Interesting to consider if the form or structure of haiku is changed is it still 'haiku'. — Amity

From wiki:
Similar poems that do not adhere to these rules are generally classified as senryū.

Haiku:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku

now then, let's go out / to enjoy the snow ... until / I slip and fall!
— Wiki: Basho

:up: I don't know how that sounds in Japanese but it's actually prose in English: "Now then, let's go out to enjoy the snow...until I slip and fall."

Has something been lost in translation? I dunno — TheMadFool

Hmm. If you run any lines in a poem together does it become prose ? Suppose so.
I think that might diminish the effect of the breaks and paying attention to each line and how they fit with each other, or not.

One of the objectives of poetry, as Taneda Santoka explained back in the day, is freezing a particular moment in our life: the sunset, night, moon, nostalgia, parents, etc... Probably this is what we can consider as rhythm. — javi2541997

Yes, exactly this. A moment in time.

Numinous,
Back then it was,
Now,
Like a spent candle,
Nothing! — TheMadFool

I like that!

Back to prose and poetry. Have you thought of a prose poem ?

Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality. Poets looking to break free from form, and prose writers seeking new means of expression, will absolutely find creative freedom in prose poetry.

So, what is a prose poem? What differentiates the genre from the lyric essay? And why might you write prose poetry? — writers - prose poetry definition

There was a connection there between the poem, the poet, and me but it's lost now. Too bad, I wish I could go back about 30 years ago and re-read the poem and re-experience those emotions again. — TheMadFool

Yeah, I know that feeling. It's like when you re-read a book. However, down the line a bit we can still experience emotions, even if they might be different and unexpected...

Interesting point of view, Amity. It opens and interesting debate if we should consider Taneda Santoka's works as haiku when sometimes he changed the pattern of the poem. I think in overall we can say Santoka was a good haiku master but sometimes he used to not care about the classical pattern.
But it is true that if we are sharing haiku poems, at least, they have to respect the pattern. We can also find some works of Santoka that are so related to.

あるがまま雑草として芽をふく
-------------------------------------------------
Así, tal cual,
como hierbas que son,
los brotes se abren
-----------------------------------------------
As is well,
As leafs they are,
Buds open.

Note: sorry if it doesnt fit the pattern. I translated it to English by myself... :fear:

sorry if it doesnt fit the pattern. I translated it to English by myself — javi2541997

Thanks for all of this :sparkle:

Translations of Santoka and others, here:

Collected Haiku of Taneda Santōka translated into English, French, German, Spanish
organized by Romaji, in alphabetical order — terebess - haiku - taneda

https://terebess.hu/english/haiku/taneda.html

There's so much here, it's incredible. Need to keep scrolling, scrolling...

***
:fire:
Haiku in Western languages:
https://terebess.hu/english/haiku/haiku.html

There's so much here, it's incredible. Need to keep scrolling, scrolling... — Amity

True! This is so awesome and beautiful. I am so interested on it. Probably it can take even months or years but Haiku is already part of my life.

How strange - a link to music ?

John Cage (1912-1992)
"I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry."

There are no secrets.
It's just we thought that they said dead
When they said bread

https://terebess.hu/english/haiku/cage.html

Can anyone - possibly a musician/poet @Noble Dust explain how this is like haiku ?
John Cage - Seven Haiku
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hn6aQDFJabk

:up: :ok:

Prose poetry: From the examples in the link you provided, all that stood out to me was rhythm (cadence?). The point of prose poetry seems to be to express thoughts and emotions as they flash through the poets mind for the first time; these when ruminated upon rationally become standard prose. I guess we could say prose poetry is reminiscent of and recapitulates humanity's earliest encounters with language and cogitation - vague, fragmentary, emotional more than rational, directionless, borderline coherence, so on.

The point of prose poetry seems to be to express thoughts and emotions as they flash through the poets mind for the first time; these when ruminated upon rationally become standard prose. — TheMadFool

Possibly.

From the prose poetry link:

Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality.

I was thinking about how haikus are composed.
If they are to capture a moment in time and still must follow certain 'rules'...
I suppose it's like taking a snapshot ? It has to be almost instantaneous, or does it ?

