Daily Archives: August 2, 2019

Питер Брейгель Старший Мужицкий. Времена года –  Татьяна Теребинова / Перевод на испанский язык Уинстон Моралес Чаварро, Колумбия 

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 Татьяна Теребинова 

 Питер Брейгель Старший Мужицкий. Времена года 

Es de noche. La cadena de rayos se derrite aquí.
La luna es más tierna, mientras que los pómulos afilados.
En el bosque, cerca de él, cuelga el negro azulado.
Un anciano golpea con su caña y carpas más antiguas.
Algunos perros ladran, roen las cadenas cada vez más frías.
La incomodidad es divinamente ingenua como las lluvias de principios de verano.
Y sobre nosotros, tantas estrellas tuvieron su oportunidad de brillar.
Un viento frío quema los ojos a través de los patios del templo.
Un esturión plateado: atraparlo, ten un poco de diversión en mente.
Comienza la pesca de esas tengas viscosas y verdes.
Y la oscuridad respira de nuevo en un alegre granizo.
Hay un poco de pintura artística – las casas entretienen.
Un pez está en el cielo, un pescador en la orilla.
No puedo salvar la tristeza con su único sello.
O’er el arenoso escupir gansos, voy a esperar más.
En arboledas turbias, los espíritus de las sirenas se enfrían.
A través de las venas, una llama clara se elevará.
Y más dulce que de Moonshine: duerme en el paraíso.
Así que levantate de ese suelo húmedo, eso es suficiente para mentir:
Para más dulce que de Moonshine, visite el paraíso.
Entonces, levantémonos de ese terreno, ¿a dónde podríamos ir o volar?
Solo quema, el ojo de la abertura del ajenjo estelar.
Y en secreto sobre la ola del atardecer flotamos,
En el mechero dispersa las estrellas y olvida la carga.
¿Qué te está guiando, qué deforma tu miedo?
¿Qué te parece ponerle correa de cariño?
Qué serpiente con nudos que se retuerce a tu alrededor aquí.
En zanjas profundas la perfección de la ligadura de brezo.
Así que encontrarás fuerzas vagas en ti mismo de nuevo.
Y el arbusto terroso vendrá entonces en oración.
Y la noche respirará en mareas sombrías.
Hasta que la cresta de la estrella comienza a caer.
Trae el humo y el hechizo – lo que sea correcto;
Para todo agosto, estrellas del viento del norte alrededor.
No tan cool tus lazos amistosos y poder:
Reconoce, persuade, tienes nubes para deslizarte.
Me desvanezco, me desvanezco en los escalones de piedra,
Como una bestia, estupefacto por una bandera.
Y otra vez una montaña se baña en el cielo, luego siestas,
Sin embargo, en vano el cielo en los espejos salvajes se hunde.
El azul puro se está vertiendo en los dormitorios del laberinto del alma,
Desbordando un poco, buscando grandes tormentas.
Una mujer joven flexiona las salpicaduras del cielo en un estanque.
Y el viento viene de las altas montañas, qué cisne pacífico.
Y un arbusto de piel morena sigue vivo y encontrado.
Oh, bestia aún desconocida, por favor canta sobre la tierra en pena hasta el amanecer.
Verás los bosques que sostienen la mañana en fragmentos de los sueños.
Y parece que un bote de luna gira alrededor.
Aquí en las casas nace la nieve del apio.
Haz más espacio aquí mismo con un columpio de plumas.
Haz que el amanecer de naranja para los arados sea bueno,
Y un icono sin nombre como regalo, por favor traiga.
Un viejo molino muele unos minutos aproximadamente, la alegría de las lágrimas.
Y el árbol de cordones – arrastra convoy de calles.
Persianas con oraciones de runas nos abren los ojos.
¡Que la tempestad deseada se enoje con la ráfaga más salvaje!

