Remember, poetry is not
Read.
It is uttered sincerity,
Or your child’s eyes
Spoken in what you do.
It is every brick you kiss as you build,
Or a curse in the absence of love.
As for poets, they are all around you
Hidden in bad employment or
Prose. And remember each metaphor is
A house you will have to live in,
And wisdom is knowing when to leave.
You will have to pronounce “sentiment”
As something that is the reason for
Doing anything,
In a country that fears its heart.
This too is a cross,
No greater than the market greed
And the golem of bright ideology.
And then there are the poems that are
Prayers,
That arrive like dew if you have the sense
To grow a garden,
Let no one talk you into languages
You do not know
Beyond feeling
That said, you are a poet, and the world will fear
You and desire you
As a blessing,
And if you are useless for a time
There will be a way to return home,
When your words are needed,
When the dreams are revived,
And the fevers of children
Are ended.
-Pier Giorgio Di Cicco, “The Last Poem”
THE OLD
LES VIEUX—JACQUES BREL
Old people no longer talk
or only sometimes from the tips of their eyes
Even when rich, they’re poor,
they have no more illusions and just one heart for two
In their home it smells like thyme, clean, lavender and language of yesteryear
No matter if you live in Paris, you all live in the country when you’ve been living for too long
Is it from having laughed too much that their voices crack when they speak about yesterday
And from having cried too much that tears still appear at the corner of their eyes ?
And if they tremble a bit, is it from seeing the silver clock, humming in the living room,
Getting older, saying yes, saying no, saying : I’m waiting for you ?
Old people no longer dream, their books get sleep, their pianos are closed
The little cat is dead, the Sunday Muscat doesn’t make them sing anymore
The old people no longer move, their movements have too many wrinkles, their world is too little
From the bed to the window, then from the bed to the armchair and from the bed to the bed
And if they still go out arm-in-arm, all dressed up in stiffness
That is to go, under the sun, to the funerals of an elder, to the funerals of an uglier
And during just one sob, to forget for one whole hour about the silver clock
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no, and then waiting for them
Old people don’t die, they fall asleep one day and sleep too long
They hold each other by the hand, they’re afraid to lose each other but nevertheless do so
And the other one remains here, the better or the worse, the sweet or the severe
This doesn’t matter, the one remaining out of the two finds himself in hell
Perheps you’ll see it, you’ll see it sometimes dressed in rain and sorrow
Walking across the present, already apologizing for not being much further,
And avoiding in front of you, one last time, the silver clock
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no, telling them : I’m waiting for you
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no and then waiting for us.
—-Jacques Brel’s song Les Vieux translated by an anonymous netizen.A beautiful translation
Old people no longer talk
or only sometimes from the tips of their eyes
Even when rich, they’re poor,
they have no more illusions and just one heart for two
In their home it smells like thyme, clean, lavender and language of yesteryear
No matter if you live in Paris, you all live in the country when you’ve been living for too long
Is it from having laughed too much that their voices crack when they speak about yesterday
And from having cried too much that tears still appear at the corner of their eyes ?
And if they tremble a bit, is it from seeing the silver clock, humming in the living room,
Getting older, saying yes, saying no, saying : I’m waiting for you ?
Old people no longer dream, their books get sleep, their pianos are closed
The little cat is dead, the Sunday Muscat doesn’t make them sing anymore
The old people no longer move, their movements have too many wrinkles, their world is too little
From the bed to the window, then from the bed to the armchair and from the bed to the bed
And if they still go out arm-in-arm, all dressed up in stiffness
That is to go, under the sun, to the funerals of an elder, to the funerals of an uglier
And during just one sob, to forget for one whole hour about the silver clock
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no, and then waiting for them
Old people don’t die, they fall asleep one day and sleep too long
They hold each other by the hand, they’re afraid to lose each other but nevertheless do so
And the other one remains here, the better or the worse, the sweet or the severe
This doesn’t matter, the one remaining out of the two finds himself in hell
Perheps you’ll see it, you’ll see it sometimes dressed in rain and sorrow
Walking across the present, already apologizing for not being much further,
And avoiding in front of you, one last time, the silver clock
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no, telling them : I’m waiting for you
Humming in the living room, saying yes, saying no and then waiting for us.
—-Jacques Brel’s song Les Vieux translated by an anonymous netizen.A beautiful translation
topherchris: A Simple Tumblr Fullscreen Image Viewer
I made a thing (and so can you).
Take a look at this slideshow of gifs. It’s pretty basic, but here’s what’s pretty cool: You can plug this gallery into any of your own Tumblr blogs with very little fuss. It’ll grab your most recent photo posts, feed them into this jQuery gallery, and even…
