wildestranger: (Default)
Dear Yuletide writer,

My apologies for the delay in completing this - and please know that if what I'm about to say doesn't correspond to what you'd like to write, I am honestly happy to receive whatever works for you!

Things I like:

In all three series, what interests me primarily is the dynamics between people - friends, family members, potential lovers, enemies (one of my favourite things in The Disguiser was the relationship between Ming Lou and Wang Man Chun) - which was narrated and shown expectionally well. There is such intensity, and such slow-burn development in showing the depths of that intensity, which I absolutely love. I also enjoyed learning about Chinese culture and language through these shows, and taking note of how social customs and social rhetoric differed from those in US and European television.

In terms of general fic things, I like reading about banter, world-building, people thinking about their profession/work/studies, slow-burn romance, pining, smart people being smart about things and people.

Things I don't like:

Historical, cultural, and linguistic inaccuracy, platitudes in narrative or dialogue, marriage, kid-fic.

But as I said, please write whatever works for you and I promise I will be happy with it!
wildestranger: (Default)
Estonia, Jaan Kaplinski, All has been written about
Kõigest on kirjutatud, kõigest on lauldud.
Ja see, mis veel kirjutatakse-lauldakse,
loeb ikka vähem, kostab ikka nõrgemalt
läbi meretuule õunapuudes ja kuldnoka-
poegade näljase sädina pesakastides
luuletajate peade kohal. Mida kauem
elad, räägid ja kirjutad, seda selgemaks saab,
et elad saarel, mis on vana ja kulunud
ja selle saare all on teine saar,
lähemal tulele, lähemal ehk tõelegi,
kuid kaugemal sõnadest, mida meie siin
ütleme üksteisele ja Läänemere tuulde.

All has been written about, all has been sung about.
And what will still be written and sung about
means less and less, sounds ever weaker
through sea winds in apple trees and the hungry
chirping of starling babies in the nest boxes
above the heads of poets. The more you
live, speak and write, the clearer it becomes
that you live on an island that is old and outworn
and that beneath that island there is another,
closer to fire, maybe also closer to truth,
but more distant from words that we here
tell each other and the wind of the Baltic Sea.

More information: http://estonianworld.com/culture/a-mission-to-translate-marie-under-estonias-most-influential-poet-into-english/
wildestranger: (franz ferdinand)
Sweden, Eva Ström, 'Dödssynder åtrår ni mig ännu?'

Dödssynder åtrår ni mig ännu?
Vrede vill du blomma i mig?
Vill du driva blodet till mina kinder
och få mitt hjärta att accelerera.
Avundets korta sting,
vill du träffa mig,
låta mig fåfängt få rasa
efter ett annat liv.
Jag vill känna högmodet och gå
med högmodets vadderade ncacke,
jag vill känna den beska älskogens söta sting i min kropp,
och vila en stund på smickrarnas ockersålda mattor.
Jag vill känna hur slugheten får min hjärna att arbeta
och hur omåttligheten griper tag i mig i ett vällustigt begär.
Dödssynder åtrår ni mig?
Kan ni ännu verka i mig?

Deadly Sins, Do You Still Want Me?

Deadly sins, do you still want me?
Wrath, do you want to bloom in me?
Want to drive blood into my cheek
and make my heart accelerate.
Envy, short sting
do you want to smack me,
churn in me—vain rampages
after my next lonely life.
I want to feel pride and run
with pride’s stiff neck,
I want to feel the bitter sweet sting of sex in my body
and rest in the moment on flattery’s shaggy carpet.
I want to feel how cunning works in my brain
and how excess grips me and touches me with desire.
Deadly sins, do you still want me?
Can you still work in me?

More information: https://qarrtsiluni.com/2011/02/15/three-swedish-poems-by-eva-strom-and-johanna-ekstrom/
wildestranger: (Default)
Finland, Niilas Holmberg

Vuosttas sámegirjjis lohká
sápmelačča jurdda ii golgga
go leat seainnit ja moskkus oaivval
muhto vár’ alde jos livččii

buđđosan gavjjain
mo dat munges
fihttešin čorget

maŋimus sámegirjjis lohká
vári jurdda ii golgga
go leat seainnit ja moskkus oaivval
The first Sámi book says
thought is slow for a Sámi
when surrounded by walls and overcast
but imagine having a meeting
on a high hill

my understanding
has gathered dust
how could I know
how to clean it

the last Sámi book says
thought is slow for a high hill
when surrounded by walls and overcast
wildestranger: (Default)
Austria, Erich Wolfgang Skwara, 'Springboard and coffin'


Du wachst auf, abrupt, außer Atem.
Hast geträumt von vielem das war und sein wird.
Erwartungen. Plänen. Das war dein Leben bisher
das wird morgen sein in einem Monat in einem Jahr.
Meist kommt es so wie wir glauben.
Nur selten stürzt alles zusammen nur selten bricht
das Unglück auf dich herein oder das Wunder.

