Thursday, June 27, 2019

XLI.

Hafez :
Portrait of the Persian Poet Hafez (Khajeh Shams al-Din Mohammad Hafez Shirazi)
(1320-1389)


“There are different wells within your heart.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far too deep for that.

In one well
You have just a few precious cups of water,
That "love" is literally something of yourself,
It can grow as slow as a diamond
If it is lost.

Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a
Stranger,
Only to someone
Who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you.

There are different wells within us.
Some fill with each good rain,
Others are far, far too deep
For that.”

― Hafiz, The Divan
Photo credit:  Pinterest / SuperStock
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hafez

Friday, January 13, 2017

XL.



""It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw, and fell asleep.

"It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

"Here then I retreated, and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man." "

~Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein" - Originally published, 1818, in the United Kingdom and Ireland

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

XXXIX.

"Early Morning Rain"

by Gordon Lightfoot

In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand
With an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand
Now, I'm a long way from home and I miss my loved ones so
In the early morning rain with no place to go

Out on runway number nine a big 707's set to go
But, I'm stuck here in the grass where the cold wind blows
Now, the liquor tasted good and the women all were fast
Well, there she goes, my friend, well she's going down at last

Hear the mighty engines roar - see the silver bird on high
She's away and westward bound - far above the clouds she'll fly

There the morning rain don't fall and the sun always shines
She'll be flying over my home in about three hours time

This old airport's got me down - it's no earthly good to me
'cause I'm stuck here on the ground as cold and drunk as I can be
You can't jump a jet plane like you can a freight train
So, I'd best be on my way in the early morning rain

You can't jump a jet plane like you can a freight train
So, I'd best be on my way in the early morning rain




""Early Morning Rain" (sometimes "Early Mornin' Rain") is a song composed and recorded by Canadian singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot. The song appears on his 1966 debut album Lightfoot! and in a re-recorded version on the 1975 compilation Gord's Gold.

Lightfoot composed the song in 1964, but the genesis of the song took root during his sojourn in Westlake, Los Angeles during 1960. During this time Lightfoot became homesick and would go out to the Los Angeles airport on rainy days to watch the approach of aircraft.  The imagery of the flights taking off into the overcast sky was still with him when in 1964, about five years later he was caring for his 5-month-old baby son and he thought “I’ll put him over here in his crib, and I’ll write myself a tune.”    

"Early Morning Rain" was the result.

The lyrics suggest someone down on his luck, standing at an airport fence and observing the thunderous takeoff of a Boeing 707 jetliner. The general narrative of the song can be taken as a jet-age musical allegory to a hobo of yesteryear lurking around a railroad yard attempting to surreptitiously board and ride a freight train to get home. Lightfoot reflects that being able to capture this narrative was due to his steady improvement as a song writer."

Source: wikipedia

Sunday, September 25, 2016

XXXVIII.


“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. 

But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. 

When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”

― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Saturday, July 16, 2016

XXXVII.



“Although it was only six o'clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by its proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain and glittered under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter's rough poetry.” 

~ Théophile Gautier

Hashish, Wine, Opium


Photo credit:  ngm.nationalgeographic


Sunday, June 19, 2016

XXXVI.




“Sometimes I don't know, which moment
which cool gust of wind will come,
and enchant me
tousling my hair
and my heart, 

stirring...that familiar ache of poetry, 

which drop will kiss
the old wrench in my soul
reminding me, all over again

I miss you better in the rain.” 

― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

Monday, March 28, 2016

XXXV.



Like Rain it Sounded Till it Curved 

~by Emily Dickinson

Like Rain it sounded till it curved

And then I new 'twas Wind -

It walked as wet as any Wave

But swept as dry as sand -

When it had pushed itself away

To some remotest Plain

A coming as of Hosts was heard

It filled the Wells, it pleased the Pools

It warbled in the Road -

It pulled the spigot from the Hills

And let the Floods abroad -

It loosened acres, lifted seas

The sites of Centres stirred

Then like Elijah rode away

Upon a Wheel of Cloud.