sarcasm always wins out in the end

Fic: Hunger hurts but starving works

2022-06-06T10:22:35Z

Happy revolution to all who celebrate, and those of you who do not - why not?

Anyway, I have updated my Les Misérables AU that is really about how I am deeply angry about Brexit, and also about Tories. This current chapter is 4th our of 5 - the final one is mostly done already, and I expect to finish it within a few weeks. Then on to the sequel with Eponine and Combeferre.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825402/chapters/98724297

comments

a tender east wind is powerless

2021-12-07T11:55:48Z

I wrote a thing:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35550940

Lord Seventh, Jing Beiyuan/Wuxi.

comments

fic: victoriously smug in his laughter

2021-03-19T16:14:54Z

I have made a fic.

Fandom: Faraway Wanderers/Word of Honor
Pairing: Zhou Zishu/Wen Kexing
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Then Zhou Zishu, the bastard, stops pulling away. He can tell that he does it on purpose, too. Like a dare, what will you do now? Stay there, arms touching, sprawled next to each other on a roof watching the moon? Feeling the warmth of another body, another person, a person whom he likes? Like a foolish child who likes another child. This is what he has been reduced to. Embarrassing.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30138300

comments

yuletide letter 2020

2020-10-22T10:06:59Z

Dear Yuletide writer,

Deep apologies for not finishing my letter earlier. I hope this has not stopped you from starting on your story. Please know that my philosophy for Yuletide is to consider recipient's wishes as a loose premise which can be used or ignored, and to prioritise your own preferences in writing. I promise I will be happy with whatever you do.

That said, if you would like to know my general views:

Things I like: Banter, historical/cultural accuracy, character dynamics, world-building, innovative narrative structures/storytelling (this last is very much not a requirement, I do also like conventional storytelling - I only mention this in case it's something you also enjoy, in which case, go mad!)

Things I dislike: Character death, weddings/marriage, historical/cultural inaccuracy.

Looking forward to whatever you come up with!

comments

wildestranger @ 2020-04-10T17:26:00

2020-04-10T15:27:11Z

I hope you are well. I am well. And now for lack of time.

comments

wildestranger @ 2020-01-01T15:22:00

2020-01-01T14:23:33Z

Here is what I did for Yuletide: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21789964

The Untamed. Wei Wuxian/Lan WangJi. Crying and desperate hugging, because that's basicially what I needed more of in the show.

comments

Yuletide letter

2019-10-27T05:50:05Z

Dear Yuletide writer,

Thank you for writing for me. My general policy for Yuletide is that you should do whatever pleases you - that my prompts are very much a platform for your work, rather than something you need to adhere to - and that any additional details are very much optional. That said, should you be wanting additional suggestions, please see below.

Dislikes: marriage, death, historical and cultural inaccuracy.
Likes: banter, people being smart and competent, people thinking about work (no, really, this to me is fascinating).

Specific fandoms under the cut: ( Read more... )

comments

Remus/Sirius recs

2019-09-27T17:53:29Z

Friends, I find myself with a great longing for Remus/Sirius fic.

This, I find, is a longing not easily satisfied - the heydays of the fandom were on livejournal, which means that a) many of the great fics are no longer available, and b) when I try to search AO3 by kudos or bookmarks, it gives me modern things. These are not, of course, necessarily bad, but many of them are written by very young people (which, good for them! But I am too much an Old to read things by very young people.), and also, actually, quite bad. So I need your help.

Please tell me about your favourite Remus/Sirius fics. The old ones that you loved 15 years ago. The new ones you discovered this year, or last year, or five years ago, even when the fandom was mostly quiet. The ones you remember and treasure.

comments

wildestranger @ 2019-09-25T00:57:00

2019-09-24T23:21:44Z

Work to build the world; work to feed your soul.

Some have jobs that allow both. They are lucky and few, and you need the luck as well as/much more than talent to get such a job. Where you are born, and who wants to respect you.

Some - many more, but still not many - have jobs that involve both. Ratios vary between satisfaction and drudgery. Luck is still involved. Where you are born, how good you are at attracting respect, how well you can sell your idea of a good job to those who decide.

