(no subject)
Beautfull leather cover with golden details "Complete Works of Lewis Carroll" (The funny thing is that a Selected Works of Him, meaning with less works and in a worst edition in portuguese costed more than this english version, so, not only I have a prettier book (:P) but I also have it in the original english - considering Carroll craft with english words, this is a plus- but with more works for a lesser price, so I ended buying also a Goethe Faust to finally read the second part of it)...
Considering the sloopness that I go because the diabets I have been reading a lot. It is frustating to get old - yes! I should use my walking cane and a hat, sit in my room's big chair and say "When we are young". Frustating as time goes by.
Here a poem named
Little Prosaic Love Poem
Sad day It was when in the gardens of my lair, I heard the upset of a pair caused by pure and mischievous envy; that was the day the Nightingale and the Rose parted with a query unanswered: Which one was more important when Love was concerned ?
Lovers in the entire world - because a single rose is all the roses and a single nightingale is all the nightingales - are affected and their hearts in icy dungeons transformed and all they did was to inquire: What is that flower? What is that music? What is that lip? What is that woman? The entire romance became a trivial matter of journalism!
Too many things concerned with that fight because without Love this world would be banal. But the truth: all the rest is banal, even Hatred. And thus they sought to placate the ire and proposed to inquire of three people - for three is a fair number - especially when Love is the subject.
First was a harlot, many men had called her mistress, too many nights she had loved and none without a lover. The Nightingale she ignored and the Rose, red as her lips, she picked. “When they came I receive gifts and roses too, and all the night I will please the man I choose and leave the rose behind as I depart, vow of trust and secrecy. Certainly the rose is what matters to me.” And they left and the Rose was confident but love still absent.
The next visit was to a noble lord in his castle, a famous conqueror. The Rose he picked and was not impressed. “The bird, at last, has some use. When his music is quiet, I am warned. The little bird flew scared, may be the husband that arrived and it is time for me to depart.” He pondered and sighed. “Sometimes it can be just a cat.” And they left and the Nightingale was more confident but love still absent.
The last person was a poet and some said he was just chatter but had no notion of Love and its caprices. That was true for when asked the poet silenced and then with another question answered:
“Who is undying, from the cinders returned, Immortal and unique since the Eden?” and both answered the same answer.
“Who is sung by the bards and is the fall of many gods and beauty’s unfaithful companion?” and both eagerly answered very alike.
“Who is the pawn?” and both kept the silence, suspicious of that question.
The poet then took them near a window, in the back of his house where they could see a woman under a tree. And her eyes are black, deep like the infinite and so was her gaze. I was attracted like a void. And her skin was soft and cheeks shined slightly red. Her chest was fair and waived to her sighs and her voice not just walked in the air.
“Who is the fire that burns my blood and walks with me?”
But none answered - was there any need? - and the Nightingale sensed a burden in his chest and felt like singing. He flew lightly to the tree and there was music for those who wanted to hear. And the rose blushed when picked by the woman, who once again meets her lover, the one the poet remembered.
And to testify my total obsession with Nightingales and roses
The Rose and the nightingale - A dialogue.
Once in a most platonic garden, hidden by the celestial gardener,
flourished many notable children; among those included,
a most notable rose. You would suppose she would try to impose,
every desire and tiny caprice, turning Nature to her benefice.
But that Rose was never so ambitious, she was content
with her petals and thorns. To a vain poppy she gave
her circlet and throne. But she had a heart and thus, dreams.
She dreamed freely and intensely, when he was nearby:
the Nightingale was singing his fabled romantic ballads,
after wandering with poets and quixotic amorous couples;
and his song was so ardent that the Rose inflamed -
Ah, - and that what she said veiling her weeping voice -
If my petals are wings, my thorns your talons, my scent your tune,
I would go abroad in this world and see the lovers under stars.
She was gloomy but powerless, as she would knew beforehand:
although she and the Nightingale are in every love affair;
he could flew and observe, when she could only hear, so far, so far…
But the Rose had forgotten the argent ring; the solitary alliance;
she was also a faithful companion of every loving pair;
and aloof in the sky, wiser than the Rose, summoned the Nightingale
to advice the crying Rose about the value of her purpose.
