poem directly influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (more so than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). But I was not happy with the fourth line and put the poem aside for more than 20 years, until 1998, when I revised it. I was still not happy with the fourth line, so I put it aside and revised it again in 2020, nearly half a century after originally writing the poem.
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, and set to music by twelve composers.
WORM’S HEAD, RHOSSILI
by Rhys Hughes
Dylan
on the tiny hill
at the end of the causeway,
stranded by high tide and waiting
for it to recede again so he might escape
back to normality. But there’s no
normality in the whole land,
only the devilish
night
&
those
gusts of icy wind
that bite the exposed flesh
of wrists and throat that poke out
of cardigan warmth. Next time he’ll check
the tide times and plan a crossing
with more care, he’ll boast
appropriately and
laugh
a
brisk
laugh that’s more
like a dragon’s bite in the
way it sounds, a legendary snarl,
but now his knees are drawn up and fears
gnaw gently on his spirit’s bones,
a man alone, far from home,
musing on a stone,
skull.
Rhys Hughes is the author of many books, short stories, articles, plays and poems. He graduated in Engineering but now works as a tutor of Mathematics. His most recent book is the novel “The Pilgrim’s Regress”, a fabulist comedy set in Old Spain.
A Scaffold
by Michael Bishop
The first thirteen planks of A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London constitute a single down- dropping sentence, like a noose leaping up short of the majesty and burning of its subject’s extinction beneath the gallows of Dylan’s opening two stanzas and the first plank of its third. In this fatal suspension he abjures any recourse to commas or hyphens. As if loops and pointed sticks appall
his sense of the aborted innocent’s existence. As if compound descriptives like mankind making and Bird beast and flower Fathering and all humbling set before darkness to radiate it with no punctuation whatsoever could reunify the ruins inflicted on a bolt-stung city’s hapless casualties, whether man woman or bairn, even if his titular slain urchin London’s daughter was the freest of any injury
infliction of that lot during those nightly Nazi blitzkriegs. I shall not murder, Thomas tells us in the second load-bearing sentence of his scaffold, The mankind of her going— although had she lived to adulthood she might have preferred humanity as a species specifier amidst her shrouded long friends and frank blasphemy to her eulogist’s self-flattering discretion in declining to smutch with further Elegy the dignity
of her annihilation by adopting in another plank of his platform the grief- gainsaying timelessness of the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. Then nails a twenty-fourth timber to the full shebang: After the first death comma there is no other. Whoa. Is that filigreed blather or an oaken spear of warm sagacity? It’s just Dylan, friends, a stick of Easter dynamite to pipe our unspeakable grief.
Michael Bishop’s novels include No Enemy but Time (1982), winner of a Nebula Award, Unicorn Mountain (1988; revised 2020), winner of the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award, and Brittle Innings (1994), winner of a Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel. He has also published reviews and essays as well as story collections, notably Other Arms Reach Out to Me: Georgia Stories (2017), winner of a Georgia Author of the Year Award in 2018. Later this year, Fairwood Press will publish a retrospective gathering of his short fiction (stories no longer than 3,000 words) and several brief poems with narrative elements, A Few Last Words for the Late Immortals (2021). Years and years ago, Bishop wrote his Master’s thesis at the University of Georgia on the poetry of Dylan Thomas. More recently, on November 5, 2018, he was inducted into the Georgia Writers Hall of Fame.
To Dylan Thomas
by Mitali Chakravarty
He said Death shall have no dominion. Bones dissolve into sun, moon and stars.
Death shall have no dominion. Yet the flowers wither with grief As smoke curls from a pyre While the man crumbles to ashes
And dust. The sun, moon and stars Gather the smoke with the soul, Pinning it to the sky with a styrofoam clip. Another star is born. Life and Death.
Grief is Incongruent. And yet he said, Death shall have no dominion.
Hades smiles as Hiroshima blasts. The Earth weeps tears of atomic wastes. Hibakushas* mourn their lost. Does now Death have a dominion?
*Atomic bomb survivors with the kimono imprints on their bodies.
Author’s Note: A tribute to a great Welsh writer who continues to inspire and make us think. These lines are inspired by Dylan Thomas’s poem ‘Death shall have no Dominion’.
Mitali Chakravarty is writer and the editor of Borderless Journal. She has been published widely in journals and anthologies. She writes and translates for harmony, humanity and kindness and looks forward to a world beyond all borders
The Man from Swansea
by Chris Hemingway
Dashing as a Welsh
Young man should
Look, by your charming nature
And sense of adventure, there is
No doubt
That the world remembers you as
Humble, daring, and full
Of life. You lived by your own rules and your
Memories live inside
All of us
Secretly
Chris Hemingway is a librarian from East Haven, Connecticut, United States. He is the author of The Day the Bull Lived And Other Poems.
The Word Lover
by Gloria Keh
The other night, we drank in love as we undressed the words of our desires.
Our secret meetings would soon come to an end. For again, he would leave returning across rolling waves to his wife, his home, his land.
We fell in lust one cold grey evening in the dark depths of winter. A season of heated passion so wild and free. Naked, entwined night after night before the fierce flames of a glorious fire. Only to end each time in torment in tears in anguish in discontent.
He carressed my body but mostly engulfed my mind.
I rushed into his web seduced by his stanzas a slave to his words.
Our days became nights Our nights melted into eternity.
And then one day as leaves turned red falling onto the earth in burnt golds and browns; when the chilly winds of autumn blew without mercy nor respect, from the cold sea singing to a sad melody, he was no more.
I watched from a distance as they moved his body. That body I craved That body I worshipped That body that was the heart of me.
Today, so many talk on and on about his genius. About his love affair with words.
Oh yes, I still remember how he had that incredible way with words. But that was nothing like the way he had with me.
Born in Singapore, Gloria Keh, 69, has been writing for decades. Having spent most of her adult life working as a travel journalist, then as an editor and finally as an editorial consultant for Singapore’s airport magazine.
Gloria also worked as a copywriter with one of Singapore’s top advertising agencies, writing brochures for the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board and Singapore Airlines. In addition, she was the South East Asian correspondent for several international travel trade magazines.
Three of her self-illustrated travelogues won the prestigious PATA American travel writers award for three consecutive years.
Also an artist, Gloria enjoys writing poetry that’s accompanied by her art. She conducts art journaling.
A Quintessential Star
by Juliet Preston
A quintessential star comes only once in a million years.
Born a scorpio sign, a life resembled exactly the scorpion constellation in the night sky. Dylan Thomas, a notoriety shaped by distinct brilliance.
A legend exhibited by his magnificent genius, A drunkard tormented by his shadow self.
Had fate placed him in a wrong place at a wrong time, or fortune did not favor the Welsh’s famous son? So many questions without answers.
Pain may have been inescapable, but love was always plenty.
Love found its way in his ‘Osiris, come to Isis’, ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’ spoke of his rebellious soul even in the face of death.
‘The Map of Love’ granted a poetic licence for his adolescent indulgence, marking the culmination of rage echoed in ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.
O darling Dylan Thomas, your magnificence and apocalypse glow every time when the scorpion displays in the starry sky.
Juliet Preston is an engineer by profession. She considers herself to be a poet at heart and an artist by passion.
Really It is My Own Stupidity
by Robin Wyatt Dunn
Really it is my own stupidity Education a kind of paring down An endless series of beatings Sparta made crueler and more enduring Their double kings Made quadruple or quintuple Arcane bollocks collapsing onto my chest
The lesson that I am unable to learn The test unending year and year minute by minute slapping you across the face
“You haven’t learned yet!”
The lore is so deep And I am unable to dive I drink only from its edges It will kill me
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his works at www.robindunn.com.
Polar Unity
by Heath Brougher
We fingered the hives for honey to boil. It was summer after all and, despite the frost, and because the sleeping man said she would ring the stars, the tottering seasons have turned womb-warm and painted our faces with mustardseed sunlight.
We fall awake from eunuch dreams to deliberately contradict ourselves with the every sentence we utter in the blood drop’s garden of portraits of the artist as a young God— the same place the straw man was ripped into a dozen maggot-barren wreaths.
We know well this red-eyed earth will eventually allow a punctual dying of the light and we will, once again, rose-red fall back into our unhouses in the ground.
Author’s Note:
An ode to Dylan Thomas using images from his poems to make a statement on the contradiction often found within his work.
Heath Brougher is the Editor in Chief of Concrete Mist Press as well as poetry editor for Into the Void Magazine. His work has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award and he was the recipient of Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. He was recently awarded the 2020 Wakefield Prize. His works can be found in both print and online journals across the world.
Red Bay of Bengal, west of Java, north of Madras
By Sekhar Banerjee
I
If I dismantle this red evening over Pondicherry and Madras bit by bit, it is an old oil painting, its frame was gilded by the last European carpenters off Coromandel coast and if I break up its deep red space, step by step, of red air, red bougainvillea, red trees, red people, red salt beds, red balustrades just in front of the promenade and Bay of Bengal, also red, where the Java-bound ships and their merchants went beyond their call of duty – now all lost red ships are still floating in the red Bay of Bengal, west of Java, north of Madras, and every lost drummer, sad like us, drums up enough red from their parchment drums, and the whole of south India, mystified and upset, finally knows the sun has gone down to return again We now know nobody can ever touch his own edge of all things, past and present and that, nothing can be shared except our own fallacies at a later stage
II
It is the limit of the red sky that our eyes can behold, frame by frame, devoid of any nuts, screws and bolts and shame when the sea froths are crimson; Earth’s blood (group unknown) is splattered on the sky, sea and on the clouds nearby Without a definition of the evening as evening, without a definition of time as time, without a definition of sea and the sky without a frame, here the evening is dying without an obituary and a good name; the (hooded) night, yes, as if an authorized agent of change, has murdered it again without any provocation I know somewhere down the road, there must be an official witness’ box and an ancient observer’s bench,(a tourists’ kiosk in most cases) to attend to this daily ritual of death
Author’s Note: This poem has been written in appreciation of Dylan Thomas’s works on death and, subsequently, on life.
Sekhar Banerjee is an author. He has four poetry collections and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. His works have been published in Indian Literature, The Bitter Oleander, Ink Sweat and Tears, Kitaab and elsewhere. He lives in Kolkata, India.
Seize the Night
by John Thieme
I hear the rasping cries of lovers through my sullen wall of doubt. I hear their midnight moans of ardour. I take a draught to drown them out.
I yearn to capture them in quatrains, that sidle passion into verse, but I’m a frozen attic statue, garroted by their rampant curse.
And so they move forever forwards, unheeding all my moonshine arts. Intoxicated by dull thoughts of hemlock, I try once more to snare their hearts.