Or is it more like - capturing a moment in the mind and then 'painting' it afterwards from memory.
A landscape artist who can't paint en plein air might use a photograph of the scene.
But that wouldn't quite have the same 'feel' to it, would it ?

I wonder if the rules become second nature - like our grammar rules, or driving a car - so that some haiku poets don't even have to remember to shift gear, they just do it automatically?

Hmm...

It has to be almost instantaneous, or does it ? — Amity

Exactly. It is like a photo or a paint. The sun goind down in the afternoon. The moon raising up in the night. A beautiful butterfly fluttering around, etc...
The ability of freeze these life experiences in a poem is extraordinary. It is not more than 19 syllables but it says everything. I have a tiny book about haiku what is called "peeing in the snow". The main author argue that the nature of these poems is more what you do not say that what you say actually. He warns that we should not explain so much the Haiku after it is written because we can destroy their nature. It is so much interesting.

they just do it automatically? — Amity

I think yes. They can do so automatically. They wrote a lot of haiku back in the day so probably they just followed the pattern as we drink water or see a boat leaving from the port. The basic rules of Haiku were the life emotions to them

The point of prose poetry seems to be to express thoughts and emotions as they flash through the poets mind for the first time; these when ruminated upon rationally become standard prose.
— TheMadFool

Possibly.

From the prose poetry link:
Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality.

I was thinking about how haikus are composed.
If they are to capture a moment in time and still must follow certain 'rules'...
I suppose it's like taking a snapshot ? It has to be almost instantaneous, or does it ?

Or is it more like - capturing a moment in the mind and then 'painting' it afterwards from memory.
A landscape artist who can't paint en plein air might use a photograph of the scene.
But that wouldn't quite have the same 'feel' to it, would it ?

I wonder if the rules become second nature - like our grammar rules, or driving a car - so that some haiku poets don't even have to remember to shift gear, they just do it automatically? — Amity

Some are natural poets, they don't have to learn the ropes like others and mayhaps the difference between these two can be seen in their respective works. The trained have their moment in the sun and we must give them credit due but its the talented who are the trailblazers. I maybe biased though and may have ruffled some feathers already. That's all. Good day.

Enheduanna (also transliterated as Enheduana, En-hedu-ana, or variants; fl. 23rd century BC) is the earliest known poet whose name has been recorded. She was the High Priestess of the goddess Inanna and the moon god Nanna (Sīn). She lived in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. — Wikipedia

More here.

The million dollar question: How did modern literary researchers recognize Enheduanna's work as poetry? Is there some cross-cultural leitmotif to poetry that helps the careful reader identify a work as verse instead of prose?

Aire.
Agua del cielo.
Pero, ¡Que peces, madre
Qué peces tan lento abajo se van!
------------------------------------------------
Air.
Water of the sky.
But, what fishes, mother
What fishes so slow down they go!

Note: This is not a haiku.

Another poem from Yong Tae Min. I guess this poem is referring to the drops of the rain. Fish as an animal from the sea, could be related to water. Thus, the little drops converted on fishes that so slow down they go like swimming in a cascade.

"I have never seen anyone so beautiful as you on the earth,
I have never seen in this world anyone as gorgeous as you.
Truly within the garden of the soul there can be,
No gesture so elegant as your tall erect cypress.
Although there are many beauties among humanity,
There is none,
O Beauty,
So radiant as you."

From Khata'i, my favorite poet

The Cave
BY PAUL TRAN
Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further

than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed

like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air ...

Keep going, the idea said.

Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left

objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,

as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.

The wild-
life seemed wild and alive, moving

when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,

the idea said again. Go ...

Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.