Some have jobs that only build the world. Or worse; only build the profits or vanities of others, but do not profit the world. These are the hardest. Luck is still involved. Where you are born, who decides whether you deserve respect. Few souls thrive here; you are expected to shrivel.

If you can leave such a job, leave. If you can't - and most of us can't - then find a way around it. Don't give up, and shrivel. The world might be organised in such a way that you cannot thrive in your allocated slot, but that doesn't mean you must accept your slot, or accept the system of allocation. You can find other ways to feed your soul. You can find ways to fight the system. You can find to rest, even when the system is screaming at you to be more productive and your body is screaming when it should be sleeping. You can find pockets of time where your brain can flower; from these you can raise an undergrowth of strength that grows into tall trees. A rainforest of creativity. Rivers of inspired thought. A beacon sparking fire, sending light to others.

Feed your soul. Build the world.

comments

wildestranger @ 2019-05-04T10:34:00

2019-05-04T10:04:51Z

So I went to see Avengers: Endgame last night and I had some thoughts. ( Read more... )

comments

Fic: Hunger hurts but starving works

2018-11-03T19:57:39Z

I seem to be on a roll - that is, I have just updated (after two years!) my modern British au of Les Miserables. https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825402?view_full_work=true

It mostly involves Grantaire drinking a lot of wine, thinking about wine, and talking about wine. Also about Enjolras.

comments

Fic: Every ridge hand-picked by the late sun’s slant light

2018-10-23T19:52:41Z

Hello friends!

My adventures in watching Chinese TV have reached the stage where fic seems to be happening. Here's a thing I wrote. It's basically filthy porn with feelings.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389209

It's based on a terrimazing TV show called Guardian, which you can watch on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JdRj_d7_skE&list=PLjiwrLc2ONh-T0M0vnkQY3PMS_-wNPcsY&index=2&t=7s

The show itself is based on a gay romance webnovel, which you can read here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/153357561-guardian-english-version-bl-novel

For more information about the show: https://disgracetoscholars.dreamwidth.org/tag/guardian

comments

Yuletide!

2018-10-13T13:44:03Z

Dear yuletide writer,

I am very much looking forward to reading your story - this year for the first time all my fandoms are from Chinese television, and I hope you are enjoying them as much as I am (have you seen the Rise of Phoenixes yet? It's amazing!)

As you might guess from the above, I am very interested in Chinese cultures and one of the things I enjoy in these TV shows is learning about new (to me) cultural practices - how people address each other as brother/sister/uncle, for example, or the frequent references to ancient poetry, customs of body language etc. If this is something that also interests you, then I would love a fic where such things are explored and discussed.

Other things I like: character dynamics and tension, and there is a lot of that in all of these fandoms. I would be happy with a story from any stage in their relationship - missing scenes, or additional scenes (if you felt compelled to imagine what would happen if characters x and y fell into bed halfway through the series, I would be ok with that!), or character studies which examined the different relationships in the show.

Things I actively dislike: character death (I know, but we can ...not refer to that part of canon, right, or get around it?), marriage, infidelity, watersports. Any other kinks are fine. Especially manhandling. :)

comments

Yuletide 2017

2018-01-03T08:30:06Z

Hello friends!

I have done a yuletide. Each calls into themselves the divine and the infernal

The fandom is Nirvana in Fire, a Chinese TV show about political scheming and interpersonal pining in 7th-century China. You can (and you should) watch here: https://www.viki.com/tv/22943c-nirvana-in-fire

The premise is this: 11 years ago, the Crown Prince Qi was falsely accused of treason against the Emperor and executed. A part of this false accusation included the supposed betrayal of the Chiyan army, led by General Lin and his son the Young Marshal Lin Shu (very special close friend of the Crown Prince's younger brother, Jingyan), who were all massacred by the supposedly loyal troops of the Emperor's brother-in-law.