John Thieme is a Senior Fellow at the University of East Anglia, UK. He previously held Chairs at the University of Hull and London South Bank University and has also taught at the Universities of Guyana and North London, and as a Visiting Professor at the Universities of Turin, Hong Kong and Lecce. His academic books include Postcolonial Con-Texts: Writing Back to the Canon, Postcolonial Literary Geographies: Out of Place, The Arnold Anthology of Post-Colonial Literaturesin English, and studies of Derek Walcott, V.S. Naipaul and R.K. Narayan. He is currently working on a study of climate change fiction and hopes to write a cli-fi novel himself. His creative writing has been published in Argentina, Canada, Hong Kong, India, Italy, Malaysia, Mauritius, the Netherlands, the UK and the USA, and his collection Paco’s Atlas and Other Poems was published by Setu Press (Pittsburgh) in 2018.
Blazing Star
by Nell Jones
Dark days, few reminisces, My burning skin, the world is in your light. Valiant sun, touch the grainy sky, Wrap me in your cloak, Raise up your voice, In this cathedral, of blazing star shine, Breathe softly in my ear of, How you found me here.
I count the stars, Smooth your skin, My sky is your sky, My hand, is your hand and the Scars I have scraped roughly on your jaw, weaken, For night has come so elegantly.
This is our final congregation, On the eve of the fated choir, The wretched night will steal my confession. Flame the burning skin, Let your breath pass over me, Wither the deceitful warmth, Beguile in its glow.
Black foe, Your hills are a woman’s body, A faded figure that appears, Lying perfectly, on the darkened landscape.
Disguised on the horizon, A force drives me towards you and so, I count the stars on your back, Each one glowing as you sleep.
Under this heavenly cathedral, I retreat into the new and misty down, I fall below your feet, On this dusk’s long day, Concealed by the vapour of the Milky Way.
You are still young, like the day, In harmony with the rushing morning, I drink my wine, sipping on, The intoxicating freedom while, You cheat with the lights turned on. The breakfasts on the tray, I kneel upon the alter, to listen for The warble of the curlew and the welcome of the crow, The magpies rippling white wings, That burst through the misty brew, And settle on the fever of dotted colours, on the morning dew.
An undertaker calling to his mate, The quickening quiet, On the heavy hue, Drops of rain touch my words, To tell you, I was here in this black dark day.
Nell Jones (Daniella) was born in Adelaide in 1964. She has Dutch and Welsh heritage. Writing since the age of 12, Nell had her first play, Dead Man’s Alley, a work focused on the plight of homeless men living on the streets of Melbourne, performed at the Nimrod Theatre, Sydney, a second play, The Blind Forty, set on the Torrens River during the Depression in Adelaide, performed at the Seymour Centre, Sydney. She has been the recipient of a Master Writers Grant, from the Australia Council and has written several other plays for youth theatres and schools, as part of her role as a drama teacher and director in those organisations. Nell has published many works over the years, including Jack and Lily, a chronicle of short war stories and poetry. Nell’s first novel, The Lost Sister of Groningen, based on the life of her mother in WW2 and 1950’s Australia, was launched at the Tap Gallery in Sydney in 2010. It was later launched at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival in 2011. Her second novel, A Token for Perry was launched by Libby Hathorn in Sydney at the 371 Gallery Marrickville. Her poetry volume, The Sky Is My Religion was also launched in Ubud Reader’s and Writer’s Festival in 2012 and with the support of the UWRF, was opened by Australian writer Libby Hathorn. Nell performed her poetry daily with Balinese musicians and dancers in an art space in Ubud, with paintings that were specially created to reflect her poetry volume. At the opening she performed with Balinese dancers and a 30-piece orchestra as part of the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival celebrations. Nell has two degrees in education, and is currently working on her third novel, Patience Perry. Nell lives by the sea in Newcastle, Australia and in 2021 has retired from teaching and is a full-time writer. She is concurrently writing a play, The Voice of the People.
I stood outside Dylan’s childhood home his words emanated from within I sat in peaceful Cymdonkin Park pictured him playing there as a child I strolled along Swansea’s streets saw haunts he liked to frequent
On his beloved sweeping Swansea Bay Cockle pickers scanned the sands Out at Mumbles where he spent happy hours I watched laver gatherers on the rocks At West Glamorgan’s green farmland seeds of Fern Hill were sown
Legend of Wales although gone too soon His literary legacy is evergreen.
Margaret O’Driscoll lives in West Cork; Ireland. Her poetry and nature photography have been widely published internationally. Selections of her poems have been translated into many different languages.
Excerpts from Dylan Thomas’s Obscurity: The Legitimacy of Explication
by Michael Bishop
Dylan Thomas’ Obscurity: The Legitimacy of Explication. A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of Georgia. Athens, Georgia: 1968. Excerpts from pages 3-6 of Chapter One, “The Problem of Obscurity”:
From the beginning the adverse criticism directed at [Dylan] Thomas centered on his readily apprehended obsession with the sound of words, singly and in combination. The criticism largely ignored or misunderstood the structuring principle behind the arrangement of the curious words and propulsive rhythms. The decree came down that the young poet’s obscurity was the result either of Neanderthal inarticulateness or cunning charlatanism. One or the other had to be true. Dylan Thomas could not communicate except in staccato grunts and fluent moans; or else he employed a freak brand of verbal pyrotechnics to flash-blind the reader to his shallow-mindedness. On these grounds one critic, Julian Symons, declared Thomas’ poems ‘jokes, rhetorical, intellectual fakes of the highest class’ (“Obscurity and Dylan Thomas,’ Kenyon Review, II, Winter 1940, p. 67). This kind of misunderstanding and even crass dismissal plagued Thomas throughout his career; it has continued to plague his reputation since his death in November of 1953 . . . The most extensively argued condemnation of Dylan Thomas’ poetic method to date, however, is David Holbrook’s book Llareggub Revisited. Holbrook argues that the poetry of Thomas is indicative of an attitude inimical to the civilized consciousness. He says that [its] disconcerting power over the reader lies not in its intellectual content but rather in the invocation of hwyl, that state of raptured abandon into which a Welsh preacher works himself and his congregation (Llareggub Revisited: Dylan Thomas and the State of Modern Poetry, London, 1962, p. 87, footnote). The poetry is obscure, Holbrook intimates, because Thomas was capable of writing only a “babble-language” that necessarily subordinated meaning to hollow sound effects. Even in such a poem as “A Refusal to Mourn” Holbrook sees only empty sentiment and overblown sound. He dismisses the calculated ambiguity of the last line with two purposely belittling paraphrases: “The last verse is really general and empty, a disguise of feeling in hwyl, the profound-sounding last line, After the first death, there is no other, meaning surely no more than When you’re dead you don’t die again or When you’re dead you are done for” (ibid., p. 171). These almost flippant paraphrases of the last line reduce its meaning to the deflated colloquial level that Holbrook seeks for the purposes of his argument. But the paraphrases exclude the connotations of Christian salvation that Thomas’ line forcibly imparts. The profundity of the line lies in the fact that Thomas deliberately works both sides of its meaning: (1) Death is birth into immortality, and (2) Death is the end of all sentience. Furthermore, the line has a meaning within its immediate context that Holbrook altogether fails to see: The initial death in war is the symbolic act that contains all subsequent deaths. The last line of ‘A Refusal to Mourn,’ then, is not so much an example of obfuscation in hwyl as a careful exploitation of a loaded ambiguity. Thomas refuses to mourn, but he does not fail to offer consolation or to indict the stupidity and arrogance of war. Combined in the poem are both an intellectual tough-mindedness and an understandable emotional reaction to the fire-bombings of London.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon: Rhys Hughes, welcome to Vatsalaradwritingworld blog! Today we are celebrating International Dylan Thomas Day and since you are a contemporary writer, originally from Wales we wish to learn more about Dylan Thomas and your appreciation of his works. So, firstly, please tell us briefly about yourself and how you can relate yourself to the works of the famous Welsh poet Dylan Thomas?
Rhys Hughes: I was born in Wales and although I have lived in many countries, I am acutely aware of the fact I am Welsh. There is a photograph of me standing under a Welsh flag in a remote region of West Africa. No one knew why that flag was flying on its pole, not even the person who raised it, nor did they know it was a Welsh flag. But it pleased me to see it there, an unexpected symbol of my homeland. And Dylan Thomas is another Welsh symbol that crops up in unlikely places, a symbol just as essential and potent as the flag, dragons, daffodils and leeks. Culturally he is adjacent to the soul of every modern Welsh writer. He is also adjacent to me physically, in some sense, for at the moment I live within a five-minute walk of the house where he was born and grew up. When I was younger, I tried to turn my back on him, an ultimately futile endeavour. We had to study his work at school and I wanted to resist. The time and place were both wrong. My appreciation of Dylan Thomas has grown substantially since then. It has grown to the point where it is now outside the page and beyond the written word. For example, when I am crossing the causeway of Worm’s Head, an impressive geological feature in Gower, west of Swansea, I think about him stranded on the highest point of the rocks for a whole cold night because he misjudged the tide. The echo of his life is still clear.
V.R: What is the actual place of Dylan Thomas’s works in the field of Welsh/ English Literature?
R.H: He is at the very summit of Welsh literature. It is difficult to overstate his importance in Wales. Of course, there have been many fine poets and writers in Welsh history who wrote only in Welsh and they tend to have received less attention internationally. This is only to be expected. My favourite Welsh novel is Un Nos Ola Leuad by Caradog Prichard and it deserves to be better known, but writers who write in English will always have the advantage of increased visibility. Dylan Thomas wrote in English but much of his sensibility is Welsh. Some people have said he was almost a caricature of a Welshman in his behaviour and lifestyle but I don’t think that is entirely fair. Welsh identity was under an enormous amount of pressure at the time and he helped to reaffirm it far and wide and so preserve it for the future. He is as important to Wales in that respect as Yeats is to Ireland or Burns to Scotland. He is a national poet but his work is never narrow or nationalistic. It remains universal in its ability to resonate with a global audience. Yet it is still somehow essentially Welsh. That is no small achievement. As for his importance in English literature as a whole, he is regarded as one of the very best poets of the 20th century. In fact he is regarded as one of the best modern poets in any language.
V.R: How do you celebrate Dylan Thomas Day in your city and tell us about any special literary memory or experience related to this?