Source: Poetry (October 2019)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/150941/the-cave-5d70274986958

The gods
In their spotting
Are the only ones
Non-rotting
While every
eternity
Bloodery
Or nitty
Nor witty
Rots to the bone
Their flesh stays young
Like their every tone
In the waters of heaven
In the aromas of hell
On Stratford on Avon
In all that they tell
Their creation runs freely
At least, so it should
Like Dan oh so Steely
Down there under the Hood
Consider them dead though
As our friend once proclaimed
Give it a go bro
Nihilistically maimed
Dwelling the Earths
Undetermined and steady
Finding love on the road
Route 66
Lacks a 6 at the end
Or at the beginning
Is it that what they meant
And made us write down
The points that we do
Or faces that frown
And on and on and on
On and on and on
And on and on and on
And on and on and on it goes
On and on and on
Oh and on and on
Yay bro's
On and on on tippy toes
Thankfull am I
They made it all happen
That I walk on and by
Them so I reackon
I tell them to screw
Turn the blind eye in them
The big bangs they blew
An Inflation divine gem

All hail to the western gods...
God damn them!
Against the odds
Can't standem!

On and on and on — Thunderballs

On and on they say of Who paved the way,
Then even tell the nature of such Theity,
And on and on they presume further upon,
Joining that group called ‘On and On Anon’.

I maybe biased though and may have ruffled some feathers already. — TheMadFool

Just for fun, using 'MadFool' because I needed a two-syllable extendable name…

The MadFool, trapped in a cave by a poem,
As by the writing on the wall stranded,
Was martially both right and left handed;
Such he slashed rhythms and rhymes from the stone.

Madfool sights an ominous type of cloud,
And shakes, hearing thunderous rhymes so loud,
Just having survived the meters’ melodies
And scans, with the ten syllables allowed.

He runs breathless through meadow and forest,
Fast pursued by the stings of wind and rain;
On and on he pushes, wild without rest,
Searching for haven from the forum’s pain.

The storm chases him till he can go no more;
He stands helpless, backed up against a door,
But falls through it before death can touch him,
Saved by the library admitting him.

He wanders deep, down the poetic path,
Aglow in the soft beauty that it hath.
He sees John Keats kissing Fanny Brawne,
As he spoke more than words but less than song.

And Byron, endowing form with fancy,
While Wordsworth pens his thoughts to Lucy,
And Shelley, plumbing depths of mystery.
He reads them all; they grow his poet-tree.

Deeper still he probes, looking in on it,
And hears Mrs. Browning reading a sonnet.
Poetically, he takes them all in, even
The shadowy Emily Dickenson.

As soon as the lightning storm is past,
The MadFooler enters the courtyard vast.

Here the secret garden, half as old as time,
Where poets live and write their words and rhyme,
While the nightingale creates the rose,
By moonlit magic, from their thoughts sublime.

Literary scenes unfold before him,
Such as music approaches and surrounds,
And builds on the vibrance which in one is—
To fill with beautiful visions and sounds.

His quick thoughts rise, mist wafting from the dew,
As living dreams unveil more than he knew.
From poetry’s light the garden grew,
Revealing mysterious wonders new.

There MadFool relaxes, up against a tree,
Savoring the feeling of the poetry,
Where all the flowers used in Shakespeare’s plays
Grow together in a living bouquet.

I say, amazed, “In the midst of this scenic meadow, I am surprised to see, oh, what looks like a large and living stylus walking by, as so.”

“What are you?”

“I’m the artist’s stylus. I am finally freed from the pen!”

“How so?

“I will no longer illustrate the written word. From now on I will draw whatever is seen and heard. Then writers and poets can re-de-scribe my sketches with their wondrous words and jive!”

“I get it,” she says. “The proof of writing is in the living of it, especially one’s philosophical advice, as writ. Live it, feel it, and then write it.

“Now there is a living pen coming by, who seems to be a companion of the artist’s stylus.”

“What are you?” she asks.

“I am the writer’s pen of poems. I deal with ever enduring themes, those universal to everyones’ means. As you can see, I am structured, intense, rhythmic, melodic, and pure. I am a unified body of sensation, thoughts, and passions. I translate all that is deep felt, suchly, although sometimes only very roughly.”

“Are you essence or existence?” I wonder.

“I am both; I am the form as well as the idea risen. I am an object that is born of precision, from one’s profoundest visions. I am the image of feeling in diction, but concise. I am, at once, all the remains, both the container and the contained.”

