July 15, 2020 · Field note

POETRY ARRIVES IN THE MORNING, ONE DOES NOT ASK FOR ITS SOURCE

In the past couple of mornings, soon after I wake up in Miami, Poetry has arrived, carried by the winds from the East. To thank the winds, I searched out for a poem Forugh Farrokhzad ..( who told me about this incredible woman poet of Persia ? was that a visitor to Kuala Lumpur? or at an Indian restaurant in Reading, U

From the archive4 min read
POETRY ARRIVES IN THE MORNING, ONE DOES NOT ASK FOR ITS SOURCE
Originally from The Physician Anthropologist archive

In the past couple of mornings, soon after I wake up in Miami, Poetry has arrived, carried by the winds from the East.
To thank the winds, I searched out for a poem 
Forugh Farrokhzad ..( who told me about this incredible woman poet of Persia ? was that a visitor to Kuala Lumpur? or at an Indian restaurant in Reading, UK ?)

I speak out of the deep of night
out of the deep of darkness
and out of the deep of night I speak.

If you come to my house, friend
bring me a lamp and a window I can look through
at the crowd in the happy alley.

Like one sends your requests in a bank, inside a tube, and await for your money in your car, I sent this back with the wind to the source of the poetry.
While I adore my language, emotional poetry sounds better in French, Spanish or Portugese.. I was happy to read the lines in French.. 
Merci beaucoup.

I had to return the favour
Who else but our dear Pablo..


Do people near the mountains in that distant land still read Pablo? 

Those who want to know, what it is to be Passionate at the same time Innocent, read the above line by Pablo 
In those days, a young doctor walked around with a copy of The Captains Verses in his white coat, inscribed with a stanza of an english poem: 
Come, the wind may never again Blow as now it blows for us; And the stars may never again shine as now they shine; Long before October returns, Sea of blood will have parted us; And you must crush the love in your heart, and I the love in mine!
Pablo Neruda’s poetry came bundled with tears. Lonely days in Thursday Island in the far north of Austrlalia, where Melbourne was just a memory.
Take those dried tears, let them fly this message of Pablo along with the wind that brought me the French translation of Forugh.     A Manha sera outra dia, as sung by  Cesaria Evora.     
Passei a noite inteira na janela
Esperando por ela
Ela chegou de madrugada
Chorando e não me disse nada

Passei a noite inteira na janela
Esperando por ela
Ela chegou de madrugada
Chorando e não me disse nada

Pedi uma explicação
Soluçando ela me dizia
Fora passar de mão em mão
Amanhã será outro dia

Pedi uma explicação
Soluçando ela me dizia
Fora passar de mão em mão
Amanhã será outro dia

A Manha sera outra dia 
Tomorrow is another day


with you and 
Forugh 
Shamlou
Neruda 


20. Je peux écrire les vers les plus tristes cette nuit…
Je peux écrire les vers les plus tristes cette nuit.
Écrire par exemple : « La nuit est étoilée,
les étoiles frissonnent, bleues, dans le lointain. »
Le vent de la nuit tourne dans le ciel et chante.
Je peux écrire les vers les plus tristes cette nuit.
Je l’ai aimée et parfois elle aussi m’a aimé.
Je l’ai tenue dans mes bras, des nuits sans pareilles,
Embrassée tant de fois sous le ciel infini.
Elle m’a aimé, et parfois je l’ai aimée aussi.
Comment n’aurais-je pas aimé ses grands yeux fixes.
Je peux écrire les vers les plus tristes cette nuit.
Penser ne l’avoir plus. Sentir l’avoir perdue.
Écouter l’immense nuit, sans elle plus immense.
À l’âme est le poème, à l’herbe est la rosée.
Si mon amour ne peut la retenir, qu’importe.
La nuit est étoilée sans qu’elle soit près de moi.
Voilà tout. Quelqu’un chante au loin, là-bas, au loin.
Mon âme, de l’avoir perdue, est mécontente.
La cherche mon regard qui veut s’approcher d’elle.
La cherche mon cœur, sans qu’elle soit près de moi.
Et la même nuit a blanchi les mêmes arbres.
Nous autres, ceux d’alors, ne sommes plus les mêmes.
Je ne l’aime plus, mais comme j’ai pu l’aimer.
Ma voix mendiait au vent d’atteindre son oreille.
À un autre, elle sera. Comme avant mes baisers.
À un autre, sa voix, clair, son corps. Ses yeux infinis.
Je ne l’aime plus, oui, mais la désire encore.
L’amour est si bref, et le temps de l’oubli, si long.
L’avoir serrée dans mes bras des nuits sans pareilles,
Mon âme, de l’avoir perdue, est mécontente.
Que soit dernière, cette douleur qu’elle me donne,
Que soient derniers, ces vers que j’ai écrit pour elle.
https://lyricstranslate.com

Original Blogger URL: https://medicoanthropologist.blogspot.com/2020/07/poetry-arrives-in-morning-one-does-not.html