R.H: I have missed the day over the past few years, mainly because I wasn’t in Wales at the time, and I am never sure how I will celebrate the occasion. I sometimes find some small way to do so. In the past I visited the Boathouse in Laugharne where he lived but that particular visit was part of a general celebration of his life and work rather than being an event connected with a specific day. I once won a set of volumes of his Collected Letters in a poetry slam competition at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea but again I don’t think that competition had anything to do with his official Day. My girlfriend is a translator (among other things) and has translated his poem ‘Do Not Go Gentle’ into the language of Karnataka and I want to play her recording of that translation outside his house to celebrate. But I don’t have to do that on any particular day. It might be raining. I will probably do it when it is sunny. In Wales the weather is extremely unreliable and that makes it difficult to plan outdoor events. Another hike to Rhossili in Gower might be another option. Only once have I walked the full distance between Rhossili and Swansea in one day. It took eleven hours and was a tough walk. But it’s an extremely beautiful part of the world and I never tire of the scenery.
V.R: What is your favourite work of Dylan Thomas?
R.H: I am one of those rare readers who prefer his short stories to his poems. His poetry is magnificent, yes of course, deeply lyrical and powerful, but there is a crispness and a humour to his short stories that I find very appealing. His book of semi-autobiographical tales, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog, is my favourite of his books, the one I would take with me to a desert island. And the opening story of that collection, ‘The Peaches’, is for me perhaps the best in the volume. I can read such a book and see his influence on many authors who came later. It might seem strange that he was an influence on science fiction writers too, but that is certainly the case. Ray Bradbury, Roger Zelazny, Michael Bishop, to name just three, owe at least some of the lyricism of their prose to an appreciation of Dylan Thomas. They wanted to raise the quality of the genre they worked in and they succeeded. Dylan’s short stories crackle and fizz very pleasingly. Mention must be made of Under Milk Wood too, of course, certainly one of the best radio plays ever written, but if pushed to choose only one work I would still opt for that slim collection of stories.
V.R: In the Welsh context what is the most striking feature of Dylan Thomas’s poetry?
R. H: The most striking aspect of his poetry is its universal application. Welsh literature has a tendency to be a little too parochial in its themes, structures and intentions. It has sometimes seemed to me that writers on the edge of Welsh identity have written more valuable works than those plunged headlong into it. But maybe that’s going too far. All the same, Dylan’s poetry is Welsh, profoundly so, but not just Welsh. We can say with equal emphasis that he was a Welsh writer, a European writer and a World writer. This is important. This is refreshing. Wales, the smallest of the Celtic nations, has struggled to keep up with its larger cousins. Ireland has Joyce, Beckett, Yeats, Flann O’Brien and many others. Scotland has Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson, Alasdair Gray and many others. But without Dylan Thomas, Wales would have no one of comparable stature. It’s true that I have already mentioned that there are neglected writers in Wales who deserve more attention, but the fact remains that Dylan is our touchstone, our great symbol, our champion. He has an inestimable value for that service alone. His works resonates. It’s as simple as that. It resonates beyond any narrow category or confine. It is true and pure literature in the best sense.
V.R: Please can you share with us any of your poems or prose works written for this special event?
R.H: The vast majority of my poetry is light verse, either humorous lyrics inspired by Edward Lear, Don Marquis, Ogden Nash, or else very short offbeat pieces influenced by Richard Brautigan. Very little is serious. But I decided to try to write one of my occasional serious poems as a tribute to Dylan. It is based on his adventure on Worm’s Head. ‘Worm’ here means ‘dragon’ and is an archaic word. The geological formation looks rather like a dragon.
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May. As a representative of Immagine and Poesia (founded by the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and upon the approval of the Dylan Thomas Trust , I am conducting International Dylan Thomas Day 2021 online.
I invite all poets interested to submit one poem about the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas or appreciation of his works to: vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Only poems with proper imagery in context and having a refined poetic language will be accepted.
Any poem consisting of unrefined/coarse/obscene language or imagery will be rejected.
If your work is accepted, you will receive an acceptance e-mail within 1 week of your submission. If you do not hear from me within 1 week, it means your work hasn’t been accepted this time.
Deadline: 5 April 2021
All accepted poems will be published on my blog: vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog
Together as poets, let’s uplift the power of poetic words and maintain the true mission of Poetry!
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May.
This year Mauritian author/poet and artist, Vatsala Radhakeesoon will be conducting an interview with a contemporary Welsh writer regarding Dylan Thomas’s works and life. She will also be publishing poems , artworks and song links about Dylan Thomas created by poets, artists or singers worldwide.
Details of the event include:
1.Interview with contemporary Welsh author/poet , Rhys Hughes.
2. Submission call for poems, artworks and song links about Dylan Thomas and appreciation for his works. Poets, artists and singers from all over the world may submit their works to Vatsala Radhakeesoon to : vatsfrankness@gmail.com Deadline: 29 April 2021.
The interview , poems and other creative works will be published on the following blog: vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog.
Had I known then what lore to seek as a child, I would have learned this so much earlier, Let all comprehension be reconciled, And apply all of it throughout my life. I’d spend less time being a worrier, Make my base of knowledge sturdier. And not limit my thoughts as I went along. We search to find those who understand us, When we should seek insight into other things. Never think of data as superfluous, Enjoy those sensations that deep thought brings, If my legacy’s told at a later time, I hope to have taken my own advice.
L’heure tardive
Si j’avais su quelles traditions à suivre durant mon enfance, J’aurais appris cela plus tôt dans ma vie, Laissant harmoniser toute compréhension, Et tout mettre en pratique durant ma vie. Je perdrais moins de temps à m’inquiéter, en approfondissant ma connaissance. Et ne pas limiter mes propres pensées. On cherche des gens qui nous comprennent, au lieu d’avoir un meilleur aperçu d’autres choses. Ne considérez jamais les données comme superflues, Réjouissez des émois naissant des pensées profondes, Si mon héritage est révélé plus tard, J’espère d’avoir suivi mes propres conseils.
What Burns with Meaning
The lace of stars strung like constellations hangs as books on a shelf, lit to best effect. Past, present, and future astral tales written in accordance with the dreams of man. Trust the literary merit of the dangling flares. It’s hard to be sure the twine of the scroll will stay unfading. Celebrate the numbered hours, before the stars fly away forever. Appreciate those bright spots that burn with meaning. Count each syllable as a worship. Seek the breath of those who live upon the skies as collected thoughts.
Ce qui brûle de sens
Un groupe d’étoiles défilant comme des constellations se suspendent comme des livres sur une étagère, éclairant le tout. Les récits (textes) astraux classiques, contemporains et à venir écrits d’après les rêves des humains. Croyez au valeur littéraire balançant des signaux lumineux. C’est difficile d’assurer que la ficelle du parchemin restera impérissable. Célébrez les heures avant que les étoiles s’envolent pour toujours. Valorisez ces points puissants brûlant de sens. Comptez chaque syllabe comme une liturgie. Cherchez le souffle de ceux qui vivent dans les cieux comme des réflexions collectives.
Voices Of The Caves (A Shardoma )
My torch lights ablaze cave paintings I found in France. Bright hues as reminders of spring bursting with song.
I also found paintings in Spain, singing out from stone walls patterned with vibrant swirls of that cave’s mighty voice.
La Voix des caves
Ma torche illumine les peintures rupestres que j’ai trouvé en France. Couleurs vives comme les souvenirs du printemps rayonnant de chants.
J’ai aussi trouvé des tableaux en Espagne, chantant des murs de pierre entourés de tourbillons vibrants de la voix puissante de cette cave.
I Have Come To Know Things
The final frontier of my heart, coming closer. The nameless thirst for life felt here. No stars can die in this holy place.
It may seem as if I run alone, my skin hot, but my bones starting to feel the cold, but providence is commanding my eventual end, and I have come to know things.
The last war, they say will last one thousand years, and I dream that if it happens in my lifetime, you will summon all the angels, and I will feel, each night, your army closing around me in order to protect.
J’ai appris des choses
La dernière limite de mon cœur s’approche. La soif inconnue de la vie est ressenti ici. Aucune étoile ne peut mourir dans ce lieu sacré.
Il me semble que je cours toute seule, ma peau toute brûlante, mais mes os ressentant le froid, mais Dieu ordonne ma fin, et j’ai appris des choses.
La dernière guerre, disent-ils durera mille ans, et je rêve si cela se produit durant ma vie, tu rassembleras tous les anges, et je ressentirai chaque nuit, ton armée s’approchant tout autour de moi pour me protéger.
Poem by Linda Imbler
Mauritian Kreol translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
Crystal Ships
The sea splatters its foam like pearls for which divers dive. Salt that could rust ships gives life, under the waters blue. Living creatures act as fathomable archangels above the bones of crystal ships. And all are protected by God.
Bato Kristal
Lamer zet so lekim kouman perl seki bann plonzer rode. Disel ki kapav rouy bann bato donn lavi, ofon lamer (dilo ble). Bann kreatir vivan azir kouma bann arkanz normal lor tou parti ki zwenn bann bato kristal. Ek zot tou proteze par Bondie.
It was Wednesday. Winds were calm. Sun peeked through branches as it climbed the sky.
Windows open to sweet air and bird songs Promises were made New life emerged from soft earth.
It was Thursday. Darkness covered all. Sad sighs emerged from within. Everything was upside down.
Doors locked to fear. Prayers flowed. Hearts sought solace. How quickly everything changed.
It was Friday, Saturday, then Sunday … A little bird landed on my feeder.
Flowers opened to face the sun. A glimmer of hope shone. And people walked outside once more.
C’était mercredi
C’était mercredi. Le vent était calme. Le soleil regardait par les branches lorsqu’il se levait dans le ciel.
Les fenêtres laissaient entrer l’air frais et les chants d’oiseaux. Des promesses ont été faites. Une nouvelle vie surgit de la terre toute douce.
C’était jeudi. L’obscurité envahissait partout. De tristes soupirs émergeaient tout au fond du cœur. Tout était à l’envers.
Des portes fermées de frayeur. Des prières s’inondaient. Des cœurs cherchaient le réconfort. Comme subitement tout avait changé !
C’était vendredi, samedi, puis dimanche… Un oisillon s’était posé sur ma mangeoire.
Les fleurs s’ouvraient face au soleil.
Une petite étincelle d’espoir rayonnait. Et les gens se promenaient de nouveau.
The Beauty of Another Day
The beauty of another day lies waiting in the shadows, peeking through the branches of a frosty December morn.
The brightness of your eyes smile across the pillow, waking me to the pleasures of a brand-new day.
Being in your arms the chill of winter retreats. If only for the moment, we know each other’s warmth.
Shadows now lifted, brilliant daybreak shines. The beauty of another day, as seen through lover’s eyes.
La beauté d’un autre jour
La beauté d’un autre jour se trouve en attendant parmi les ombres, et en regardent par les branches d’un matin glacial de décembre.
L’étincelle de tes yeux sourit sur l’oreiller, me réveillant aux plaisirs d’une nouvelle journée.
Dans tes bras – le frisson des refuges hivernaux. Si seulement pour l’instant, on pourrait ressentir la chaleur de l’autre.