Und die Summe des Ganzen die Zwischensumme
solange du lebst träumst erwachst ist das Leben.
Ist dein Leben mehr oder weniger wert
weil du dies und jenes gehabt getan unterlassen hast
es noch haben tun unterschlagen wirst
ist dein Leben nur Wachsein oder auch Schlaf
nur das Geleistete Erreichte Bestandene
oder im gleichen Maß das Versäumte Verfehlte
deine Konkurse deine Feigheit vor dem Augenblick?

Dieser Sprung aus dem Traum ins Grellwache
wund deine Brust deine Augen verklebt nur gut
daß du nichts sagen mußt in deinem Erwachen
keiner erwartet von dir eine Bergpredigt.
Du hättest keine Stimme in dir und keinen Glauben
erinnerst dich in dieser Minute – sie ist alles – an nichts.
Deine Menschen falls es die gab oder nicht gab sind dir fern
du hast sie nicht vergessen das nicht du siehst nur keinen
von deinen Menschen. Du zwingst deine Augen sich zu öffnen
der Himmel ist grau und gleich begehst du den alten Fehler
du beziehst seine Drohung seine Trauer auf dich. Du meinst
dir allein sei die Sonne entzogen dir allein stoße der Tag zu
nicht sanft selten Sanftes. Nein dein wildes Erwachen
eine Kollision ein Unfall – womit mit wem?
Sink zurück in dein Bett aber auch das kannst du nicht
es ist nicht dein Sarg dein Bett ist dein Sprungbrett
hinein in alles was weh tut was Lust bringt in dieser Folge.
Dein Bett nicht dein Sarg reib dir den Sand aus den Augen.
Werde wach gerade weil es dir schwer fällt.


You wake up, abruptly, breathlessly.
You dreamed of much that was and will be.
Expectations. Plans. That was your life so far
that will be tomorrow in a month in a year.
It mostly turns out the way we believe.
Only rarely does it all break down only rarely does
misfortune befall you or a miracle.

And the total of it all, the subtotal,
as long as you live, dream, wake up, is a life.
Is your life worth more or worth less
because you had, did, didn’t do this and that,
because you still have, still do, still forgo it?
Is your life only being awake or also being asleep?
Only what’s been accomplished, achieved, surmounted
or in equal measure what’s been missed, failed at,
your breakdowns, your cowardice in the face of the moment?

This leap out of the dream into dazzled waking,
your chest is sore, your eyelids glued shut, how lucky
that you must not speak in this your awakening,
no one expects from you a sermon on the mount.
There would be no voice within you.
You remember in this very minute – which is everything – strictly nothing.
Your fellow humans, whether they ever did exist or not, are far from you.
You haven’t forgotten them, no way, they are just not around,
your fellow humans. You force your eyes to open up:
the sky is gray and instantly you fall for the old mistake
to refer its threat, its mourning, to yourself. You think
the sun withdrew from you alone, the day befalls you alone,
not gently, gentleness is rare. No, your wild awakening
a collision, an accident – with what, with whom?
Sink back in your bed, but you can’t even do that
it is not your coffin your bed is your springboard
into all that brings pain, that brings pleasure, in that order.
Your bed, not your coffin, rub the sand from your eyes,
Wake up precisely because it’s hard for you.

More information: https://austrianresearchuk.wordpress.com/2012/06/19/a-poem-by-erich-wolfgang-skwara-in-german-and-english-11/
wildestranger: (draco drunk/potterpuffs)
Yuri on Ice, Viktor/Yuuri, ridiculous feelings at the Grand Prix Final. Co-written with emeraldgreen.

with my fingers as you want them
wildestranger: (green wine)
Portugal, Beatriz Hierro Lopes, ‘I Say’