“You’re an expression of the mess that may be difficult to express,” she notes.

“I am truth, fleshed in living words attended. I express thoughts subtended, those that would otherwise go unapprehended. I lift the veil that separates mind from soul, and thereby show the proof of beauty told. I am life’s image drawn in the eternal truths of old.”

“You are immortal then, poem?” I splice.

“Poetry makes immortal what is best in life, by freeing images from all the strife, those in our spirits that are deeply impressed, for, these vanishing notions I arrest, clothe them in words, the best, and then send them forth, fully dressed.”

“So how is it known if I’ve written a poem?” she questions.

“Well, use the highest powers of language and wit to translate the nature into poetic words, lit. The reader will translate the words back into spirit. If the reader’s soul responds, then a poem you’ve writ!”

I offer, “Let us write a poem about love, for that is the greatest thing known of, but it’s hard to get it to rhyme. Out of desperation, we have the following lines:”

The Trouble with ‘Love’.

Only a few words rhyme with love above,
Like the overflown dove, the heartless shove,
And the ill-fitting glove. Alas, love’s rhymes
Remain unheard of, or aren’t well thought of.

“Let us walk along the earth, feeling our words’ worth.”

The artist’s stylus and the writer’s pen further discuss:

The writer’s pen stands forth, being first,
Instructing the artist’s stylus
To illustrate the words of his epic,
Since a picture is worth a thousand words.

“Perhaps we don’t even need the words”,
Retorts the artist’s stylus,
“As I am worth so many”.

“Well,” replies the writer’s pen,
“It’s true that many people now refuse
To read books without lots of pictures in them.”

“How sad, for I guess some words
Are needed to round out the tale.”

“True, for the two sides of the brain
Can then combine in unity.”

“Or I could draw the pictures first
And then you could write the words.”

“It could be like that sometimes, I suppose.”

“OK, shake; it’s a deal either way,
For we need each other."

Plastic bag pigeons
Billow slowly overhead
The soft city groans — Noble Dust

Nice! Strangely that reminds me of a poem (faux haiku) I wrote about 20 years ago:

Lonely at the heart
the silent moon
crying over the dark ranges

I say it's "faux haiku" since its syllabic line structure is not strictly haiku (5, 7, 5) and it makes no reference to the season.

I could change it to make it closer:

Lonely at the heart
the silent moon is crying
over the dark range

or even closer:

Lonely at the heart
silent winter moon crying
over the dark range

or:

Lonely at the heart
silent winter moon crying
over dark ranges

Constraint is the mother of invention.

Just for fun, using 'MadFool' because I needed a two-syllable extendable name…

The MadFool, trapped in a cave by a poem,
As by the writing on the wall stranded,
Was martially both right and left handed;
Such he slashed rhythms and rhymes from the stone.

Madfool sights an ominous type of cloud,
And shakes, hearing thunderous rhymes so loud,
Just having survived the meters’ melodies
And scans, with the ten syllables allowed.

He runs breathless through meadow and forest,
Fast pursued by the stings of wind and rain;
On and on he pushes, wild without rest,
Searching for haven from the forum’s pain.

The storm chases him till he can go no more;
He stands helpless, backed up against a door,
But falls through it before death can touch him,
Saved by the library admitting him.

He wanders deep, down the poetic path,
Aglow in the soft beauty that it hath.
He sees John Keats kissing Fanny Brawne,
As he spoke more than words but less than song.

And Byron, endowing form with fancy,
While Wordsworth pens his thoughts to Lucy,
And Shelley, plumbing depths of mystery.
He reads them all; they grow his poet-tree.

Deeper still he probes, looking in on it,
And hears Mrs. Browning reading a sonnet.
Poetically, he takes them all in, even
The shadowy Emily Dickenson.

As soon as the lightning storm is past,
The MadFooler enters the courtyard vast.

Here the secret garden, half as old as time,
Where poets live and write their words and rhyme,
While the nightingale creates the rose,
By moonlit magic, from their thoughts sublime.

Literary scenes unfold before him,
Such as music approaches and surrounds,
And builds on the vibrance which in one is—
To fill with beautiful visions and sounds.