The Nightingale flew and landed amiably before the Rose,
wriggling his plumes he freed his velvet voice and chanted,
because to the Nightingale is denied a ordinary conversation,
He must sing and enchant without any reservation -
all his days are measured by the number of the poets his song inspired;
the number of couples he enticed to put aside and hide
any bitterness or shyness - and all he did without any complaint.
However the Rose was deaf, her heart broken with despair -
she sought to depart, to risen and travel in the air;
then she implored to the Nightingale kind spirit and idealism;
Carry me far, Carry me away - She said in a burst of passion,
Let me held in your back, Nightingale, Let me travel far;
show me the path in your dreams, the woods of your muse;
Let me be your pair, Nightingale, Let me soar!
Then the Nightingale forgot about the Moon task and abided;
the Rose leaped in his back, entangled his neck - close, so close -
and her thorns pierced his soft skin; he trembled with the pain.
Yet he never halted: resolute he ripped the sky and intoned to the Rose
Why do you want to abandon the ground if there is where you nourish?
The beauty of your petals my music enrich, and your fragrance beloved,
by everyone revered, reach beyond anywhere my melody is heard.
And as he sung and flew, his suave feathers turned crimson,
he bleed as the Rose so tightly embraced, frightened by the clouds
that so close approached, deeply piercing, aiming to his heart.
Feeble and languishingly, he never moaned, as he finally grounded.
Oddly indeed: in silence the Nightingale departed.
The Rose leaned, so innocently, with her petals his face gently stroked.
All that rested of this spectacle was the helpless Moon in the far sky.
All was forlorn and lost - may this loitering poet pondered;
and with me, many others unsurely wept, mourning the unseen -
even the moon withdrew from her place and once graced that pile of ashes -
There was graved : The Nightingale and The Rose once flew together.
But my pen I could not desert, the words appeared, my heart overflow -
in the place where the Nightingale flesh was mingled with the soil,
blossomed a new Rose, so pretty, so fair, while a song we hear in the air….
yeah, so, would Baudelaire approve me?
Considering the sloopness that I go because the diabets I have been reading a lot. It is frustating to get old - yes! I should use my walking cane and a hat, sit in my room's big chair and say "When we are young". Frustating as time goes by.
Here a poem named
Little Prosaic Love Poem
Sad day It was when in the gardens of my lair, I heard the upset of a pair caused by pure and mischievous envy; that was the day the Nightingale and the Rose parted with a query unanswered: Which one was more important when Love was concerned ?
Lovers in the entire world - because a single rose is all the roses and a single nightingale is all the nightingales - are affected and their hearts in icy dungeons transformed and all they did was to inquire: What is that flower? What is that music? What is that lip? What is that woman? The entire romance became a trivial matter of journalism!
Too many things concerned with that fight because without Love this world would be banal. But the truth: all the rest is banal, even Hatred. And thus they sought to placate the ire and proposed to inquire of three people - for three is a fair number - especially when Love is the subject.
First was a harlot, many men had called her mistress, too many nights she had loved and none without a lover. The Nightingale she ignored and the Rose, red as her lips, she picked. “When they came I receive gifts and roses too, and all the night I will please the man I choose and leave the rose behind as I depart, vow of trust and secrecy. Certainly the rose is what matters to me.” And they left and the Rose was confident but love still absent.
The next visit was to a noble lord in his castle, a famous conqueror. The Rose he picked and was not impressed. “The bird, at last, has some use. When his music is quiet, I am warned. The little bird flew scared, may be the husband that arrived and it is time for me to depart.” He pondered and sighed. “Sometimes it can be just a cat.” And they left and the Nightingale was more confident but love still absent.
The last person was a poet and some said he was just chatter but had no notion of Love and its caprices. That was true for when asked the poet silenced and then with another question answered:
“Who is undying, from the cinders returned, Immortal and unique since the Eden?” and both answered the same answer.
