Solitude

Virtue Of Silence
 

Reflections of deep silence
after solitary mid-night hours,
when the conspiring souls
apprehend their day-long chatters
which they conceal in
their formidable sorrow.
Revival is unfailing, on the morrow.

Deep solitude brought me
on the verge of long seclusion
with my dreams entrapped in the nest
of my grieved but acquitted mind.
No end to it, I ever find.

Your beauty, charm and glamour,
celebrative to their immense merits,
like the ambrosian valleys
where eyes remain staring
at beauteous, vast sparing.

Fatigued and weary moments
of perilous voyage of life,
are casting day by day
and night by night,
unrhetorical spells to fright.

Yet, I celebrate my solitude,
in the wake of your forgetfulness
and you know that I was
alone all along during the span of life
awaiting for virtue of peace, and not a strife.

Copyright May 19,2003
Ashraf Gohar Goreja

Pablo Neruda

Puedo escribir los versos mas triste esta noche


Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".


El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.


Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.


En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.


Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.


Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.


Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.


Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.


Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.


Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.


La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos
           árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.


Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.


De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.


Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.


Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis
          brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.


Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.



Here's the translation, but I don't like it. Translating a poem deprives it from it's original true and deepest meaning. It's just not the same.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, "the night is starry
And the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me; sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have lover her great still eyes?
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Thinking I do not have her. Feeling I have lost her.
Hearing the immense night, immense without her.
The verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
That is all. In the distance someone sings.
In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night,
whitening the same trees.
We, those of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, certainly, but how I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She'll be another's.

As before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer
And these the last verses that I write for her.

Solitude
 
Dedicated to Sarah Bukshpan

Solitude is a quiet stream flowing down a mountain,
Even if there are rocks on each side and some at the bottom,
The stream flows over it all without a care in the world,
At some points the stream may become a waterfall,
But it still flows,
No matter what is placed in front of it,
The stream remains where it is, ever flowing onwards.
The lonely traveler may see it as a gift from God,
When all God is doing is giving the traveler time in peace,
Even when the earth is barren and the oceans are all gone,
Perfect solitude has been found by a lone traveler,
His fate is that of dehydration, but he has had plenty of time to drink from the stream of solitude.

Ben Borkan

YOU LIT THE FIRE
 

When you came to my life
the eternal snow of my solitude
melted in my soul,
formed rivers to fecundate the life,

My love was a dormant volcano
crowned by the long cold of my nostalgia
it was the quiet night, it was the night without echo,
it was the same sadness cohabiting with the solitude.

Then you arrived and lit the fire,
you gave heat to my soul and flavor to my life
then you arrived and moved away the loneliness
and banished sadness.

your love is a volcano in eruption
my love was an extinguished volcano
but the lavas of your heart flooded my being
and lit my soul!

ENRIQUE ALBERTO HURTADO MINOTTA

We drank the Sadness
 


Come! !
Solitude, my friend
Accompany me tonight.
come! !
sit to my side
and bring your glass and pour in it
the sadness of solitary hearts.

Take their tears, put yours and take mine.
Let´s allow them to ferment a while
until they are converted into wine,
that tonight I want to get drunk
with the wine of sadness.

Tonight, in your company, I'll not only
drink your sadness and the sadness of world
but, rather, I´ll get drunk myself with my heart´s sadness
and the solitude of my soul.

Come solitude!
Let´s leave to walk and let´s scream to the world
that tonight we drank its sadness
and the drunkenness of the sadness
in happiness it finished! !

ENRIQUE ALBERTO HURTADO MINOTTA

Ma solitude

Pour avoir si souvent dormi
Avec ma solitude
Je m'en suis fait presqu'une amie
Une douce habitude
Elle ne me quitte pas d'un pas
Fidèle comme une ombre
Elle m'a suivi ça et là
Aux quatre coins du monde

Non, je ne suis jamais seul
Avec ma solitude

Quand elle est au creux de mon lit
Elle prend toute la place
Et nous passons de longues nuits
Tous les deux face à face
Je ne sais vraiment pas jusqu'où
Ira cette complice
Faudra-t-il que j'y prenne goût
Ou que je réagisse?

Non, je ne suis jamais seul
Avec ma solitude

Par elle, j'ai autant appris
Que j'ai versé de larmes
Si parfois je la répudie
Jamais elle ne désarme
Et si je préfère l'amour
D'une autre courtisane
Elle sera à mon dernier jour
Ma dernière compagne

Non, je ne suis jamais seul
Avec ma solitude
Non, je ne suis jamais seul
Avec ma solitude

The Wind
 

With no companion to my mood,
Against the wind as it should be,
I walk, but in my solitude
Bow to the wind that buffets me.

Vikram Seth

Star Dust I Am
 

When i dance with my solitude
I become Zorba the Greek
I move like stardust
For stardust i am



Allan James Saywell

Francis who is the poet to Ma Solitude? I love it thanks.

Paroles et Musique: Georges Moustaki

My Dearest Emile
 

Fragile poetic soul distressed by haunting verses
Alone in wintry, sombre Montreal nights
Your angelic wings spread, you travel in solitude

'Soir d'hiver', dare to read it alone without quiet tears!
O, how I wish to travel in Nelligan's 'Le Vaisseau d'Or'!
To venture in the poet's garden of fallen dreams...

How sweet sorrows caress, lull the mind into oblivion
Autumn, snow, the Night, clear moons evoke sinisters strokes
Angelic melodic rhymes resound melancholic tunes

Unending sorrows engulfed your youthful spirit
Confined to your darkened abyss until your final days
Yet your luminous verses forever roam the Universe.