Digo-o: não se escreve com medo. Devia perguntar-se aos poetas a quem lêem eles os seus versos, antes de os publicarem. Todos passam por essa corda de segurança. O poema de hoje lembra-me um Tempos Modernos, em que os poetas são operários como as poetas são aplicadas donas de casa. Opto pela androginia de género. Gosto de poetas que lêem versos às mães: as mães sentadas de televisor apagado, ouvindo-os, a coragem dos filhos e o pudor das mães, que sorriem como, de manhã, ao levantarem-lhes os lençóis manchados. Nisso ainda são delas, as ejaculações privadas que obrigam a lavar à mão cuecas em água quente e lixívia. Fariam o mesmo com os poemas; e eu, que pouco entendo de poesia, adoraria ler um poema esterilizado por cuidados maternos. As mulheres são diferentes, nenhuma mostraria os seus poemas ao pai. As intimidades das filhas são segredos pregados às costas paternas, quadros fixados numa parede móvel onde confortavelmente se deixam embalar sem que, por isso, os pais o saibam. Todos são paredes de casa expostas ao sol; voltados para fora, são tão fáceis de amar. Não há poeta que não seja filha de seu pai; nisso são equivalentes a eles, filhos de sua mãe.

E talvez o problema operacional do verso seja esse: a falta de óleo na engrenagem que tritura a familiaridade. Todos deveriam ser pródigos, abandonar o conforto materno e evitar o mijo ou o sémen que manche páginas de livros. Poesia Kleenex é a melhor definição que me ocorre, ao pensar poeticamente na poesia contemporânea; e choca-me que ninguém se tenha lembrado ainda de imprimir versos do Pessoa em guardanapos de papel; ou Camões, que também serviria às saladas de entrada. Já vi xícaras de café com Álvaro de Campos e acho que Agustina, em curtas frases, faria brilharete em qualquer serviço de chá Vista Alegre. Para os kleenexes propriamente ditos, de uso vário, como se poderá mirar à margem da estrada, aconselharia alguma da poesia de 61 que, apenas por oito anos, não foi pródiga na sua auto-enunciação. Agora que a Renova imita a Alchimie du Verbe na produção das mais enigmáticas cores aliadas ao bom gosto genital de cada um, nada há a temer.

I Say

I say this: you shouldn’t write with fear. You should ask poets to whom they read their verse, before having it published. All of them go through this safety net. Today’s poem reminds me of a Modern Times in which poets are workers and poetesses are dutiful housewives. I choose gender’s androgyny. I like poets who read verse to their mothers: mothers who sit opposite turned off televisions listening to them, the courage of sons and the decorum of mothers who smile, like they smile in the morning as they change the sons’ stained sheets. Private ejaculations which demand bleach and hot water hand-washing of pants. They would do the same with the poems; and I who don’t know much about poetry, would love to read a poem sterilised by motherly care. Women are different; not one would show their poems to their fathers. Daughters’ intimacies are secrets stuck onto paternal shoulder backs, pictures hanging from a mobile wall, being carried in comfort without their fathers’ knowledge. These walls all are sun facing; looking outwards, they are so easy to love. There isn’t a poet-ess who is not her father’s daughter; in this they are equivalent to poets, their mothers’ sons.

And perhaps this is the verse’s operational problem: the lack of oil in the gear that grinds familiarity.

All sons should be prodigal; they should abandon motherly comforts and avoid the piss and the semen that stain book pages. Kleenex poetry is what best occurs to me to poetically think of contemporary poetry; and I’m shocked that it hasn’t yet occurred to someone to print Pessoas’ lines on paper napkins; or Camões, who could be served as a starter. I’ve seen Álvaro de Campos coffee cups and I guess Agustina, in short sentences, would do really well on any Vista Alegre tea set. For the actual kleenexes, used for various purposes as can be verified on road verges, I’d recommend some of 1961 poetry which missed its self-enunciation just by eight years. Now that Renova copies l’Alchimie du Verbe in the production of the most enigmatic colours allied to one’s genital good taste, there’s nothing to be feared.

More information: http://www.poemsfromtheportuguese.org/
wildestranger: (green wine)
Spain, Basque Country, Harkaitz Cano, ‘Flexible Time’


Motelago doa denbora atzerriko hirietan;
horregatik ihesak, horregatik aire konpainia eskasak, horregatik jet laga
–edo ezustean liluratu zaituen usain ezatsegin hori–;
horregatik planoei buruzbehera begiratzeko joera.

Motelago doa denbora ezezagunen etxeetan;
horregatik hotelak, horregatik bisitak, itxaron-gelekiko gogo hori;
horregatik kaleko sirena hotsen abiadan anbulantziak su-hiltzaileetatik
bereizteko grina asegaitza.

Motelago doalako denbora gorputz arrotzetan;
horregatik zain egon beharra ekarriko duten maitaleen xerka;
horregatik zauriak, motelago doalako denbora zaurien gainean.

Mina eternitate faltsu baten promesa faltsua delako.

