Wednesday, October 23, 2013

I Would Like ... yet again

Though I've posted this poem before in this blog, I never get tired of reading it ... over and over again.  It is the one poem that I wish I could have written because it lives in my heart.  But Yevgeniy Yevtushenko wrote it first and it is far better than anything I could ever hope to write.  But it lives in me so that's something.  Again here it is in his own translation.

 I would like
            to be born
                      in every country,
have a passport
               for them all
to throw
        all foreign offices
                           into panic,
be every fish
             in every ocean
and every dog
             in the streets of the world.
I don’t want to bow down
                        before any idols
or play at being
                a Russian Orthodox church hippie,
but I would like to plunge
                          deep into Lake Baikal
and surface snorting
                              why not in the Mississippi?
In my damned beloved universe
                             I would like
to be a lonely weed,
                    but not a delicate Narcissus
kissing his own mug
                   in the mirror.
I would like to be
                  any of God’s creatures
right down to the last mangy hyena--
but never a tyrant
                  or even the cat of a tyrant.
I would like to be
                  reincarnated as a man
                                       in any image:
a victim of prison tortures,
a homeless child in the slums of Hong Kong,
a living skeleton in Bangladesh,
a holy beggar in Tibet,
a black in Cape Town,
but never
         in the image of Rambo.
The only people whom I hate
                           are the hypocrites--
pickled hyenas
              in heavy syrup.
I would like to lie
                   under the knives of all the surgeons in the world,
be hunchbacked, blind,
                      suffer all kinds of diseases,
                                                   wounds and scars,
be a victim of war,
                   or a sweeper of cigarette butts,
just so a filthy microbe of superiority
                                       doesn’t creep inside.
I would not like to be in the elite,
nor, of course,
               in the cowardly herd,
nor be a guard dog of that herd,
nor a shepherd,
               sheltered by that herd.
And I would like happiness,
                           but not at the expense of the unhappy,
and I would like freedom,
                         but not at the expense of the unfree.
I would like to love
                    all the women in the world,
and I would like to be a woman, too--
                                     just once...
Men have been diminished
                        by Mother Nature.
Why couldn’t we give motherhood
                               to men?
If an innocent child
                           below his heart,
man would probably
                  not be so cruel.
I would like to be man’s daily bread--
    a cup of rice
                 for a Vietnamese woman in mourning,
cheap wine
          in a Neapolitan workers’ trattoria,
or a tiny tube of cheese
                        in orbit round the moon.
Let them eat me,
                let them drink me,
only let my death
                 be of some use.
I would like to belong to all times,
                                    shock all history so much
that it would be amazed
                       what a smart aleck I was.
I would like to bring Nefertiti
                               to Pushkin in a troika.
I would like to increase
                        the space of a moment
                                             a hundredfold,
so that in the same moment
                          I could drink vodka with fishermen in Siberia
and sit together with Homer,
                                              and Tolstoy,
drinking anything,
                  except, of course,
--dance to the tom-toms in the Congo,
--strike at Renault,
--chase a ball with Brazilian boys
                                  at Copacabana Beach.
I would like to know every language,
                                like the secret waters under the earth,
and do all kinds of work at once.
                                 I would make sure
that one Yevtushenko was merely a poet,
                                 the second--an underground fighter
I couldn’t say where
                    for security reasons,
the third--a student at Berkeley,
                                 the fourth--a jolly Georgian drinker,
and the fifth--
               maybe a teacher of Eskimo children in Alaska,
the sixth--
       a young president,
                    somewhere, say, modestly speaking, in Sierra Leone,
the seventh--
             would still be shaking a rattle in his stroller,
and the tenth...
                the hundredth...
                                the millionth...
For me it’s not enough to be myself,
                                    let me be everyone!
Every creature
              usually has a double,
but God was stingy
                  with the carbon paper,
and in his Paradise Publishing Corporation
                                          made a unique copy of me.
But I shall muddle up
                     all God’s cards--
                                      I shall confound God!
I shall be in a thousand copies to the end of my days,
so that the earth buzzes with me,
                                 and computers go berserk
in the world census of me.
I would like to fight on all your barricades,
dying each night
                like an exhausted moon,
and resurrecting each morning
                             like a newborn sun,
with an immortal soft spot--fontanel--
                                      on my head.
And when I die,
               a smart-aleck Siberian Francois Villon,
do not lay me in the earth
                          of France
                                   or Italy,
but in our Russian, Siberian earth,
                                   on a still-green hill,
where I first felt
                  that I was


Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Bridges of Dreams

And will this also pass?
Perhaps, but know what will stay?
What we decide to take
from gifts given to us.

We lived each own the way,
We move in different pace.
And nothing could be read
before we linked in space.

Some could speculate:
It all belongs to the sky,
But how to comprehend
and answer question, Why?

And will this also pass?
Perhaps, you know life is long,
But why this even struck us?
The question comes along.
By Gulnara Karimova

I can see you standing in the woods by moonlight. The warm glow of a small campfire suffuses your face, gilding your gentle smile and sparkling in your eyes. The clean scent of your hair fills my nostrils as I nuzzle your neck and wrap my arms around your waist. There I look up and see the moonlight transform your hair into a silver aureole as our bodies move in an ancient rhythm. The rustle of leaves is lost in the roar of the wind through the treetops above us.

Where are our dreams?
What are they?
Oh, and if dreams are slipping away in dreams?
What are finding themselves having to star?
The sun rises, and the shadow fades away.
the light is on the way, smoothly hides dreams ...
And once again everything touches the soul,
live your dreams and will fly up to dream ...
By Gulnara Karimova

I can see you on the deck of a ship passing mine. Our eyes lock, we reach out as if to bridge the gap with our arms. Sadly we wave good bye. My heart aches as your ship drifts off into the dusk. Just as you fade away you smile at me. I can see the wistful sadness clearly on your lips, as if I have seen it many times before. Why does that image spring so readily to mind? Am I doomed to live among the things that can never be?

Came Up With ... a dream wrapped ...
Believe ... a sigh.
I don't know how long is this twinkle ... one more ...
By Gulnara Karimova

I sit by a pond and gaze across the water at reflections of memories of things that never were. I hear echoes of footsteps along a path not taken, and wonder where I might have gone. I dream of you appearing in the dark and walking into my arms. I remember … and I dream that it would never end.

We are one, eternity was ...
in broad parts scattered and thee revealed ...
By Gulnara Karimova

Sometime back I read that the composite color of the universe is – beige or tan. The scientific explanation is that over the past 10 billion years the universe is becoming redder as red stars have become more prevalent—an understandable observation since red stars are older than blue stars.

To me, a beige universe somehow explains many things… Avatar, Dances with Wolves, The Last Samurai, The Blue Man Group for President 2016… an inchoate desire to return to a more bluish universe

Fairies beckon the Moon,
Eternal for ever in heaven.
will life be replaced again and again,
But the Earth will rule love ...
By Gulnara Karimova

Rise above me like a majestic bird.
Spread your golden wings and fly,
soaring high into the mist.
Abandon yourself
 and all that has become you.

Take me with you
to that place most perfect.
That place between this life and the next
where for one single instant
knowing love is the only option.
by G. Gregory

by Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name
      Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя

Blue Moon Rose