Les ombres, disparues Le soleil brille. La beauté d’un autre jour, vu par les yeux du bien -aimé.
Sinking into Night
Sun setting behind trees.
Branches swallow grief.
You were never there for me –
never
for yourself.
Brown rules over green,
as gray paints the dusk.
Marbled sky slowly descending,
floating in a pool of tears.
Cathedral bells – a death knell
to Ophelia’s dream
sinking into night.
Plongeant dans la nuit
Le soleil se couche derrière les arbres. Les branches engloutissent la douleur. Tu n’étais jamais là pour moi – jamais pour toi-même. Le marron prédomine le vert, dès que le gris peint le crépuscule.
Le ciel marbré tombant peu à peu, flottant dans un torrent de larmes. Les cloches de la cathédrale – le glas du rêve d’Ophélie plongeant dans la nuit.
Abandonment
Cold morning,
you are now the compilation of my life.
Abandoned in my lone bed,
the rejection is complete.
Daybreak now
a sorrowful time of disillusion.
As I count out the moments
since we last combined.
Not mere days, but months
meld into years.
An endurance
of sorrow and regret.
Relegated to the forgotten …
I despise the night!
How the pain fills me with dreams
of a yesterday when we still knew love.
Time,
you are a cruel master,
you take away all treasures.
He is forever
gone from my arms.
Cold morning.
How I miss your warmth.
L’abandon
Matin tout froid, tu es maintenant le recueil de ma vie.
Abandonnée dans mon lit de solitude, le rejet est absolu.
Le jour se lève maintenant un moment pénible de déception.
Lorsque je compte les heures depuis qu’on s’est uni pour la dernière fois
Ce ne sont pas que des jours, mais des mois
se transformant en années.
L’endurance de la peur et du regret.
Reléguée à l’oubli… je déteste la nuit !
Comme la douleur m’envahit de rêves du passé quand on s’aimait toujours.
Temps, tu es un maître cruel, tu supprimes toute la richesse.
Il s’est pour toujours éloigné de mes bras.
Matin tout froid, Comme ta chaleur me manque.
Tempos Within a Heartbeat
Sweeter than a songbird’s tune, the sound of your voice calling my name.
You strum your guitar, my heartstrings respond.
It is the making of a true love song.
Synchronized style of rhythm tempos within a heartbeat.
Sweet spot where life is good, not perfect, but comfortable.
Life caught me off guard. I was not prepared for you!
Les cadences d’un battement de cœur
C’est plus doux qu’un chant d’oiseau, quand tu appelles mon nom.
Tu grattes ta guitare, Je suis émue.
C’est la création d’une vraie chanson d’amour.
Style et rythme synchronisés, Les cadences d’un battement de cœur.
Lieu paisible où il fait bon vivre La vie n’est pas parfaite, mais agréable.
La vie m’avait surpris. Je n’étais pas prête pour toi !
If you wish to have your poetry chapbooks, poetry books, children books (prose and poetry) translated from English to French French to English Mauritian Kreol to English English to Mauritian Kreol please feel free to send them to :
vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Translation Fee: $0.06 (Rs 2.40 Mauritian currency) per word
Translation of Individual poems may also be considered . Please send a minimum of 5 poems if you wish to have a small number of your poems translated.
Vatsala Radhakeesoon’s “Hope” is a book that is indeed about hope, and dreams, and memories. She writes beautiful verses that will wrap around your soul and fill you with wonder.
My favorite is the title poem “Hope.”
Bonds, unsure bonds- I’ve broken them all, Now on Earth I play a simpler role.
“Noise, noise” screams outside, but the divine mantras chant tranquility inside.
Hope, hope – This is my life!
The first stanza of Vatsala’s poem “Tropical December.”
The golden sun’s heat dances under the stronger ravane’s* beats, First caress, caress of summer enchants warmly shy, tropical December.
*(ravane: The main musical instrument in Mauritian traditional songs and dances, the Sega).
And in “Silence,” her few words speak volumes. Here is the first stanza.
No disturbing whisper, No vain chatter, Silence is life’s master.
This is a beautiful book, printed on beautifully designed paper, filled with beautiful words and inspiration of HOPE.
Ann Christine Tabaka, poet and writer (Pushcart Prize Nominee)
French & Mauritian Kreol Translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
1.
Self-Consumption
I walked
to the edge
of the pond,
knelt down
and looked
at my reflection
staring right back
at me.
I cupped
my hands,
dipped them
into the water,
and took
a sip
of my
Self.
L’autoconsommation
Je marchais au bord de l’étang, Puis je m’agenouillai et regardais mon reflet qui me regardais fixement à son tour.
Je fis une coupe avec mes deux mains les plongeai dans l’eau, et je pris une gorgée de moi – même.
Otokonsomasion
Mo ti pe mars lor bor lamar, Mo met mwa azenou ek get mo refleksion ki ti pe get mwa an-retour.
Mo’nn fer kouman enn koup avek mo lame, plonz zot dan dilo,
ek pran
enn gorze de mwa Mem.
2.
Jewels and Germs
A society ripped in half
nonetheless the psychologist
says move onward
through these silicon times;
modern-day American culture
is a mutated cocktail of sunshine and scoundrel.
Globs of hearsay hang in the hate-filled air
as the Idealist trudges painfully onward.
“I am an Idealist within the confines of reality,”
my father once said.
Bijoux et germes
Une société déchirée en deux Néanmoins le psychologue dit d’aller de l’avant durant cet âge de silicone ; La culture Américaine contemporaine est une mutation de vainqueurs et de vauriens. Des rumeurs se répandent dans l’atmosphère de haine dès que l’idéaliste péniblement s’avance.
– Je suis L’idéaliste prisonnier de la réalité, disait mon père autrefois.
Bizou ek Mikrob
Enn sosiete desire an de me kan mem psikolog dir al delavan parmi bann lepok silikonn; kiltir Amerikenn modern li enn mitasion de vinker ek vorien. Bann rimer fane dan latmosfer laenn kan Idealis avanse aek boukou difikilte.
« Mo enn Idealis prizonie de larealite, » mo papa ti dir enn fwa.
3.
Surfacing
However we were drowned we rose back to the surface
gorging ourselves on the oxygen
running rampant above our heads.
It was gluttony but it was okay.
We lived in sin for a few seconds
all the while eyeing Heaven as we came back to life.
Would it beckon us again?
We were full of breath, lungs bloated
in full consciousness, floating.
No longer afraid of the depths,
this airy resurrection injected life
into our spirits. We were born
for the second time, living high
on life, swimming and eating oxygen like candy.
Thoughts were not perished.
Thoughts were fully blown orchids blooming with breath.
Revenant à la surface
Même si nous nous étions noyés nous sommes revenus à la surface en nous gavant d’oxygène ayant la bride sur le cou.
C’était de la gourmandise mais c’était bien.
Nous menions une vie de pécheur pendant quelques secondes tout en regardant le paradis quand nous renaquîmes.
Nous appellera-t-il de nouveau ? On était à plein souffle, respirant fort en toute conscience, en flottant.
N’ayant plus peur des profondeurs Cette résurrection aérée donnait la vie à nos esprits. Nous étions nés pour la deuxième fois, vivant pleinement nos vies, en nageant et consommant l’oxygène comme des bonbons.
Les pensées n’étaient pas mortes. Les pensées étaient des orchidées à l’âge adulte toutes fleuries de vie.
Revinn lor Sirfas
Mem si nou ti nwaye nou finn revinn lor sirfas ranpli nou poumon avek loxizenn lib pou fer seki nou anvi.
Sa ti enn gourmandiz me li ti oke.
Nou tipe viv dan pese pou inpe segonn anvie paradi ziska ki nou finn regagn lavi.
Eski li pou reapel nou ? Nou ti plin souf, poumon ranpli ar konsians konple, ek flote.
Nepli gagn per bann profonder, sa resireksion aere -la ti pe donn lavi dan nou lespri. Nou ti ne pou enn deziem fwa, viv bien nou lavi, avek naze ek konsom loxizenn kouman bonbon.
Bann panse pa ti efase. Bann panse ti bann orkide fleri ranpli ar lavi.
4.
Black Kites on the Moon
She’s flying a kite on the moon,
only nine months after the death of her virginity.
She can let go of the string and two minutes later
among this jagged gravity-less orb
still grab it, for it is suspended before her face,
the tail of a twine toy, there just for her,
half lonesome among the gray rocks.
She could fly her baby just like a kite,
by its umbilical, letting its mouth vomit giggles,
silhouetted among the dots of stars, spinning head down
and airless, breathing not of the belly’s oxygen
but breathing the nothing of the moon’s black sky. (dark nonexistent air.)
Des cerfs-volants noirs sur la lune
Elle fait voler un cerf-volant sur la lune, seulement après neuf mois suivant la mort de sa virginité. Elle peut lâcher le fil et deux minutes plus tard parmi cet orbe dentelé sans force d’attraction terrestre l’attraper toujours car il est suspendu devant elle, La queue d’un jouet de ficelle, là-bas que pour elle, presque seule parmi les rochers gris.
Elle pourrait faire voler son bébé comme un cerf- volant, par son cordon ombilicale, le laissant rejeter des éclats de rires, reflétant parmi les points d’étoiles, baissant la tête et manquant d’air, ne respirant pas l’oxygène du ventre gonflé mais respirant l’air obscur inexistant.
Servolan Nwar lor Lalinn
Li pe anvol enn servolan lor lalinn Zis nef mwa apre lamor so virzinite. Li kapav larg lafisel-la ek zis de minit apre avek mank gravite later enkor atrap li, parski li apandan devan so figir, lake enn zouzou lafisel, laba zis pou li, lamwatie tousel parmi bann ros gri.
Li ti pou kapav anvol so bebe kouman enn servolan, par so kordon onbilikal, les li riye, reflekte parmi bann pwin zetwal, bes latet ek mank ler, pa respir loxizenn vant gonfle me respir ler obskir ki pa existe.
5.
Van Gogh’s Room
The painting of Van Gogh’s room
the beauty of the mis-sized furniture
exudes from the canvas
denoting the volatility behind the brushstrokes
the colors placed in perfect position
here is where this genius slept
here is his own interpretation of where he slept
the bed, the chairs in beautifully imperfect proportion
to the table and the walls of other paintings and, of course,
the window—the window into a mental maelstrom.
La chambre de Van Gogh
Le tableau démontrant la chambre de Van Gogh
La beauté des meubles démesurés qui émane des peintures sur toile démontrant la légèreté des coups de pinceau
Les couleurs bien-placées
Voici le lieu où ce génie dormait Voici sa propre interprétation du lieu où il dormait
Le lit, les chaises esthétiquement non-proportionnés devant les tables et murs soutenant d’autres tableaux et, bien sûr, la fenêtre – la fenêtre dans un tourbillon de pensées(d’émotions).