Esplorazio guztiak,
kepiak buruan edo hartza-larrua soinean egindakoak,
zaldiz, mendiz, airez edo itsasoz egindako espedizio guztiak,
heroikoak eta eguneroko ostera txikiak
–Scott, Shackleton, Duvoisin kapitaina–,
erlojua geratzeko,
denborari trabes egiteko ahalegin xaloak ote ziren?

Motelago baitoa denbora beti elurra apartatu edo
aihotzarekin oihanean sasia garbitzen zabiltzanean.

Bide ezagunetan, aldiz, azkarrago pasatzen dira orduak.

Hori da ordaina: galduta zaudenean doala motelen denbora.

Amildegian motelago lautadan baino.
Basoan motelago xenda seguruan baino.

Xendan dagoenak, basora begiratzen du beti, bertan laino.
Basoan nahi luke galdu denbora,
bera denboran ez galtzeko eta
denborak ez alferrik galtzeko bera, akaso.

Esanda doa:
inork ez du egundo denbora malgu hori errenditu.
Katedun erlojuetan katebegi huts gu,
basoan umeak egin eta basoan galtzen diren umeen
ipuinak egiten
jarraitzen dugu.

Motelago igarotzen delako denbora beti
bide ezezagunetatik goazenean.


Time goes more slowly in a foreign city;
therefore escapes, therefore inadequate airline companies, therefore jetlag
– or that sudden captivating unpleasant odor –
therefore the tendency to read maps upside down.

Time goes more slowly in strange houses;
therefore hotels, therefore visits, a fascination with waiting rooms;
therefore the insatiable desire
to tell ambulances from fire trucks in the swift wail of a siren.

Time goes more slowly in unknown bodies;
therefore the search for lovers that spring from new delays;
therefore wounds, because time goes more slowly over wounds.

Because pain is the false promise of a false eternity.

All explorations,
undertaken with military caps or wrapped in bearskin,
on horseback, in the mountains, in the open air or by sea,
heroic or daily strolls
– Scott, Shackleton, Captain Duvoisin –
are they but pathetic attempts to stop the clock,
to bet against time?

Because time always goes slower as snow is removed
or as the machete clears brambles in the jungle.

But on familiar roads the hours fly by.

This is the price you pay: time goes slowest when you are lost.

Slower on a cliff than on the flatlands.
Slower in the forest than on a safe path.

The rambler always looks to the forest, to the mist there.
He would like to lose time in the forest
but not lose himself in time or
not be lost by time, perhaps.

It has been said:
no one has yet conquered flexible time.
Mere links in the chain of time are we,
bearing children in the forest and telling
children’s stories
lost there.

Because time always passes more slowly
on unfamiliar paths.

More information:
Basque poetry: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/what-bertsolaritza-and-who-are-basque-poets-who-know-it-180959591/

Catalan Poetry:
wildestranger: (book and wine)
Greece, Nikos Gatsos, ‘Take Your Ring’


Στη φωτια του ματιου σου θα χαμογέλασε κοτε ο Θεος
Θα κλεισε την καρδιά της η ἀνοιξη σα μιας αρχαίας
ακρογιαλιας μαργαριτάρι.
Τώρα καθως κοιμασαι λαμπερη
Στις αμμουδιες των αστεριων κι εἰσαι ἑνα βότσαλο πικρο Στην αγκαλια της Κελαινως και της Μάγιας.
Πάρε το δαχτυλίδι σου
Πάρε τ ασήμι τω λιβαδιων να βάψεις το μέτωπό σου· Κι ἐλα κοντά μου να κοιμηθεις
Να βυθιστεις παντοτεινα σ ἑν ανοιξιάτικο πέλαγο
Μια νύχτα του καλοκαιριου που θα γυρεύω τα ματιά σου Χαμένα στις ακρογιαλιες κάποιου χλωμου Γαλαχία Ἐβγα σαν ἡλιος τ απριλιου στο παραθύρι τ ονείρου Με την κορδέλα του λαιμου
Να χαιρετήσεις τους γερανους που ταξιδεύουν στα ξένα Να κλείσεις ἑνα τριαντάφυλλο καθως κοιμίζουν
ἑνα παιδι τα περιστέρια
Κάτω απ τα φύλλα των αμπελιων σε μια πλαγια του Ασπροπόταμου
Στην αγκαλια των πλατανιων σε μια σπηλια του Ερώτα Ἠταν για σένανε η ζωη σαν ἑνα δάκρυ της θάλασσας Σαν μια φωτια του καλοκαιριου κι ἑνα μαντήλι του Μάη Ἐτσι ὁπως ἠσουνα κι εσυ ἑνα γεράνιο κύμα της
Ἑνα πικρο βότσαλο της
Ἑνα μικρο χελιδόνι της που τριγυρνουσε στα δάση Χωρις φωτια για τη χαραυγε χωρις αστέρια την ἀνοιξη Με τη ζεστη σου καρδια γυρισμένη στα ξένα
Στα χαλασμένα δόντια της ἀλλης ακρογιαλιας
Στα πεθαμένα παιδια της αγριοκερασιας και της φώκιας.