Перевод на испанский язык Уинстон Моралес Чаварро, Колумбия 

Poems by Tian Yu

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Poems by Tian Yu     Flowers and Leaves   It’s hot, it’s cold, it’s love and it’s pain. There is always a feeling of stagnation. It’s blue, it’s red, and it’s empty. You can’t escape this life again.   … Continue reading →

Poezi nga Leonora Lokaj

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Poezi nga Leonora Lokaj   Në realitetin e kohës gjarpri fle rrugëve që djersinë pa hartë ecur këngëdjegur në pentagram zvarritet në teatrin e heshtje himnshpirti i molisur buzëshkrumb grithë dashurinë e natës kërkon fjalë ta zbukuroj vargun e syrgjynosur … Continue reading →

Dr. Dalip Khetarpal (India)

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Dr. Dalip Khetarpal (India)
 
Scuttling past his long teaching and administrative career of more than three decades, Dr. Dalip Khetarpal took up creative writing full-fledgedly only after his retirement, though random literary contributions to various outstanding journals and magazines were perceptible during his teaching career. Dr Dalip Khetarpal pioneered a new genre in poetry writing and won laurels for the new trend set by him. He is one of the first Indian English poets who has, for the first time, successfully synthesized and poeticized all branches of sciences including medical science, psychiatry, abnormal psychology and parapsychology and integrated them into his poetry with great subtlety and skill. His highlights are mainly related to subconscious and unconscious mind.
Khetarpal with his new trend and vision dared to contradict the concept of poetry as propounded by the great English poet, William Wordsworth, who said, “poetry is spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings….(recollected and tranquility).” According to him, poetry is a spontaneous overflow of powerful psychological ideas recollected in tranquility or in an extremely disturbed state of mind. Every piece of art for him, reflects the zeitgeist of the age, so, accordingly, poetry should also reflect the current scenario.
Dr Khetarpal’s earlier poems were psycho-physic in nature. He considers them as flints as they emit spark when they hit the readers’ mind almost like a sharp-edged weapon with their inbuilt powerful and incisive thoughts and ideas. However, because of mounting tension, crisis for identity, unwholesome moral health, intellectual climate and some factors threatening peace and harmony, he shifted his focus to miscellaneous global, mystical and environmental issues like eco-terrorism, corruption, love, sex, politics, religion, God and even human soul.
His new concept of religion, God and human soul governed by humanitarian ideas and even scientific principles has attracted many litterateurs and even sages. He strikes a hard blow at the nonchalance and ignorance of the ailing society which is almost on the brink of disaster, simultaneously also drawing the attention of the dormant masses to concentrate on the topsy-turvy state of affairs and exhorts them to do something concrete to save this world from its catastrophic end. As a dutiful and morally conscientious poet, he feels that his vocation is to explicate the precise wretched condition of today’s world which harbours the seeds of the future. He so, along with other writers, philosophers, thinkers and poets sets out to expose and rebuke the manifestation of all perceptible and imperceptible evils and works for the joy, peace, progress and upliftment of mankind. He knows that when life becomes meaningless and dead, only poetry can lift our spirits up above the drab and dull, mundane existence and shows us the light that could not be seen on sea or land.
 
Khetarpal has the following six poetry anthologies and one book of criticism to his credit. These are as follows:
1. Fathoming Infinity, prefaced by Dr K K Khurana
2. Fathoming Infinity (2nd revised edition) prefaced by Dr Maria Miraglia, Italy.
3. Ripping into Consciousness, prefaced by Robin Ruiz (USA).
4. Refractions, prefaced by Alen Jacobs (U K)
5. Sculptured Psyche, prefaced by Kapardeli Eftichia, Greece.
6. Weird Musings, prefaced by Jen Walls (USA).
 
Following are his compiled and edited Books:
Core Realm of Cosmic Peace and Harmony, by The Poetry Society of India.
The Pilgrimage, by Anil k. Sharma, Founder of The Journal, Contemporary Vibes.
Fancy Fragrances, by The Global Fraternity of Poets.
 