Lasam Van Gogh
Tablo lasam Van Gogh
Bote bann meb demezire ki resoti dan bann tablo montre rafinnman kou pinso
Bann kouler dan enn pozision parfe Isi plas kot sa zeni-la tipe dormi Sa se so prop interpretasion kot li tipe dormi
Bann lili, bann sez estetikman pa proporsione devan bann latab ek miray ki soutenir lezot tablo ek, sertennman, Lafnet – lafnet dan enn tourbiyon panse.
6.
Requiem for Pluto
You stumbled along the edge,
little one, smiling that faraway icy smile
printed and painted on all the charts and textbooks.
For seventy-six years a celestial celebrity,
you blinked in and out of sight as we blinked back,
sometimes missing you but always aware
that you swung in your long frosty circles
somewhere far off in the star-studded blackness.
And you still do! They have merely demoted you
for being so turbulent and not playing by their rules.
They have changed your status, dwarfed you,
but they can never dethrone you.
For you still Exist! Only in a different arbitrary man-made category
which concerns you nothing at all, not one ounce-worth of an icicle,
for you still dance at the solar edge, distant as ever,
with your companions Charon and Nix,
etched forever into the minds of three generations.
You are still very much grand and alive, my cold little one,
still spinning in a deformed rotation
in the vast distance of the darkness.
Let the astronomers scratch their heads at your temperament.
For you will do as you please!
Requiem pour Pluton
Tu es tombé en bordure, Mon tout petit , en gardant le sourire froid et lointain imprimé et coloré dans tous les diagrammes et manuels scolaires.
Tu as été une célébrité céleste pendant soixante-seize ans, Tu paraissais et disparaissais et nous te regardions, quelquefois on te manquait mais on savait que tu étais suspendu dans tes grandes orbites glaciales quelque part loin dans l’obscurité planétaire.
Et tu le fais encore ! Ils t’ont simplement rétrogradé parce que tu étais si turbulent et tu ne te conformais pas aux règlements. Ils ont changé ton statut, t’éclipsé, mais ils ne t’ont jamais détrôné.
Mais tu existes toujours! Sauf que tu es sur une autre liste qui ne te regarde pas du tout, qui n’en vaut pas la peine, car toi tu danses toujours au bord du système solaire, t’éloignant à jamais, accompagné par tes amis Charon et Nix, prédominant dans les esprits de trois générations. Tu es toujours très précieux et vivant, mon petit, tout froid, tournant encore en rotation déformée dans l’obscurité vaste et lointaine.
Laisse les astronomes réfléchir à ton existence. Car toi tu feras ce qu’il te plaît !
Rekiem pou Pluton
To finn glis dan bor mo tipti, avek to sourir lwintin glase inprime ek penn dan tou diagram ek liv lekol.
Pandan swsannsez banane enn selebrite seles, To tipe paret ek disparet ek nou tipe get twa, parfwa nou tipe mank twa me nou ti kone ki to ti apandan dan to bann gran orbit glase kitpar lwin dan lobskirite planeter.
Ek to touzour koumsa! Zot finn degrad twa parski to dezorder ek pa swiv zot lalwa. Zot finn sanz to stati, abes twa, me zame zot pou kapav detronn twa.
Parski to touzour existe! To zis dan enn lot lalis ki pa konsern twa, mem pa vo lapenn, parski twa to touzour dan bann bor sistem soler, san zame elwagne, avek to kamarad Charon ek Nix, ki res grave dan lespri trwa zenerasion. To touzour ena valer ek to vivan, mo tipti planet fre, ki touzour tourn en rotasion lanver dan enn distans vast de lobskirite.
Les bann astronom reflesi lor to lexistans. Parski twa to pou fer seki to anvi!
7.
Old Lady in the Wind
It’s London and you are you—
enough of the storm and gale! let’s feed them away
to wishes of summer and juice! let’s run
from under the cloud and cold to the window
where maybe at least one content thought will escape
the constant push of gray clouds, strongwinds and stolen umbrellas;
fog and light do not mix—they are sworn enemies
deepened by the blur of varicose eyesockets,
especially during early morning when the gust thickens
to the point where breath seems solid
and elbows quiver under layers of flannel;
there’s curtains enough to cape me and absorb the drops,
but not below––down there it’s only black hell, paper shreds
and shriveled legs trying to keep themselves planted on the ground;
it’s ceaseless and you are windblown—
enough with wigs! let the breeze run its fingers
violently through their hair, displacing them in similar fashion
that light is obscured by fog
or fog is obscured by light, something amiss, with me
watching it sucked into the sky and fall
like a raindrop on a bald head;.
it’s the feeling of Vodka with empty stomach;
enough with the stumbles! start to balance on a curb;
lose a shoe in the endless rivers of overflown gutters
and realize that wishes in the wind are wishes on the wall;
there seems to be a quaint serenity just inside this sill, a thin refuge
from the chaos and lightning swooping down elsewhere,
striking, flashing bright bits of shard against a helpless facefull of wrinkles.
Vielle dame dans le vent
C’est Londres et tu es toi-même – assez de tempêtes et de coups de vent. Ignorons-les en pensant à l’été et aux jus de fruits ! Evitons les nuages et le froid et refugions-nous sous la fenêtre où peut être une pensée ensoleillée repoussera des nuages gris persistants, des vents puissants et des parapluies volés ;
La brume et la lumière ne s’entendent guerre – elles sont des ennemies jurées blessées par la voile, des orbites variqueux surtout à l’aube quand les rafales deviennent plus fortes au point que même le souffle semble cristallisé et les coudes grelottent sous les couches de flanelle ; Les rideaux suffisent pour me couvrir et absorber des gouttes de pluie, mais pas au bas – au bas il n’y a que l’obscurité des ténèbres , des morceaux de papier déchirés et des jambes tremblantes essayant de rester debout.
Cela continue et tu es ébouriffé –
assez de perruques ! Laisse la brise ébouriffer les cheveux, les arranger comme le brouillard cachant la lueur ou la lueur cachant le brouillard, quelque chose en moi, avec moi le regarde envahir le ciel et tombant comme une goutte de pluie sur une tête chauve ;
Cela ressemble à la consommation du Vodka à jeun ; assez de trébuchement ! Commence à t’équilibrer en mettant un frein à l’excès perdant une chaussure dans les rivières éternelles des caniveaux débordés et constatant que des vœux dans le vent sont comme des vœux au mur ; il semble d’y avoir un calme pittoresque au seuil de la fenêtre , un refuge temporaire protégeant du désordre et de l’éclair faisant une descente, frappant, de brillant éclats contre un visage impuissant tout ridé .
Vie Madam dan Divan
Isi se Lond ek twa to twa – ase bann tanpet ek koutvan. Inior zot ek pans lete ek zi fri! Anou evit bann niaz ek freser e repos anba lafnet kot kapav enn panse zwaye pou repous bann niaz gri persistan, divan for ek parapli vole;
Brouyar ek lalimier pa dan larmoni – zot bann gran lennmi blese par vwal, bann orbit avek varis sirtou gran matin kan rafal vinn pli for mem lor enn pwin kot lesouf paret inn kristalize ek bann koud gagn bien fre anba bann lepeser flanel; ena ase rido pou kouver mwa ek absorb gout lapli, me pa anba – anba ena zis lobskirite lanfer, bann bout papie desire ek bann lipie ki sey res debout tranble.
Sa pe kontinie ek to ebourife –
Bliye perik! Les labriz sifonn to seve, aranz zot kouma brouyar ki kasiet lalimier ou lalimier ki kasiet brouyar, kiksoz an mwa, avek mwa pe get li anvahi lesiel ek tomb kouma enn gout lapli lor enn latet sov;
Sa li resanble konsomasion Vodka vantvid ; Ase dandine ! Koumans gard lekilib par met frin lor lexse perdi enn soulie dan bann larivier eternel de canivo deborde ek koumans konpran ki bann swe dan divan zot kouman swe lor miray ; li paret ki ena enn kalm total lor rebor lafnet, enn labri tanporer ki protez nou de bann desord ek zeklerk kipe desann, ek donn bann ekla briyan lor enn figir feb bien ride.
8.
Moments Floating Softly at the Speed of Life
There are enough bells in life.
Breaking all of them would take enough time to put everyone
in a frantic stupor of constant ringing. Vibrating
moments would sink into our skin. We would fly
by light, through age, to arrive
in front of a crumbled mountain
and weep to ourselves in a wealth of worthlessness
of the frittered tics of bygone years—
no song could issue from nothing—only the song of silence
so long and monotonous that we’d scream
our own songs off into space and they’d drift
until they pounded their hollow audibility
against a distant monument who would see us
at such an early age they’d have never
thought they’d find us all [dead in a desolate field].
Les moments s’écoulant doucement au train de vie
Il y en a assez de sonneries dans la vie. Brisant le tout prendrait pas mal de temps à mettre tout le monde
Dans une torpeur frénétique de sonneries incessantes. Des moments vibrés se pénètreraient en nous. On s’envolerait vers la lumière, à travers des siècles, pour y arriver devant une montagne écroulée et pleurer tout seul en pensant à la futilité de l’amertume du passé – nulle chanson ne peut naître en néant – sauf la chanson du silence si longue et monotone qu’on chanterait à voix haute nos propres chansons dans l’espace et elles se perdraient en son du vide sur un monument lointain qui nous connecterait à l’âge si tendre sans jamais avoir imaginé de nous retrouver tous morts dans la désolation.
Bann Moman ki Koul Dousman avek Ritm Lavi
Ena ase sonnri dan lavi. Si kas tou ti pou pran pa mal letan pou met lemond Dan enn routinn konstan bann sonnri kontiniel. Bann moman ki vibre ti pou penetre dan nou. Nou ti pou anvole ver lalimier, atraver bann siek, pou ariv devan enn montagn ki finn tombe ek tipe plore tousel kan li ti pe pans fitilite bann soufrans dan lepase – okenn sante pa kapav kree dan vid – zis sante silans bien long ek monotonn ki nou ti pou sant bien for nou bann prop sante dan lespas ek zot ti pou perdi dan vid lor enn moniman lwintin ki ti pou konekte nou dan enn laz bien zenn san zame imazinn pou trouv nou tou mor dan dezolasion.
9.
Enormous Hazel Clouds
Twelve seconds from Kill-Devil Hill
there is a crash-down brooming loose dirt
into proms of dust. Leakage and foil
melded by the high gloss of science,
the disorientation takes to the air,
weaving, turning, losing face
to the smooth white. New rush,
the horizontal surface of disquieting
motions morphing corners. Now,
what star to eat? What ledge to jump from?