God will have smiled at the fire in your eyes
Spring will have closed its heart like a pearl from an ancient shore
Now, luminous in your sleep
on the sands of the stars, you are a sharp pebble in the embrace of Kelaino and Maia
Take your ring
Take the silver of the meadows to tint your face
Come to me to sleep
to sink perpetually into an springtime sea

Some summer night when I turn toward your eyes
lost on the shores of some pale galaxy
come like the sun of April in the window of my dream
with the ribbon round your throad
to greet the cranes that travel toward the unknown
to close up a rose just like doves sing a child to sleep
under the leaves of the grapevines on the banks of the Aspropotamo
in the embrace of the platan trees by a cave of the Eurotas
Life was for you like a tear of the sea
like a fire in summer and a scarf in May
just so, you were one of its geranium waves
one of its sharp pebbles
one of its small swallows wandering in the woods
without fire for the dawn without stars for spring
with your hot heart turned toward the unknown
to the shattered tusks of another shore
to the dead children of wild cherry and seal

More information: http://nauplion.net/NIKOSGATSOS.html
wildestranger: (books)
United Kingdom, Somhairle MacGill-Eain, 'The Cry of Europe

Gaoir na h-Eòrpa

A nighean a’ chùil bhuidhe, throm-bhuidh, òr-bhuidh,
fonn do bheòil-sa ’s gaoir na h-Eòrpa,
a nighean gheal chasarlach aighearach bhòidheach,
cha bhiodh masladh ar latha-ne searbh ’nad phòig-sa.
An tugadh t’ fhonn no t’ àilleachd ghlòrmhor
bhuamsa gràinealachd mharbh nan dòigh seo,
a’ bhrùid ’s am meàirleach air ceann na h-Eòrpa
’s do bheul-sa uaill-dhearg san t-seann òran?
An tugadh corp geal is clàr grèine
bhuamsa cealgaireachd dhubh na brèine,
nimh bhùirdeasach is puinnsean crèide
is dìblidheachd ar n-Albann èitigh?
An cuireadh bòidhchead is ceòl suaimhneach
bhuamsa breòiteachd an adhbhair bhuain seo,
am mèinnear Spàinnteach a’ leum ri cruadal
is ’anam mòrail dol sìos gun bhruaillean?
Dè bhiodh pòg do bheòil uaibhrich
mar ris gach braon den fhuil luachmhoir
a thuit air raointean reòta fuara
nam beann Spàinnteach bho fhòirne cruadhach?
Dè gach cuach ded chual’ òr-bhuidh
ris gach bochdainn, àmhghar ’s dòrainn
a thig ’s a thàinig air sluagh na h-Eòrpa
bho Long nan Daoine gu daors’ a’ mhòr-shluaigh?

The Cry of Europe

Girl of the yellow, heavy-yellow, gold-yellow hair,
the song of your mouth and Europe’s shivering cry,
fair, heavy-haired, spirited, beautiful girl,
the disgrace of our day would not be bitter in your kiss.
Would your song and splendid beauty take
from me the dead loathsomeness of these ways,
the brute and the brigand at the head of Europe
and your mouth red and proud with the old song?
Would white body and forehead’s sun take
from me the foul black treachery,
spite of the bourgeois and poison of their creed
and the feebleness of our dismal Scotland?
Would beauty and serene music put
from me the sore frailty of this lasting cause,
the Spanish miner leaping in the face of horror
and his great spirit going down untroubled?
What would the kiss of your proud mouth be
compared with each drop of the precious blood
that fell on the cold frozen uplands
of Spanish mountains from a column of steel?
What every lock of your gold-yellow head
to all the poverty, anguish and grief
that will come and have come on Europe’s people
from the Slave Ship to the slavery of the whole people?