His perception of life and art is also unique. Art, for him is the science of feeling and science is the art of knowing as the first assumption of science is that all phenomena have underground connections in the form of certain determining relations that have an ultimate homogeneity we call matter. Owing to his holistic vision and outlook, he appeals to the mind, emotion, imagination and spirit of all scientists, aesthetics, intellectuals and litterateurs, while commonly, poets appeal only to the emotion and imagination of the readers and writers. Believing firmly in originality, he has a tendency to look at everything in life in his own original manner, be it love, human relationship and even sex. His perception of life and art is also unique.
He was conferred a Citation of Highest Honour for ‘Excellence In World Poetry Award on 26.1. 19 by United Spirit Of Writers Academy, Intercontinental, Africa Anglo America Asia Europe Latin America Oceana. In the International Exhibition of Art and Poetry held from 4th to 18th June, 2016 at Bologna, Italy, by ArteBo (Artistic Association, Bologna, Italy) only his poem titled, ‘Can Man Ever Remain a Man’ was selected from India out of many entries for the contest. He was conferred the Certificate of Excellence by Dr Yayati Madan G. Gandhi for contribution of his poems to the anthology entitled ‘Fancy Fragrances’ during its release ceremony on 15th March 2019 at Asian Literary Fest, Delnet, Nelson Mandela Road, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi. He was also given a certificate of honour for his humanitarian outlook and inspirational lecture on aesthetics on 23.4. 19. by Dr Maria Miraglia, Literary Director, ‘Pablo Neruda’ Cultural Association, Italy. Likewise, many other awards were conferred by various literary organizations and immensely praised by great international poets and critics like Jen Walls, Dr Maria Miraglia, Dr Hulya n. Yilmaz, Robin Ruiz, Alan Jacobs, Dr Kapardeli Eftichia, Dr Yayati Madan Gandhi (one of the nominees for Nobel Prize, 2019) and many more. He thus, has made India proud with his multifarious creations and achievements.
Author, poet, critic, reviewer, editor,
Columnist and short-story writer.
 
 
 
Sculpted/Un-Sculpted Psyche
 
Psyche loses its pristine glory and freshness
Whenever social hands willy-nilly sculpt it.
All constituent parts of psyche,
Be it thinking, feeling, behavior, bodily movements,
Gestures, or even soul—- are sculpted chronologically
Whenever it involves
Some social norm, faith, or belief structure
Of a specific identity— —-
Mainly to suit occasions, socially acceptable.
When sculpting so much of nature’s gift
Leads to forfeiture of all human attributes,
Nothing would be left of man.
Natural un-sculpted feelings, thoughts and ideas,
If given no expression don’t also die,
But keep brewing in the psyche,
So, could be fatal or, at least,
Result in a sudden violent outburst later,
Having consequences, damaging.
Man, as an architect of his own destiny sounds fine,
But, as an architect of his pristine thoughts, emotions,
Ideas and feelings, sounds silly.
Is not feeling, thinking, living naturally possible?
Does one have to improvise activity so much?
Should not one completely own
One’s own mind, feelings and soul
And wear them fearlessly?
Moving far from nature external,
Destroys nature, internal.
Since civilization emanates
From controlling or sculpting
One’s wild instincts and impulses,
Un-sculpted psyche becomes uncivilized
And sculpted, civilized.
Sculpt psyche then to be civilized
And be acceptable by the civilized.
But a psyche, as such, is unreal,
So, be unreal and get accepted
By the unreal world,
Or be real with un-sculpted psyche
And remain marooned and get totally rejected
By the same unreal world.
While rejection leads to ailments of psyche,
Acceptance, to painful de-individuation.
Choose whatever, the amazingly resilient,
But doomy nonchalant sculpted world
Would trudge to its impending doom,
Ceaselessly, relentlessly.
 
 
Consummation of love…
 
Your lusciously loquacious eyes
And tongue-tied savory simplicity,
Your mischievously pillaging smile
And thunderous invitation of your lascivious body—
—burning with the fire of love, but fragrant with scents
From the ethereal essence of heaven,
Drenching even your sacred soul
Compels me to ask,
Why love should not be a blend of flesh and spirit?
 
The soft-sweet telling ache of your vitals,
The light warm breeze blowing
From your enchanting portal of bliss,
Draws me irresistibly closest to you,
Carries me to regions blissful and divine,
And made me reflect,
How spiritual love is inconceivable sans physical,
And how all conspire to cast a spell magical on me!
My nervousness casts aside surreptitiously,
I merge body and soul into your whole being
Unconsciously, but holistically, though bewildered,
To be only fully consumed
By the consummation of fiery love.
 