Remain to be figured. Groundswells, never touched,
for the metal shine of wax and polish,
whipping through the breeze
the trust and leap, the flaws
and, jealous, scabbed bodies pushing
a rare perfection right off the cliff.
De gigantesques nuages noisettes
Douze secondes de Kill-Devil Hill Il y a eu un accident balayant l’impureté dans des esplanades poussiéreuses. Fuite et feuilles d’aluminium soudées par le luxe de la Science, la désorientation se répand dans l’atmosphère, tissant, retournant, perdant la face à la douce blancheur. Précipitation soudaine,
Transformant tous les coins des surfaces horizontales silencieuses. Maintenant, Quelle étoile va-t-on manger ? De quelle corniche doit-on sauter ? Il reste à résoudre cela. Des vagues, toujours intactes, car la brilliance métallique de cire et du vernis, menant dans la brise la confiance et le saut , les défauts et la jalousie , des corps tavelés démontrant l’art de la perfectionnisme unique venant de la falaise.
Enorm Niaz Nwazet
Douz segonn depi Kill-Devil Hill ena enn aksidan ki balie lapousier dan bann esplanade lapousier. Fwit ek fey Aliminiom soude par briyans sofistike Sians, dezoriantasion repann dan latmosfer (ler), kree, retourne, perdi fas ar blan poli. Nouvo rush, Transform tou kwin bann sirfas trankil. Aster, ki zetwal nou pou konsomer? Depi ki kote pou sote ? Res pou kalkile. Bann vag, touzour intak, parski briyans metalik de lasir ek verni, balie par labriz konfians ek bondisman, bann defo ek zalouzi bann lekor sikatrize demontre enn perfeksion rar ki repann lor lafalez.
10.
Twig
Bent telephone poles adorn the crowded streets now cleared.
Holly and Jade cast out their midnight moans
to the confetti streets, the golden streets.
Bugs have come for us again.
Who are these people?
La brindille
Les poteaux téléphoniques pliés embellissent des rues bondées maintenant désertées.
Holly et Jade laisse résonner leur cris de minuit dans les rues de confetti, les rues précieuses.
Les Bogues sont venus nous chercher.
Qui sont ces gens-là ?
Brin
Poto telefonn bliye anbeli bann lari movmante ki aster vid. Holy ek Jade lans zot kri minwi dan bann lari Konfeti, bann gran sime.
Bann erer finn vinn rod nou ankor.
Ki sa bann dimounn-la?
11.
Happenstance and Sentience
The cheetah evolved very strong
leg muscles by means of Evolution
to ensure its survival. Oh, how wonderful
it is when the perfect mutation comes along!
That particular muscle, though, can only grow so big
before it becomes burdensome and hinders the cheetah’s survival.
Mankind, on the other hand,
evolved the almost infinite muscle,
the brain, for its primary means of survival.
The brain controls the entire body and can grow
by leaps and bounds without much physical growth.
It was the equivalent to hitting the evolutionary jackpot.
And just what has Mankind done with this glorious mutation?
It has taken it for granted as it wrecks and poisons what we’ve come to call Nature,
the very thing which gave us this magnanimous and haphazard gift in the first place.
Le hasard et la sensibilité
Le guépard a développé de très robustes muscles de jambes par le processus d’Evolution pour pouvoir survivre. Ah, comme c’est fascinant
Quand la mutation parfaite s’émerge !
Ce muscle particulièrement peut aussi devenir si lourd qu’il représente une menace pour la vie du guépard.
L’humanité, car à elle, elle
a presque développé le muscle infini, le cerveau, à priori comme un moyen de survivre. Le cerveau contrôle le corps entier et peut grandir
à pas géant sans croissance physique. Cela représentait la cagnotte d’évolution.
Et qu’est-ce que l’humanité a fait de cette précieuse mutation?
Elle l’a considéré comme acquis lorsqu’elle se heurte et empoisonne ce qu’on considère comme la Nature, La chose la plus importante qui nous a d’abord donné ce grand cadeau au hasard.
Azar ek Sansibilite
Chita inn devlop avek bann solid misk lazam par Evolision pou kapav sirviv. A , get kouma li fasinan Kan enn mitasion parfe vini! Sa misk-la kapav vinn osi lour ki li reprezant enn menas pou lavi chita.
Limanite, par kont li finn,
Devlop misk preske infini, Servo, premierman pou so fason pou sirviv. Servo komtrol lekor antie ek kapav grandi vit san krwasans fisik. Sa ti reprezant enn Jackpot Evolision.
Ek ki finn fer limanite ar sa mitasion-la ?
Li finn pran sa pou normal kan li bles ek anpwasonn seki nou konsidere Kouma Natir, Kitsoz inportan ki finn avan tou donn nou enn gran kado par azar.
12.
Bandwagon
How many have metaphorically experienced the Maul of America?
How many have had it brought right to their doorstep
like bloodthirsty newspapers?
Manmade money—
the greatest illusion
and scar of reality divorced from
the True Universal realities—
you get enough people piled
into that bandwagon and a Manmade
reality begins to take hold
until it totally seeps into every crevice
and becomes “real” in the phoniest way any
Manmade reality can become “real”—
the people who have bought into it
run their lives [skin and muscles and bones]
around the clock to conform to this ersatz reality—
and now the masses have become hooked,
their hearts beating in electrical uniformity
with the pulse of that Mainstream Thought—
this is natural selection
out of whack, turned brittle and nearly pulverized:
oligarchy and monarchy float afloat floating in the air
of suburbia, of Palm Beach, of the ghetto—
everyone chasing a green piece of paper
that carries with it an abstract unnatural meaning
placed there by the populace.
Le train en marche
Combien de personnes ont métaphoriquement expérimenté le Maul de l’Amérique?
Combien l’ont emmené tout droit chez eux comme des journaux assoiffés de sang?
L’argent fabriqué par l’homme – la plus grande des illusions
Et la cicatrice de la réalité en rupture avec des vraies réalités universelles –
On a assez de gens entassés dans le train en marche et une réalité artificielle nous retient
Jusqu’à ce qu’elle s’infiltre dans chaque crevasse et devient réelle dans la façon la plus hypocrite comme toute réalité Artificielle qui devient réelle – Les gens dont y ont acheté mènent leur vies en courant autour du temps en obéissant à cette réalité ersatz – Et maintenant le peuple s’y est accroché, leur cœurs battant machinalement en uniformité
Avec la Croyance généralisée –
C’est de la sélection naturelle détraquée, devenant fébrile et presque pulvérisée : L’oligarchie et la monarchie surfacent à la surface de l’air de banlieue, de Palm Beach , du ghetto – tout le monde poursuivant une feuille de papier verte qui porte avec lui une définition artificielle abstraite imposée par le peuple.
Trin Anmars
Komie dimounn finn metaforikman experians LAmerik Maul ?
Komie finn amenn li kot zot kouman bann zournal aswafe disan ?
Larzan ki finn fabrike par Imin (bann dimounn) – pli gran ilizion
Ek sikatris realite ar riptir avek vre realite iniversel –
Zot gagn as dimounn antase dan enn trin anmars ek enn realite artifisiel ki predominn ziska rant dan sak krevas ek vinn reel dan fason pli ipokrit kouma tou realite Artifisiel ki vinn reel – Bann dimounn ki finn aste laba amenn zot lavi otour letan par obeir sa realite-la – Ek aster lepep finn vinn depandan, zot leker bat masinalman ansam Avek Krwayans zeneralize –
Sa se seleksion natirel detrake, vinn feb, ek preske pilverize : Loligarsi ek Monarki aparet lao dan ler bann fobour, Palm Beach, Geto – tou dimounn gallop deryer enn fey papie ver
Ki transport avek li enn definision artifisiel abstre inpoze par lepep.
13.
Produce and People
You actor your way through the day
only to come home every night
and sit down realizing
that you really don’t know
who you are anymore,
that your Individuality has seemed
to slowly vanish from your Consciousness
due to all those years of superimposed smiles
and the mountains of little white lies you have built your life upon.
Your brain is Void of True Character and Identity.
You are officially lost in a world of Man-made Realities.
Produire et s’incarner
Toi l’acteur tu passes ta journée et rentre chez toi chaque soir pour constater que tu ne sais plus vraiment
qui tu es,
que ton individualité semble disparaitre petit à petit de ta Conscience après tant d’années de sourires imposés
et des montagnes de mensonges sur lesquelles tu as bâti ta vie.
Ton esprit est dépourvu de vrai Caractère et d’Identité Tu es officiellement perdu dans le monde de réalités Artificielles.
Prodwir ek Inkarne
To zwe to rol pandan lazourne ek zis retourn lakaz sak nwit pou repoze ek realize ki to vreman nepli kone ki sann-la to ete,
Ki to Individialite finn koumadir Dousman disparet de to Konsians akoz tou sa bann sourir forse pandan boukou babane ek bann montagn mansonz avek ki to ti pe viv.
To lespri Penan Vre Karakter ek Idantite Ti ofisielman perdi dan lemond realite Artifisiel.
14.
Questioning My Own Truths
In the midst of their omnipresent Mainstream Thought,
their abstract order of mindless falsity
which defines, instructs and orders their personalities and opinions.
I, unlatched from the pestilent river of loops,
in my distant world of Epiphany and Truth,
which comes at the expense of isolation and suffering,
sometimes catch myself wondering, if, in some strange way,
I am silently and subconsciously
calling out for their help?
I must lean into and fully feel
the necessity of possible Truth
no matter how much it hurts
else all is lost.
For if a person is going to Spiral and Evolve they MUST allow
the Truth to hurt them or else live a li(e)fe caged and shackled by falsehoods.
Se posant des questions sur mes propres vérités
Au milieu de leur Pensée Courante omniprésente, leur impulsive fausseté abstraite qui définit, instruit et ordonne leurs personnalités et leurs opinions. Moi, lâché de la rivière nuisible de nœuds,
Dans mon monde lointain d’Épiphanie et de Vérité, naissant au détriment de la solitude et de la souffrance, me retrouve parfois en me demandant, si , d’une façon étrange, tout en silence et subconsciemment est-ce que je demande ton aide ?
Je dois me reposer sur et complètement ressentir la nécessité de la vérité sous-entendu même si c’est très blessante sinon tout est perdu. Parce que si une personne tourne en rond et S’EVOLUE elles DOIVENT laisser la vérité leur blessée ou sinon vivre une vie emprisonnée et étouffée de mensonges.
Kestionn Mo Prop Verite
Omilie bann Panse Kouran ki omnipresan, zot foste inplilsif abstre ki defini , instrwi ek ordonn zot personalite ek opinion. Mwa detase ar larivier nwisib bann ne, Dan mon lemod lwintin Epifani ek Verite, ki ne o detriman solitid ek soufrans, fer mwa demann mwa mem si, dan enn fason drol, an silans ek dan sibkonsian eski mo demann twa led ?