More information: http://www.somhairlemacgilleain.org/english/poetry.htm#
wildestranger: (green wine)
Denmark, Morten Sondergaard, ‘The Lovers’

Jeg vågner i et land hvor de forelskede har taget magten. Der er indført love som proklamerer at ingen længere er nødsaget til at flytte blikket eller at orgasmer behøver at holde op. Roser fungerer som betalingsmiddler, de gale bliver tilbedt som guder og guderne anset for gale. Postvæsnet er genindført og ordene ‘du’ og ‘jeg’ er synonymer. Efter revolutionen bliver det bestemt at de ulykkeligt forelskede skal fjernes af hensyn til de lykkeligt forelskedes sikkerhed. Da de finder frem til mig, overgiver jeg mig med det samme. Bødlen er en kvinde og det går hurtigt. Det er vinter og jeg har ikke mødt dig endnu.

I awake in a land where the lovers have seized power. They have introduced laws decreeing that no one will ever again have to look away, and that orgasms need never come to an end. Roses function as currency, the insane are worshipped as gods, and the gods are considered insane. The postal service has been reinstated and the words ‘you’ and ‘I’ are now synonymous. After the revolution it was decided that broken-hearted lovers should be eliminated for the safety of those happy in love. When they track me down I immediately surrender. The executioner is a woman and it is quickly done. It is winter and I have not met you yet.

More information: https://theculturetrip.com/europe/denmark/articles/top-10-danish-writers-poets-you-should-know-about/
wildestranger: (books)
Ireland, Dolores Stewart, ‘Vexing the Dead’

Sanas na Marbh
Dá mbeadh fonn orm, tabharfadh mé
athfhéachaint ar léinseach an locha, ag deireadh lae –
ag dul i leith na deirge,
muirn an tsean-chatha
i mo chluasa dúnta agus lámh chiotach na staire
faoi mo bhráid: beaignití na nDeargánach ag muinéal
mo chuimhne.
Agus dá mbeadh fonn orm,
bhainfadh mé solás as an bhfuarán sléibhe ag déanamh
ar thobar an bhláir fholaimh,
murach an básbholadh,
murach an trup cos a chualas ar ghualann na tuaithe:
buídhean cuachta as an rí-theaghlach Stiúbhartach,
arís ar na gcosaibh?
Agus dá gcuirfeadh mé ar fán –
bheinn i láthair mar fhámaire ghaoithe,
ag ábhacht le brait idir dhearg ’s bhreacán,
ag déanamh gaisce sna Garbh Críocha,
ag déanamh éachta ar son an Phrionsa.
Ach an fonn orm, bheinn sásta gloine fíona Spáinneach
a ardú do Phrionsa an Fhraoigh, nó feirc bán a chaith
i mo chaipín, nó éamh
ar Chríost féin. Ach tá rian an áir
ar an aer agus cnámha coscartha faoi thalamh: slua ghairm
na marbh ag briseadh isteach ar mo neamhaistear,
ag lorg na déirce ó chluas bhodhar na cruinne.

Vexing the Dead

If only I were in the right mood, not
so inclined to dabble in the blood-freckled depths
of the lake,
or open both my ears
to known battle-cries bearing down on me
from the left hand side of the annals,
I would dodge the bayonets of Redcoats
glancing off the throat of folk stories,
and turn my hand
to scribbling out the registers of a mountain stream
trickling down to the battlefield –
if it wasn’t for the death-smell, or the clatter
of troop movements that comes to me over the ridge,
a detachment, maybe,
from the royal house of Stewart, once again
on the march? In lighter mood,
I would dawdle like a day-tripper, in equal halves
draw on red badges or plaid, jig-acting in the wake
of the Highland Prince.
And if I were in the mood, I would raise a glass
to the Prince of the Heather, sport a white cockade
in my cap, and plead with Christ for the cause,
but the salt lake is turning the colour of blood,
and battle-slogans of the slain
are coming through as the chant of a last-ditch Kyrie –
breaking into my humour at every hand’s turn.

More Information: https://english.chass.ncsu.edu/freeverse/Archives/Spring_2007/poems/M_Begnal_Irish.html
wildestranger: (Default)
Italy, Umberto Saba, The Broken Pane’

Tutto si muove contro te. In maltempo,
le luci che si spengono, la vecchia
casa scossa a una raffica e a te cara
per il male sofferto, le speranze
deluse, qualche bene in lei goduto.
Ti pare il sopravvivere un rifiuto
d’obbedienza alle cose.
E nello schianto
del vetro alla finestra è la condanna.

It all conspires against you. Nasty weather,
lights that keep going out, and the old house
jolted by every gust. It’s dear to you
for what you suffered in it, for the hopes
dashed there, and for a few good times as well.
Survival seems to you a refusal to obey
the way of things.
And in the shattering
of a window pane, you hear a judgment passed.