Van TranAdams

 









 

Song
Allen Ginsberg

 

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.

Poetry

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived                                                                       
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where                                                                                 
it came from, from winter or a river.                                                                                     
I don't know how or when,                                                                                           
no, they were not voices, they were not                                                                                           
words, not silence,                                                                                           
but from a street it called me,                                                                                           
from the branches of night,                                                                                           
abruptly from the others,                                                                                         
among raging fires                                                                                        
or returning alone,                                                                                     
there it was, without a face,                                                                               
and it touched me.                                                                    


I didn't know what to say, my mouth                                                           
had no way                                                          
with names,                                                         
my eyes were blind.                                                       
Something knocked in my soul,                                                     
fever or forgotten wings,                                                 
and I made my own way,                                            
  deciphering                                 
that fire,                    
and I wrote the first, faint line,                      
faint, without substance, pure                    
nonsense,                 
pure wisdom             
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.


And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.


Poezija

               I bje u ono doba . . . dodje poezija
                       da me potrazi. Ne znam, ne znam odakle je
                         banula, iz zime ili iz rijeke.
                           Ne znam ni kako ni kada.
                           Ne, ne bjehu to glasovi, ne bjehu
                           rijeci, ni tisina,
                         ali zvala me iz jedne ulice,
                     iz krosnje noci,
               iznenada, medju ostalima,
                     medju zestokim ognjevima,
                       ili dok se vracah sam,
                         tamo je stajala bez lica
                         i dodirivala me.


                                     Nisam znao što da kazem, usta mi
                                             nisu znala
                                                 nista odrediti,
                                                     oci mi bijahu slijepe,
                                                       a nešto je udaralo u mojoj dusi,
                                                         groznica ili izgubljena krila,
                                                         i ostadoh sam
                                                         odgonetajuci,
                                                       tu opeklinu,
                                                     i napisah prvi nejasan redak,
                                                 nejasan, bez tijela, cistu
                                             glupost,
                                       cistu mudrost
                                   onoga koji nista ne zna,
                               i odjednom vidjeh
                   ocisceno i otvoreno nebo,
             planete,
         treptave plantaze,
     sjenu probusenu,
izbodenu
strijelama, vatru i cvijece,
noc koja uspavljuje, svemir.


I ja najsitnije bice,
pijan od goleme  ozvjezdane
praznine,
na sliku i priliku
tajne,
osjetih se kao cisti dio
bezdana,
otkotrljah se sa zvijezdama,
srce mi se otisnu s vjetrom.

La Poesia

Y fue a esa edad . . . Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No se, no se de donde
salió, de invierno o rio.
No sé como ni cuando,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
alli estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.


Yo no sabia qué decir, mi boca
no sabia
nombrar,
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
descifrando
aquella quemadura,
y escribi la primera linea vaga,
vaga, sin cuerpo, pura
tonteria,
pura sabiduria
del que no sabe nada, y vi de pronto
el cielo
desgranado
y abierto,
planetas,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
acribillada
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.


Y yo, minimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacio
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me senti parte pura
del abismo,
rode con las estrellas,
mi corazon se desato en el viento.



                           Pablo Neruda

                           (1904 - 1973)

Solitude at an Inn
 

Oft upon the twilight plain,
Circled with thy shadowy train,
While the dove at distance coo'd,
Have I met thee, Solitude!
Then was loneliness to me
Best and true society,
But ah! how alter'd is thy mien
In this sad deserted scene!
Here all thy classic pleasures cease,
Musing mild, and thoughtful peace;
Here thou com'st in sullen mood,
Not with thy fantastic brood
Of magic shapes and visions airy
Beckon'd from the land of Fairy:
'Mid the melancholy void
Not a pensive charm enjoy'd!
No poetic being here
Strikes with airy sounds mine ear;
No converse here to fancy cold
With many a fleeting form I hold,
Here all inelegant and rude
Thy presence is, sweet Solitude.

Thomas Warton Jr.

Votre Monde
 


J'ai vécu quelques années de ma vie dans l'ombre,
Cachée par des idées mystérieuses et sombres,
Amie intime du noir, de l'obscurité,
Et du silence propice pour méditer,
Fascinée par une atmosphère de secret,
Par l'impudence des énigmes qui s'y créent,
Par l'air des ténèbres, difficile à résoudre,
Par la froideur qui s'y abat comme la foudre…

J'ai vécu quelques années, seule et isolée,
Proie de l'angoisse, insondable et affolée,
Ennemie de vous: humains et sociétés,
Haïssant d'être, sans cesse, par vous, guettée,
Envoûtée par le charme de la solitude,
Par la joie interne et la morne quiétude,
Par l'ambiance de paix et de contentement,
Par la douceur qui s'y faufile lentement…

Maintenant, j'ai quitté la solitude et l'ombre,
Dévoilée après mon séjour dans la pénombre,
Ressuscitée de la boue et de la misère,
Fantôme revenant d'un continent désert.
Dégoûtée de l'abattement et du silence,
Du temps passé vainement et de sa cadence,
Je suis revenue dans votre univers, à vous,
Que je n'ai pas trouvé différent, je l'avoue!


Ces années, je ne les regrette point,
Elles m'on été d'un grand appoint.

Rita El Khoury

Powerful and very descriptive!

I hope that means you liked it, it is powerful!

I like it!