“Who is sung by the bards and is the fall of many gods and beauty’s unfaithful companion?” and both eagerly answered very alike.
“Who is the pawn?” and both kept the silence, suspicious of that question.
The poet then took them near a window, in the back of his house where they could see a woman under a tree. And her eyes are black, deep like the infinite and so was her gaze. I was attracted like a void. And her skin was soft and cheeks shined slightly red. Her chest was fair and waived to her sighs and her voice not just walked in the air.
“Who is the fire that burns my blood and walks with me?”
But none answered - was there any need? - and the Nightingale sensed a burden in his chest and felt like singing. He flew lightly to the tree and there was music for those who wanted to hear. And the rose blushed when picked by the woman, who once again meets her lover, the one the poet remembered.
And to testify my total obsession with Nightingales and roses
The Rose and the nightingale - A dialogue.
Once in a most platonic garden, hidden by the celestial gardener,
flourished many notable children; among those included,
a most notable rose. You would suppose she would try to impose,
every desire and tiny caprice, turning Nature to her benefice.
But that Rose was never so ambitious, she was content
with her petals and thorns. To a vain poppy she gave
her circlet and throne. But she had a heart and thus, dreams.
She dreamed freely and intensely, when he was nearby:
the Nightingale was singing his fabled romantic ballads,
after wandering with poets and quixotic amorous couples;
and his song was so ardent that the Rose inflamed -
Ah, - and that what she said veiling her weeping voice -
If my petals are wings, my thorns your talons, my scent your tune,
I would go abroad in this world and see the lovers under stars.
She was gloomy but powerless, as she would knew beforehand:
although she and the Nightingale are in every love affair;
he could flew and observe, when she could only hear, so far, so far…
But the Rose had forgotten the argent ring; the solitary alliance;
she was also a faithful companion of every loving pair;
and aloof in the sky, wiser than the Rose, summoned the Nightingale
to advice the crying Rose about the value of her purpose.
The Nightingale flew and landed amiably before the Rose,
wriggling his plumes he freed his velvet voice and chanted,
because to the Nightingale is denied a ordinary conversation,
He must sing and enchant without any reservation -
all his days are measured by the number of the poets his song inspired;
the number of couples he enticed to put aside and hide
any bitterness or shyness - and all he did without any complaint.
However the Rose was deaf, her heart broken with despair -
she sought to depart, to risen and travel in the air;
then she implored to the Nightingale kind spirit and idealism;
Carry me far, Carry me away - She said in a burst of passion,
Let me held in your back, Nightingale, Let me travel far;
show me the path in your dreams, the woods of your muse;
Let me be your pair, Nightingale, Let me soar!
Then the Nightingale forgot about the Moon task and abided;
the Rose leaped in his back, entangled his neck - close, so close -
and her thorns pierced his soft skin; he trembled with the pain.
Yet he never halted: resolute he ripped the sky and intoned to the Rose
Why do you want to abandon the ground if there is where you nourish?
The beauty of your petals my music enrich, and your fragrance beloved,
by everyone revered, reach beyond anywhere my melody is heard.
And as he sung and flew, his suave feathers turned crimson,
he bleed as the Rose so tightly embraced, frightened by the clouds
that so close approached, deeply piercing, aiming to his heart.
Feeble and languishingly, he never moaned, as he finally grounded.
Oddly indeed: in silence the Nightingale departed.
The Rose leaned, so innocently, with her petals his face gently stroked.
All that rested of this spectacle was the helpless Moon in the far sky.
All was forlorn and lost - may this loitering poet pondered;
and with me, many others unsurely wept, mourning the unseen -
even the moon withdrew from her place and once graced that pile of ashes -
There was graved : The Nightingale and The Rose once flew together.
But my pen I could not desert, the words appeared, my heart overflow -
in the place where the Nightingale flesh was mingled with the soil,
blossomed a new Rose, so pretty, so fair, while a song we hear in the air….
yeah, so, would Baudelaire approve me?