More information: https://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/Six-poems-by-Umberto-Saba-3108
wildestranger: (Default)
Luxembourg, Lambert Schlechter

Viens t’asseoir, là, à côté de moi
Je me sens perdu, j’ai besoin de savoir
Comment tu vois le frémissement du tilleul
Comment tu entends la jacasserie de la pie
Comment tu traces la biographie de la fourmi
Comment tu te perds dans le bleu du ciel
J’ai besoin de savoir ce que tu penses
Du cheminement de notre galaxie
J’attends de toi que tu me sauves

Just sit there, beside me
I feel lost, I need to know
How you see the quivering of the lime tree
How you hear the chattering of the magpie
How you trace the biography of the ant
How you get lost into the blue of the sky
I need to know what you think
About the journey of our galaxy
I am waiting for you to save me

More information: http://lambertschlechter.blogspot.co.uk/
wildestranger: (green wine)
Belgium. Ruth Lasters, ‘Blanket’

Ik wikkel deze avond in een deken en draag hem naar een tuin.
Niet naar de jouwe, Lief (gemakzucht is voor een gedicht wat

noorderlicht voor remslaap is). Maar naar een tuin die aan de jouwe
grenst, zo tergend dicht dat jij nooit zeker weten kan of ik mij van

adres vergiste of met opzet fout geleverd heb uit kleine, zachte
wraak. Waarom ook niet

een aarden weg – waarlangs jij nooit – naar míjn middernacht

van plaatsen dus naar tijdstippen en omgedraaid, voor een
bewust gekoppeld nu en hier, zelf samengesteld heden.

I’ll wrap this evening in a blanket and take it to a garden.
Not to yours, Love (laziness is to a poem what
northern light is to

REM sleep). But to a garden adjacent
to yours, so tantalisingly close you can never be certain whether
I got the address wrong or delivered wrongly on purpose out of petty,

soft revenge. And why not
smuggling a dirt road – down which you never – to my
midnight. To smuggle places to moments and vice versa, for a
consciously linked now and here, self-constructed present.

Links: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/country/poet_list/28
wildestranger: (books)
Today we have a contemporary Dutch poet.

Mustafa Stitou, ‘Once I had this vision‘

Eens kreeg ik dit visioen: in een spelonk
eeuwen voor Christus pijpt
lijdzaam een tempelprostituee
een hogepriester, ogen fonkelend in het donker.

Vanavond keek ik naar een darwinistische documentaire
op Discovery Channel en hoorde een huichelachtige zin.

In een andere tempel is een nadere tekst gevonden.
Zes wetgevers zijn reeds geslacht.
De hogepriester weet dat ook hij zal worden
geslacht: op de verkeerde god gegokt, op een god
zonder lichaam.

De dood, luidde de zin,
is de prijs die wordt betaald
voor het hebben van seks.

Once, I had this vision: in a cavern
centuries before Christ a temple prostitute
submissively sucks off a high priest,
eyes gleaming in the dark.

This evening I watched a Darwinist documentary
on Discovery Channel and heard a sanctimonious sentence.

In a different temple a different text has been found.
Six legislators have already been slaughtered.
The high priest knows he too will be
slaughtered: bet on the wrong god, on a god
without a body.

Death, the sentence went,
is the price that is paid
for having sex.

More information: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poet/item/4030/Mustafa-Stitou
wildestranger: (book and wine)
Today I have a French-Algerian gay poet for you.

Jean Senac, ‘My People’s Early Rising’

Tu disais des choses faciles
Travailleuse du matin
La forêt poussait dans ta voix
Des arbres si profonds que le cœur s’y déchire
Et connait le poids du chant
La tiédeur d’une clairière
Pour l’homme droit qui revendique
Un mot de paix
Un mot à notre dimension
Tu tirais de sa solitude
Le rôdeur qui te suit tout pétri de son ombre
Celui qui voudrait écrire comme tu vois
Comme tu tisses comme tu chantes
Apporter aux autres le blé
Le lait de chèvre la semoule,
Et si dru dans le cœur et si fort dans le sang
La bonté de chacun
Le charme impétueux des hommes solidaires
Parle Ô tranquille fleur tisseuse des promesses
prélude au sûr éveil de l’orge
Dis que bientôt l’acier refusera la gorge
Bientôt le douar entamera la nuit.
Tu m’apprends à penser
A vivre comme tu es
Matinale arrachée à l’obscure demeure.