Except Lin Shu survived, and spent the next 11 years in disguise - becoming the leader of the Pugilist World (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wuxia), recovering from his injuries at the Chiyan massacre by changing the shape of his body entirely, and developing a bickering friendship with the doctor Lin Chen (who is a troll and a gift to the world). At the start of the show, Lin Shu arrives in the Imperial City Jinling with the aim of becoming a strategist to Prince Jingyan, so that he may become the next Crown Prince and eventually the next Emperor, and bring justice to the world generally but to the victims of the Chiayn case in particular.

But here's the rub - Lin Shu does not tell Jingyan that he is his special best friend whom he thinks dead, but rather he presents himself as a scheming political operator named Mei Chang Su, who by nature and practice is opposed to the virtues of honesty and righteousness which Prince Jingyan values.

And then you get 50 episodes of awkward pining and political drama.

I should also say that there are amazing female characters here - the Princess-General Mu Nihuang, who was Lin Shu's betrothed 11 years ago, and Xia Dong, a super-competent investigative officer for the Emperor, who is both the best friend of the Princess and extremely bitter about the supposed betrayal of the Chiyan army, who killed her husband (or did they? Or did he magically turn into a yeti-vampire?).

Anyway; it is glorious - the character dynamics are very well constructed and the end result is vastly engaging, the scenery is gorgeous and everyone has amazing hair and costumes, and it is very interesting to see, if you are mainly used to anglophone TV, how TV drama works in a new cultural context - how the mixture of historical drama and contemporary resonances is achieved, for example. I also ended up learning random bits of Mandarin (how to say "Your Majesty" and "Your Highness", for example, or the different gradations of "yes" when speaking to a superior, an equal, or a subordinate), so if you're interesting in learning a Chinese language, this is very inspirational.

comments

The Last Jedi, spoilerish

2017-12-31T14:56:53Z

...it's been two weeks since The Last Jedi came out, and there hasn't been an efflorescence of Poe/Leia fic?

comments

Yuletide 2017

2017-10-04T06:18:16Z

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!

comments

that you live on an island that is old and outworn

2017-04-27T05:50:54Z

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/
http://www.wordswithoutborders.org/article/writing-from-the-edge-estonian-literature

comments

I want to feel the bitter sweet sting of sex in my body

2017-04-26T17:38:51Z

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/

comments

the last Sámi book says

2017-04-26T05:50:01Z

Finland, Niilas Holmberg

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

jurddarávdnján
buđđosan gavjjain
mo dat munges
fihttešin čorget

maŋimus sámegirjjis lohká
vári jurdda ii golgga
go leat seainnit ja moskkus oaivval
WALLS AND OVERCAST
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

comments

because you had, did, didn’t do this and that

2017-04-25T07:03:18Z

Austria, Erich Wolfgang Skwara, 'Springboard and coffin'

SPRUNGBRETT UND SARG

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.
(London)

SPRINGBOARD AND COFFIN

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/

comments

Fic: with my fingers as you want them

2017-04-18T11:39:27Z

Yuri on Ice, Viktor/Yuuri, ridiculous feelings at the Grand Prix Final. Co-written with emeraldgreen.

with my fingers as you want them

comments

Kleenex poetry is what best occurs to me to poetically think of contemporary poetry

2017-04-17T07:32:07Z

Portugal, Beatriz Hierro Lopes, ‘I Say’

Digo

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/

comments

Time goes more slowly in a foreign city

2017-04-16T09:57:08Z

Spain, Basque Country, Harkaitz Cano, ‘Flexible Time’

MALGUA DENBORA

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.

FLEXIBLE TIME

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/
http://basquepoetry.eus/?i=aurki-en&b=poemak

Catalan Poetry:
http://perso.wanadoo.es/lipmic/Pluricat/eng/
https://theculturetrip.com/europe/spain/articles/10-catalan-poets-you-need-to-know/

comments

one of its sharp pebbles

2017-04-15T08:59:54Z

Greece, Nikos Gatsos, ‘Take Your Ring’

ΠΑΡΕ ΤΟ ΔΑΚΤΥΛΙΔΙ ΣΟΥ

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.

TAKE YOUR RING (1994)

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
http://www.greekpoetrynow.com/links.html

comments

the brute and the brigand at the head of Europe

2017-04-14T09:33:37Z

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#

comments