Mo bizin depann lor ek resanti konpletman lanesesite de Verite Posib mem komie li blese sinon tou leres enn lapert. Parski si enn dimounn tourn an ron ek EVOLIE zot BIZIN les laverite bles zot ou sinon viv enn lavi anprisone ek toufe par mansonz.
15.
Prisoners of Patterns
The grotesque cyclical
Nature nurture
has made you all sick
in the head
my Spiral screeches against
your symmetry of lies
and circulatory falsehoods
which you’ve sold yourself into
sewn yourself into
so immensely stitched together
is the fabric and flesh
that it is tremendously difficult
to tear apart
to tear away from
to tear off
and into the Truth.
Prisoniers du comportement
Le cycle grotesque de l’inné et l’acquis t’a tout à fait empoisonné l’esprit
Mes hurlements spiraux contre tes mensonges en symétrie et faussetés tournant en rond dont tu t’es toi-même mêlé
dont tu as cousu si fièrement avec des points solides sont comme en tissu et chair qui est vraiment si difficile à se séparer à se détacher à déchirer
et de revenir à la vérité.
Prisonie Konportman
Sik grotesk Natir ek elvasion finn anpwazonn konpletman to lespri
Mo kri Spiral kont
To simetri mansonz ek foste tourn an ron to’nn rant dan sa twa mem
seki twa mem to’nn koud firman avek bann pwin solid zot kouman an latwal ek laser ki vreman difisil pou separe pou detase pou desire ek revinn lor laverite.
16 .
Misperception
That oak tree
is not really an oak tree.
That oak tree
is only an oak tree
because you call it an oak tree.
Maybe you should stop lying to yourself.
Perception erronée
Ce chêne n’est pas vraiment un chêne.
Ce chêne n’est qu’un chêne parce que tu le qualifies de chêne
Peut- être que tu dois cesser de t’illusionner.
Persepsion Erone
Sa gran pie-la pa vreman enn gran pie
Sa gran pie-la li zis enn grand pie parski to apel li enn gran pie
Kapav to bizin aret fer ilizion.
17.
Curriculums
I am always alwaysing my way through life
turnstiling through these days
made of illusion and lies
the hamster wheel spinneth eternal
…fan rotation and so on…
until I
unlatch from this loop
to see that circular paths are false
for the Truth lives in the Spiral.
to unsnag the grindstone eternally turning
one must disconnect oneself
in order to stop this massively insane friction.
Programme d’études
Je marche toujours, toujours- en-fonçant dans la vie tout droit calmement à travers des jours envahis par l’illusion et de mensonges
La roue du hamster tourne éternellement
… une rotation de ventilateur. …
jusqu’à ce que moi détaché de ce nœud peux constater que ces chemins en ronds sont illusoires
car la Vérité vit en Spirale.
pour perfectionner la meule tournant éternellement on doit se déconnecter
pour éviter ces idées folles conflictuelles.
Silabus
Mo mars touzour, touzour fons dan lavi dwrat ek kalm de zour an zour anvahi par ilizion ek mansoz
larou Hamster tourn eternelman
… enn rotasion vantilater…
ziska ki mwa detase avek sa ne-la kapav realize ki bann sime an ron zot ilizwar
kan laverite viv an Spiral.
pou perfeksionn lamel ki tourn eternelman nou bizin dekonekte
pou evit bann lide inpilsif (fol) ki konfliktiel.
18.
Broken Moonbone
Realburst, novaburst—
earlybird shoots the warm deer;
swallows the whisky; hair
of the dog who sunk
its teeth into your soul;
trauma-kit, bellyache—
the kite raping through the sky,
bladed, somehow razored, snipping
the twine of anything windblown its way;
evolution beats its chest
so apely day in, day out—
various roars of frustration
erupt in response to
a God who doesn’t care.
L’os lunaire brisé
Vrai-éclatement, nouvel-éclatement – Le lève-tôt chasse le cerf chaleureux ;
Buvant du whisky ; une perf d’alcool qui enfonçait ses dents dans ton âme ;
Signes du traumatisme, mal au ventre – le cerf-volant violant le ciel, blessé, presque rasé , coupant avec de la ficelle tout ce qui s’envole près de lui ;
L’évolution bat sa poitrine comme le gorille jour et nuit – plusieurs rugissements de frustration s’adressent furieusement à un Dieu qui ignore les gens.
Los Lalinn Kase
Vre eklatman, nouvo eklatman – Seki matinal sas serf akeyan; Avek enn wiski, enn kantite lalkol ki fons so ledan dan to nam ;
sign traumatizm, gagn malovant – servolan ki viol lesiel, blese, preske raze, koup ar lafisel tou seki anvol pre ar li ;
levolision bat so pwatrinn kouma goril zour ek nwit – boukou kri fristrasion koz avek enn ton an koler avek enn Bondie ki pa pran kont.
19.
Transmogrification
Turn off
tune out
and drop in
to your Self
to your Own thoughts
your own garden of Intellect
stop following slogans
and mantras that warped the brains
of an entire generation of mostly dimwits
who later sold out whatever shred of Integrity
they might have had to begin with
in order to follow that carrot strategically dangled before them
so as to infiltrate their minds and turn their care away from any True values
and slowly morph them into hollowed-out full throttle materialistic over-consumers
this blight of spoiled rotten adults
leaving behind the tattered vestiges of what was once
a trifle of halfhearted sincerity and righteousness
as the hippies have mutated into the yuppies.
La métamorphose
Eteins N’écoute pas et connecte- toi à toi-même à tes propres pensées ton propre jardin de la Connaissance
Cesse de poursuivre des slogans et mantras qui voilaient les cerveaux d’une génération entière d’imbéciles qui ont vendu toute l’intégrité qu’ils en avaient pour vivre afin de poursuivre cette motivation stratégiquement suspendue devant eux pour infiltrer leur esprits et leur dévier de vraies valeurs et leur transformer doucement dans la banalité des consommateurs matérialistes à l’extrême
Cette dégradation d’adultes insensés laissant derrière eux des vestiges qui jadis étaient de détails hésitant entre sincérité ou droiture Comme des hippies mutant en yuppies.
Metamorfoz
Tengn tou Pa ekoute ek konekte twa
Avek twa-mem avek to prop panse to prop zardin konesans
Aret swiv bann slogan ek mantra ki anvlop lespri enn zenerasion antie ki inbesil ki finn vann tou zot integrite ki zot ti gagne pou viv pou pourswiv zot motivasion ki stratezikman balans devan zot pou inflitre zot lespri ek fer zot devie de Vre valer ek transform zot dousman dan banalite bann konsomater ki materyalis ziska lextrem
Sa degradasion bann adilt insanse ki les deryer zot bann vestiz ki ti avan bann detay ki tipe fer esite ant sinserite ou drwatir Kouma bann hippies ki finn vinn yuppies par mitasion.
20.
More Than Dust
World is
made of
particles
each fiber
each atom
means something
has some significance
in the Grand Scheme
even the most minus of the entire minutiae
contains
something
of value—
[Universe within Consciousness within Dream within Spiral]
clap your hands applausingly—
for there are no worthless things in this world!
Plus que poussière
Le monde est construit de particules
chaque fibre chaque atome veut dire quelque chose a une signification dans le Grand Plan
même le moins du minuscule en entier contient quelque chose de précieux –
[L’univers à l’intérieur de la Conscience à l’intérieur du Rêve à l’intérieur de la Spirale]
applaudissez au succès – car rien n’est inutile dans ce monde !
Plis ki Lapousier
Lemond li fer ar bann partikil
sak fib sak atom vedir enn kitsoz ena enn rezondet lor Gran Plan
Mem lepli negatif de minikil an antie kontenir
Kitsoz
de valer –
[Liniver dan linteryer Konsians dan linterier Rev dan linteryer Spiral]
Aplodi sikse – parski nanye pa initil dan sa lemond-la !
21.
My Life Severely Boiled Down
I saw the light that blinded most.
I found the Great Spiral and Understood it.
I grew the spidery cyst on my brain.
I withstood the jagged jibes and jokes of daily Suburban school.
I cold-turkeyed every substance my body ever became addicted to.
I brought my Self to the point of not even needing a prop.
I induced this 12-year hermitage. I cultivated my own Intellect to a broader degree.
My own Self. I saw the falsity among the masses
and the insanity of society as it robotically called me insane.
I tapped into realms of Truth to the point where it was virtually useless
for me to even talk to another person anymore since I was
on such a different wavelength. I took the road less travelled than the road less travelled
and saw the necessity for some conformity which probably confuses all the other people who pseudo-thought for themselves as all of it was nothing more
than a mantra to them—a slogan to follow to keep them “cool.”
Then I fell into a dream
with sugar-bum fairies and loud angry counting instead of trippy orchestras.
Ma vie simplement en résumé
J’avais vu la lumière la plus aveuglante. J’avais retrouvé la Grande Spirale et je l’avais Compris. J’avais laissé grandir le kyste d’araignée dans mon cerveau. J’avais fait face aux sarcasmes et plaisanteries de l’école de banlieue quotidiennement. J’avais refroidi toutes les substances dont mon corps était devenu dépendant. Je m’étais arrivé à ce point où je n’avais pas besoin d’un soutien. J’avais forcé cette vie d’ermite de 12 ans. J’avais cultivé mon esprit plus profondément. Le Moi-même. J’avais vu des faussetés parmi les peuples et la folie de la société lorsqu’elle m’appelait le fou. J’avais exploré le fond de la vérité au point où elle était virtuellement inutile pour moi de parler à une autre personne comme j’étais sur une différente longueur d’ondes. J’avais entamé un voyage sans trajet au lieu du trajet le moins voyagé et j’avais constaté la nécessité de conformité qui rendait toutes les autres personnes probablement confuses les gens qui avaient des pseudo- pensées car tout n’était qu’un mantra pour eux – un slogan à poursuivre et de les calmer. Puis je me suis perdu dans un rêve avec des douces fées et comptant à voix haute furieusement au lieu d’entendre les orchestres psychédéliques.