You were saying easy things;
the hard-working woman of the morning
the forest that grew in your voice
its trees so thick that they tear hearts apart
and know the full weight of song
the warmth of a clearing
for the up-right man who demands
a word of peace
a word of human proportions
You pulled the stalker from his solitude
who steeped in shadows kept you in his sight
the one who wants to write the way you see
the way you sing, the way you weave
and bring the others wheat
goat's milk
flour coarsely ground
and thick in the heart and strong in the blood
the kindness of everyone
and the impetuous charm of men in solidarity.Speak oh tranquil flower weaver of hope
prelude to the barley's certain awakening
say that soon steel will reject the throat
that soon the douar will deal a blow to the night
You will teach me to think
to live as you live
Torn from the dark abode, your early rising

More information: http://warscapes.com/poetry/jean-senac-poet-algerian-revolution
wildestranger: (green wine)
Good morning, friends! Today is the first day of April, and therefore the time to fill your feed with poetry. This year my theme is poetry from the European Union. For those of you not resident in Europe, we in this continent are currently in debates over the future of Europe, and specifically the European Union. In most of EU, this takes the form of discussions over the best way to manage financial crises, the ongoing refugee crisis, and the problematics of integration. In the UK, it takes the form of 'why won't those damned foreigners just give us everything we want since we are better than them'. There is a small discrepancy between the way politics is done in the UK and in the rest of Europe.

My first poem is from Germany: Friedrich Schiller, ‘Ode to Joy’. This is also the anthem of the European Union.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder
Was die Mode streng geteilt*;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder*
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Wem der große Wurf gelungen
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein;
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!

Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur;
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod;
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben
und der Cherub steht vor Gott.

Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen
Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan
Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,
Freudig, wie ein Held zum siegen.

Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!
Brüder, über'm Sternenzelt
Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.
Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Such' ihn über'm Sternenzelt!
Über Sternen muß er wohnen.

Joy, beautiful spark of divinity,
Daughter from Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire,
Heavenly One, thy sanctuary!
Your magics join again
What custom strictly divided;*
All people become brothers,*
Where your gentle wing abides.

Who has succeeded in the great attempt,
To be a friend's friend,
Whoever has won a lovely woman,
Add his to the jubilation!
Indeed, who calls even one soul
Theirs upon this world!
And whoever never managed, shall steal himself
Weeping away from this union.

All creatures drink of joy
At nature's breast.
Just and unjust
Alike taste of her gift;
She gave us kisses and the fruit of the vine,
A tried friend to the end.
[Even] the worm has been granted sensuality,
And the cherub stands before God!

Gladly, as His heavenly bodies fly
On their courses through the heavens,
Thus, brothers, you should run your race,
As a hero going to conquest.

You millions, I embrace you.
This kiss is for all the world!
Brothers, above the starry canopy
There must dwell a loving Father.
Do you fall in worship, you millions?
World, do you know your creator?
Seek him in the heavens;
Above the stars must He dwell.
wildestranger: (Default)
Here is a thing I wrote for Yuletide:

Title: Respire le grand air
Fandom: Les Hommes Libres
Pairing: Salim Halali/Younes Ben Daoud

It is based on a film centred around the Grand Mosque in Paris during the Nazi occupation, and its role in saving Jewish people from persecution by issuing false certificates of Islamic faith. The extent to which this happened is a matter of some debate - there seem to be current politics related to the state of Israel and its relationship with other countries in the Middle East which affect this discussion - but one person who is thought to have been saved this way is Salim Halali, a Jewish Algerian who later became a famous singer. He was known, particularly, for reviving classical Andalusian music (which originated in Moorish Andalucia during the Middle Ages - it's beautiful, and I would recommend you give it a go. Try Jordi Savall and Granada Eterna as well as Salim Halali himself). He is also known to have been gay.

The film shows the relationship between Salim Halali and a fictional Algerian Muslim named Younes, who ends up (apparently through accidental awkwardness) getting involved in the operations of the Mosque; it basically consists of a lot of pining and longing glances and casual touching. There is even a happy ending.

It is not a well-known film, and I was sincerely surprised to get two comments on my fic because that meant that more than one person (my recipient) had seen it. But it is a good film, and a thoughtful film, and you can get it for £4.99 from iTunes, so you should all see it and then come and read my fic.
wildestranger: (fleshdress)
I have been adding new friends here with the aim of deleting my lj in a few days. I haven't been using either journal much in the last few years, but I remember a time when lj was the best thing in my life and it will be a loss to get rid of all those posts. I'm pretty sure I was witty and thoughtful there sometimes, years ago. :)

Perhaps I will try that again.


wildestranger: (Default)

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