Waves
as I leave my marks
on the sand grinded by invisible teeth
I am followed submissively
by the force lying there underneath
do you know what amazing stories
the sea has told me last night?
of sea horses and drifting wood
and of death holding me tight
dancing madly in a waltz
of rippled lace, dragged back and forth
it gently caresses my ankles
slapping me suddenly from south and from north
roaring like an angry monster
that wants to engulf the whole modern time
embracing my being
in a moment where it belongs to nobody, but is all mine.
100 Words, Memyselfandela/Adela Galasiu 2015
Photos, Adela Galasiu, Isle of Wight, UK
Yes / Da , Octavian Paler
Yes
“Yes, It isn’t always wise to say
that the muses get silent among weapons..
My words are here and I hold them
as you would hold a spear.
Mother, forgive me, I couldn’t otherwise.
I know you’ve been quiet all life
and I should have , maybe, done the same
but out of our silence
a scream had to gush oneday
and here it is, filling up my mouth with hope and tears
and with a sunny sadness
that is mine, I’m not sure,
mine or my grave’s. But
this has almost
no more importance at all.”
Octavian Paler, Poems
Da
“Da, nu e întotdeauna o înţelepciune să spui
că muzele tac între arme.
Cuvintele mele sunt aici şi le strâng
ca pe o lance.
Mamă, iartă-mă, nu puteam altfel.
Ştiu, tu ai tăcut toată viaţa
şi ar fi trebuit şi eu să fac, poate, la fel,
dar trebuia odată ca din tăcerea noastră
să ţâşnească un strigăt
şi, iată-l, îmi umple gura de speranţă şi lacrimi
şi de o tristeţe însorită
ce-mi aparţine, nu mai ştiu,
mie sau mormântului meu. Dar
aceasta aproape nu mai are
nicio importanţă. “
Octavian Paler, Poeme
Translation: Adela Galasiu
Photo: Photobucket
Night
Mass of stone
I become
as my night falls
dreams of memory, dreams of life
travel through my frozen mind
a solitude greater than life
invades me
as I lay down and
die for another night.
———————————
memyselfandela, 2013
Phot: google, Ben Gossens
Ioan Galasiu – In Loving Memory
This post is written in the memory of my beloved father Ioan Galasiu who passed away 24 years ago. My mother was 36 at that time, she had the age I have now. I was 12 years old then, young enough to not realise what was happening, old enough to remember everything for the rest of my life.
If I could I would bring roses to my father, as he loved them so very much. But since I am so far away I bring him the roses of thought and I remember him with all my love.
Every year when Christmas is near I humbly remember what was then and I try to imagine what may have been if dad would have been still alive. Yet I think that God called him earlier because He loved him too much.
Till the day when we shall meet again rest in peace dad, I love you.
In loving memory of Ioan Galasiu, *25.06.1949 +22.12.1989
memyselfandela, 22 December 2013
il n’y a qu’un seul amour ~ هناك واحدة فقط الحب ~ there’s only one love ~ nu exista decat o singura dragoste
en regardent notre amour
notre âme rit et pleure
il n’y a qu’un seul amour
à la vie et à la mort
يضحك ويبكي روحنا
هناك واحدة فقط الحب
للحياة والموت
looking at our love
our soul laughs and cries
there’s only one love
for life and for death
privind iubirea noastra
sufletul nostru rade si plange
nu exista decat o singura dragoste
pe viata si pe moarte
Conclusion
~ Love of my life, my breath,
beat of my heart,
shelter of my soul,
light of my eyes,
voice of my solitude
my sorrow and joy
at the end of my life it is only you
you, my beginning and my end
my smile and my release.
of all anxieties of this life
you are my only conclusion. ~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erpMcIq6RYY
~ Amour de ma vie, mon souffle,
battement de mon coeur,
abri de mon ame,
lumiere de mes yeux,
voix de ma grande solitude
ma tristesse et de ma joie
au fin de la vie c’est seulment toi
toi, mon commence et ma fin
mon sourire et ma liberation.
de toute cette vie d’inquietudes
c’est toi ma seule conclusion.~
Negative – Svet Tuge / World Of Sadness
“Tonight she died all my faith
to the last drop is absorbed country
tonight I was alone in the world
deep in the heart are extinguished desire
To live alone in a world of sadness
the desert cold, long nights
even when the days are gray dawn
with such a life
Tonight my eyes turned to heaven
demanded by the star to stand
but all of them fell to the ground
and gave me the strength to admit himself
To live alone in a world of sadness
the desert cold, long nights
even when the days are gray dawn
with such life and death lures me
I live alone in a world of sadness
the desert cold, long nights
even when the days are gray dawn
with such life and death lures me
Tonight the Angels made the wings
turned the other way
and gave me the strength to admit himself
I live alone in a world of sadness
the desert cold, long nights
I live alone in a world of sadness
night long, and me death calling me
night long, and me death calling me”
They shall grow not old
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.”
From Laurence Binyon’s poem For the Fallen, written in September 1914
memory
grass grows on every word
we have once shared
deep burried with me
this love
decomposes
becoming
the memory of
what a summer flower
might have been
life and death tanka
death creeps in our veins
from the day when we are born
struggle and fighting
life is just an ilusion
life is made of shuttered dreams.
Death Alone
There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel :
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inwards from skin to soul.
There are corpses,
clammy slabs for feet,
there is death in the bones,
like a pure sound,
a bark without its dog,
out of certain bells, certain tombs
swelling in this humidity like lament or rain.
I see, when alone at times,
coffins under sail
setting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,
bakers as white as angels,
thoughtful girls married to notaries,
coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,
the wine-dark river to its source,
with their sails swollen with the sound of death,
filled with the silent noise of death.
Death is drawn to sound
like a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,
comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,
comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.
Nevertheless its footsteps sound
and its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.
I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see
but it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,
violets well used to the earth,
since the face of death is green,
and the gaze of death green
with the etched moisture of a violet’s leaf
and its grave colour of exasperated winter.
But death goes about the earth also, riding a broom
lapping the ground in search of the dead –
death is in the broom,
it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,
the needle of death looking for the thread.
Death lies in our beds :
in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,
lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,
blows sound unknown filling out the sheets
and there are beds sailing into a harbour
where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral.
Pablo Neruda
He who dies (Ode to Life), Pablo Neruda
“Slowly dies he who becomes a slave to habit,
repeating the same journey every day,
he who doesn’t change his march, he who doesn’t risk
and change the color of his clothes, he who doesn’t speak to he whom he doesn’t know.
Slowly dies he who makes of the television his guru,
he who avoids a passion dies, he who prefers
black on white and dots on i’s rather than a togetherness of emotions
exactly those that make the eyes shine,
those that make the heart beat
before error and feeling.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t overturn the table,
he who is unhappy in his work,
he who doesn’t risk certainty for uncertainty
to follow a dream,
he who doesn’t permit himself at least one time in his life
to flee sensible counsels.
Slowly dies he who doesn’t travel, he who doesn’t read,
he who doesn’t listen to music,
he who doesn’t find grace in himself.
he who destroys his own love dies,
he who doesn’t allow himself to be helped.
He who passes his days lamenting
about his own misfortune or the incessant rain dies.
Slowly dies he who abandons a project
before beginning it,
he who doesn’t ask questions about topics he doesn’t know,
he who doesn’t answer when he is asked something that he knows.
Let’s avoid death by small doses,
remembering always that being alive requires a much larger effort
than the simple act of breathing.
Only burning patience will bring within reach a splendid happiness.”