I’ve then finally learnt how the merger of flesh and spirit
Has made my famished and fractured-self whole.
 
 
 
From Darkness to Darkness
 
I came from some darkness known,
Only to return to some darkness unknown.
Darkness surrounded me before birth,
And the same would engulf me after death.
If darkness is surely my beginning
And also my end, I must accept it without any ado.
Every light, be it sunlight
Or life’s light,
Has to exhaust itself one day,
For darkness reigns supreme.
The darkness that conceals
And extinguishes light,
Also reveals and kindles our libidinal urges
As id does after shooing away
The ego and the super-ego,
Striking the cool, the calm,
The balance, the sanctity and the control,
Breaking and annihilating them
To induce darkness again
When carnal instincts well up.
The rotation of the cycle
Of light and darkness
Is seen only while living,
For, after death,
This cycle may end.
Christ, Lazarus and few more, resurrected,
But modern sinners
Are beyond redemption,
And can see no resurrection,
So, Christ must also stop bleeding
For at least those
Who are nothing more than
The offspring of Satan—- —-mindlessly inviting
Some apocalyptic event.
 
 
 
Be Not Social Chameleons…
 
We tend to create in others’ minds
An image distinct from our real image
Just to be loved, liked, appreciated, respected
And what not.
But, when our private image colors,
Harmonizes and meshes well
With our public image,
We become social chameleons
Repeatedly making people we detest feel
They are our kindred souls.
Using social skills to adapt our actions
To the need of situations,
Going through crisscross of endless
Superficial social exchanges and interactions,
Our true identity gets dissolved
And a fake chameleonic social identity is churned out.
 
As a true and honest mortal
We create depressing image in society,
But as chameleons, we create
Wonderful impression in society
Of which we’re ironically, the spitting image.
But then, we fail to evolve
Satisfyingly lasting relationships
That are conceivable in those
Whose social abilities work in tandem
Only with their true feelings
And not with theatrical social sentiment.
This vexed blessing with some honest few
Often confronts established social order;
It is also beset by inconveniences and difficulties,
But it also raises their esteem
In the eyes of all true people.
 
Stifle not your true self,
Reveal it and balance it
With social demands…
A tight rope walk though.
But, forget not
To uphold your conviction,
And perennially maintain
Your image real
That emanates from elements primal…
The most fundamental
And elemental truth of man.
 
 
 
IMPLOSION/ EXPLOSION
 
Explosion is common
And tangible
So, perceptible,
Implosion is more common
But intangible,
So, imperceptible.
 
Man’s unvoiced speech
Or his sub- vocal articulation,
Resulting into aphasia,
Resulting further
Into repressed sorrows and agonies
Often build up pressure
In his psyche,
Frantically struggling
To rush out.
Loquacious eyes try to release them
But are still
A poor outlet.
Man also comprehends not
The subtly rich, deep and complex
Language of eyes.
While blockage
Of strong passions and emotions
Leads to painfully silent implosion,
Release, to often feuding explosion.
 
Implosion unseen
Begets losses, often psycho-somatic;
Explosion seen
Begets losses often only somatic,
Pathetically, man’s acute organic syndrome
And low level of consciousness
Is conscious
Only of the visible,
Of the lesser
And not the greater dangers
Mankind is beset with.
 
Our vision needs revision,
Our insight deeper sight
To open human ears
To the inward groan
And excruciating pangs
Of the writhing humanity
And dispel its quietly gnawing pain
To save it
From its impending
Cataclysmic end.
 

Poezi nga Astrit Bulla

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Poezi nga Astrit Bulla   KOMBI YNË NUK VDES Po shkruhet në Tiranë një tjetër epopè, policët me komandë, teatrin mbajnë rrethuar, artistët po qëndrojnë si askush mbi dhè, brenda në teatër, si heronj, ngujuar…. Për ca palo kulla do … Continue reading →