Mo Lavi Sinpleman an Rezime
Mo ti trouv lalimier ki tip li aveglan. Mo ti retrouv Gran Spiral ek mo ti konpran. Mo ti les grandi kist larenie dan mo servo. Mo ti fer fas bann sarkas ek badinaz dan lekol mo lokalite toulezour. Mo ti refrwadi tou bann sibstans lor ki mo lekor ti vinn depandan. Mo ti ariv lor enn pwin kot mo pa ti bizin okenn sipor moral. Mo ti fors enn lavi ermit a 12 an.Mo ti kiltiv mo lespri pli profondeman. Mo prop-swa. Mo ti trouv foste parmi lepep ek lafoli societe kan li ti pe apel mwa fou. Mo ti explor laverite a fon ziska ki li virtielman initil pou mwa pou mo koz avek enn dimounn parski mo ti lor enn diferan longerdond.Mo ti koumans enn vwayaz san traze olie enn traze mwin vwayaze ek mo ti remark la nesesite konformite ki ti met bann lezot dimounn probableman dan konfizion bann dimounn ki ti ena zot-mem bann panse exazere parski ti zis enn mantra pou zot – enn slogan pou swiv ek kalme zot. Apre mo finn perdi dan enn rev avek bann fe douse ek konte for-for olie ekout lorkes sikedelik.
22.
Boisterous Niches
I yelled for silence but it hid in boisterous niches
where the soundlessness of life befriended nonexistence.
I screamed for silence but boister rendered me hopeless
and submerged me within the possible reality
of the extinction of silence
and let the grave clamor pound me into incessant fury.
Les créneaux bruyants
Je hurlais pour qu’il y ait le silence mais il se cacha dans les créneaux bruyants où le silence de la vie s’était lié d’amitié à l’inexistant.
Je criais pour qu’il y ait le silence mais le bruit me rendait désespéré et me plongeait dans la dure réalité
de l’extinction du silence
et laissa le cri grave me fâcher incessamment.
Kreno Tapazer
Mo ti pe irle pou ki ena silans me li finn kasiet dan ban kreno tapazer kot silans lavi ti fer kamarad ar linexistans.
Mo ti pe kriye pou ki ena silans me tapaz ti pe rand mwa dezespere ek ti pe plonz mwa dan realite dir lamor silans
ek les sa kri grav-la met mwa an koler kontinielman.
23.
Elderly Postman
Crowds turn to dust
angels bleed stones turn colors
everyone gushes over at—
no chair above feet
a dead tree weeps
in willows frogs lost
in a trampled migration—
scoop spoon faces
delusional jelly stains on satin socks
cough braves torrents of dawn
on the cliff flute-clad with the mist
swirling above him morning as usual
an old cinematic rerun running over again
he loses his fever by the gate to your house
beneath the sky draped blue
as wrong-colored grapes
from the weather above his notions
peace comes in bells like white
rustic.
Le vieux facteur
Des foules se transformant en poussière Les anges révèlent des secrets Tout le monde se répand en effusion à ces sujets –
pas de chaise plus haut que des pieds un arbre mort pleure dans les saules des grenouilles se sont égarées piétinées par la migration –
Cuiller les visages La mousse illusoire laisse des taches sur les chaussettes satinées La toux bat les torrents de l’aurore sur la falaise flutée de brume menant au-dessus d’elle le jour comme d’habitude une vieille scène cinématographique se répète
Il perd son âme fiévreuse à ta porte sous le ciel tout drapé de bleu comme des raisins mal colorés
de la perception du temps dépassant ses notions surgit la paix en sonneries comme le blanc tout rustique.
Vie Fakter
Lafoul transform an pousier Bann anz devwal sekre Toudimounn kirye pou kone –
pena okenn sez plit ot ki lipie enn pie mor plore dan bann ti pie grenouy finn perdi pietine par migrasion –
Bann figir trakase Lamous ilizwar les bann tas lor soset satine Touse pe bat bann toran gramatin lor falez abvahi par brouyar ki amenn en nouvo zour dan so fason normal enn vie senn sinema pe repete
Li perdi so nam lafiev lor to laport anba enn lesiel drape an ble kouman bann resin mal kolore
par letan ki dan enn lot dimension ki so persepsion emerz lape an sonnri kouman blan bien sinp.
24
Balancing Egos
Some people have aluminum egos
while others have swollen skyscraper-sized egos.
The only thing that really matters
is how tilted the percentage of one given ratio
is to the other in the present day and age.
Because, egos, which lead to Imperialism,
are the one aspect of the human mind
that will never change—seeing as how they are ingrained
in Humanity by Evolution—a Universal reality.
Balançant l’Ego
Certains gens ont un ego d’aluminium tandis que d’autres ont l’ego gonflé comme des immenses gratte-ciel.
La seule chose qui a vraiment de sens
est combien vaut le pourcentage équivalent à un autre du jour actuel et durant cette époque.
Parceque l’ego qui mène à l’Impérialisme, est un aspect de l’esprit humain qui ne changera jamais – constatant comme il est enraciné dans l’Humanité par L’évolution – une réalité Universelle.
Balans Ego
Sirtin dimounn ena ego aliminiom tandiki bann lezot ena ego gonfle kouma batiman ot. Sel kitsoz ki vreman konte se komie enn poursentaz pou ekivalan pou enn lot zour vizavi zour aktiel ek sa lepok-la.
Parski, bann ego, ki menn ziska Inperyalism, zot enn aspe lespri imin ki zame pa pou sanze – kan konstate kouma zot ankre dan Limanite par Evolision – enn realite Iniversel.
25
Well, Momma
(inspired by the John Lennon song “I Don’t Wanna be a Soldier Momma”)
Well…I…just I wanna be an experimental philosophical poet, Momma.
I just wanna fly and transmogrify and speak my rude Truths against society’s dense wall of insanity
to the point where people can identify with my lines and write to me about how my books have changed their lives.
Well…I…don’t wanna be a rich man, Momma.
I don’t wanna sigh.
Well…I…don’t wanna be herd member, Mamma.
I don’t wanna simplify and realize on my deathbed
that I never Truly lived a day of my life.
Well…I’d…rather die a poor man, Momma.
At least I’ll know I’ll have lived authentically and stared God dead in the eye.
Well…I…don’t wanna to be part of Main Street, Momma.
I don’t wanna see how obliviously they suffer from never knowing
what it feels like to be alone with the Gods due to their unwavering conformity.
Well…I…don’t wanna be a fuzzhead, Momma.
I don’t wanna be caged by the prison of lies to the point
where I become so insane I choose to enforce its hypocrisy.
Well…I…don’t wanna be a war-man, Momma.
I don’t wanna cry or kill or die.
Well…I…don’t wanna be a flag man, Momma.
I don’t wanna lie about how thread and fabric stitched together
is a hollow Pavlovian symbol of a nonexistent freedom.
Well…I’d…rather die a poor man, Momma.
At least I’ll know I’ll have lived authentically
having spent my days staring God dead in the eye.
Well…I…don’t wanna be an american, Momma.
I don’t wanna lie and kill and feel dead inside.
Bien , Maman (inspiré par la chanson de John Lennon ‘I Don’t Wanna be a Soldier Momma’ )
Bien… seulement… je je veux être un poète expérimentale et philosophique, Maman. Je veux simplement m’envoler et transformer et dire mes vérités choquantes contre les vastes murs fou de la société au point que les gens puissent s’identifier à mes vers et m’écrire comment mes livres ont changé leur vies.
Bien … je…ne veux pas être un homme riche, Maman. Je ne veux pas pousser un soupir.
Bien… je… ne veux pas être membre du troupeau, Maman. Je ne veux pas simplifier et constater sur mon lit de mort que je n’ai jamais Vraiment vis pleinement un jour de ma vie.
Bien … j’aurai…plutôt aimé mourir comme un pauvre, Maman. Au moins je saurai que j’ai vécu avec authenticité et fixa Dieu droit dans l’œil.
Bien… je… ne veux pas être celui du Main Street, Maman. Je ne veux pas voir comment inconsciemment ils souffrent sans jamais savoir ce que c’est d’être seul avec les dieux à cause de leur conformité exigeante.
Bien…je … ne veux pas être cachotier, Maman. Je ne veux pas être enfermé dans le prisme de mensonges à ce point que je deviens aussi fou de choisir de vivre en hypocrisie.
Bien …je… ne veux pas être un soldat, Maman. Je ne veux pas pleurer ou tuer ou mourir.
Bien…je… ne veux pas être un signaleur, Maman. Je ne veux pas mentir comment le fil et la tissue cousu l’un contre l’autre est un faux symbole Pavlonien de la liberté illusoire.
Bien…j’aurai… aimé mourir comme un pauvre, Maman. Au moins j’aurai su que j’ai vécu authentiquement mes jours fixant Dieu droit dans l’œil.
Bien… je… ne veux pas être américain, Maman. Je ne veux pas mentir et tuer et se sentir mort au fond de mon cœur.
Bon, Mama (inspire par sante John Lennon Lennon « I Don’t Wanna be a Soldier, Momma »)
Bon… sinpleman…mo mo anvi vinn enn poet experimantal ek filosofik, Mama. Mo zis anvi anvole ek transforme ek koz mo bann dir verite kont bann gran miray fou de sosiete ziska ki bann dimounn kapav idantifie zot avek mo bann ver ek ekrir mwa kouma mo liv finn sanz zot lavi.
Bon…Mo…pa anvi vinn enn zom ris, Mama. Mo pa anvi pous enn soupir.
Bon…Mo…pa anvi vinn enn manb troupo, Mama. Mo pa anvi sinplifie ek realize avan mo mor ki zame mo finn Vreman viv enn zour dan mo lavi.
Bon..Mo…plito mor kouma pov, Mama. Omwin mo pou kone ki mo’nn viv otantikman get Bondie drwat dan lizie.
Bon…Mo… pa anvi form parti Main Street, Mama. Mo pa anvi kone kouma zot inkonsiaman soufer parski zame zo’nn kone seki vedir res tousel avek bann bondie akos zot konformite rizid.
Bon…Mo…pa anvi vinn enn sournwa, Mama. Mo pa anvi kofine dan prizon mansonz zika pwin ki mo vinn osi fou pou swazir fors so ipokrizi.
Bon..Mo…pa anvi vinn enn solda, Mama. Mo pa anvi plore ou touye ou mor.
Bon…Mo…pa anvi vinn enn seki donn signal,Mama. Mo pa anvi koz manti lor kouma difil ek latwal ki koud ansam li enn fos sinbol Pavlonien de liberte ilizwar.
Bon…plito…Mo mor pov, Mama. Omwin mo pou kone ki monn viv avek otantisite mo bann zour ek get Bondie drwat dan lizie.
Bon…Mo…pa anvi vinn enn amerikin, Mama. Mo pa anvi koz manti, touye ek santi mwa mor ofon mo leker.
26
Empty
He took stock
in beating
me with a marrowless bone.
Tattooed across
his face were the words
“Hollow Inside.”
Vide
Il prenait du plaisir
en me frappant avec on os sans moelle.
Tatoués sur son visage les mots « Vide à l’Intérieur »
Vid
Li tipe pran plezir bat mwa avek enn lezo san lamwel
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 