His quick thoughts rise, mist wafting from the dew,
As living dreams unveil more than he knew.
From poetry’s light the garden grew,
Revealing mysterious wonders new.

There MadFool relaxes, up against a tree,
Savoring the feeling of the poetry,
Where all the flowers used in Shakespeare’s plays
Grow together in a living bouquet. — PoeticUniverse

:blush:

TheMadFool trapped;
wishes wings he could've flapped.
To flee the hunger and/or the greed;
his body eaten/sold, his mind bought/freed.

:grin:

— The Powers of the Night —

Part 1

The Music of the Spheres lights the sparkles
Flung through the night, from our Father, the Sky,
On through the dark, to our Mother the Earth,
To us, their audience and progeny.

The music of the night is in the breeze,
A prelude borne by the airy musicians
Of the trees: the evening calls of the birds
That open for the cosmic symphony.

The planets join in a concert to the
Merrie Monthe of Maie, arrayed as follows:
There is Venusia, the Bringer of Peace,
Singing side by side with warring Marsius.

Flitting about is the wingéd Mercuria,
The speedy messenger who conducts
The orchestra, melting all of us who
Are touched by her wand of burning desire.

And mighty Zeus is there, full to the brim
With the jollity of the fat man’s belly.
By Jove, comes Saturnus, so very grey
With age, lumbering into the party.

Thence sits Urania—the magician, and
The old sea captain—King Nep, the mystic,
But not Pluto; he was downsized, no more
One of the harmonics—an underworld!

Jupiter’s music is round and robust,
While Saturn’s booms with sounds of grandeur
And the old venerable melodies;
But Mercury soon picks up the pace.

Now flow the serene love songs of Venus,
Followed inexorably by Martial marches.
This is the time for Urania’s magic—
She plays musical jokes and surprises.

At last, their music comes to mesh as one,
And our wanderers of the night float
Away on the haunting, mystical strains
Of King Nep’s tune, into the May Flower moon.

…

Since we all become of this universe
Should we not ask who we are, whence we come?
Insight clefts night’s skirt with its radiance:
The Theory of Everything shines through!

The music of the night is in the breeze,
A prelude borne by the airy musicians
Of the trees: the evening calls of the birds
That open for the cosmic symphony. — PoeticUniverse

Lovely. Feels cool.

The Music of the Night - Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=77umP7IRxD4

Since we all become of this universe
Should we not ask who we are, whence we come?
Insight clefts night’s skirt with its radiance:
The Theory of Everything shines through! — PoeticUniverse

Clever Clefts. Keys opening the door to the mysteries. Or not...

Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera — Amity

Perhaps the best album of music ever made.

Part 2

Oh, dome of night, spotted with silver stars,
We must ask more than you can grant unto us,
So that thus we might at least obtain that
Which we but wish for in the first place.

We beg you to yield your dearest secrets,
To reveal the full truth of what you are.

“Oh, man, I cannot tell thee of all there is,
Though I am that, as all that IS—the Wiz.
As I never began, I earned not my throne,
But I reside as the All for reasons unknown.”

Much we already know from twilight dreams
And from poems unveiling truth and beauty,
Yet we ask, with our most persuasive looks,
To learn the deepest mysteries of the night.

“I have always been, and must be, so jot:
That All is ever here to be, since nothing cannot.”

Well then, might lesser answers we obtain, in lieu
Of never us knowing really the why-fore of you?

“Oh, heavens yes; pose your quandaries,
But ask not immortality, nor youth, nor birth
From my powers of the night, ‘though these I have
But know not the Why, for I have no First.”

Why then, is the universe so extravagant—
With trillions of galaxies of billions of stars
About which so many planets whirl and twirl,
With so much dust swirling in between worlds?

“There are vast multitudes, true, so easily made,
And more; yet they are finite, as must be,
For no cap can be placed on infinity;
If it could, then night would be white with light.”
(And if the universe were not expanding.)

So then, there are stars to burn, as with riches,
But why, really must the largest be so large?

“It is because the infinitesimal, the smallest,
Must be so very tiny, so minuscule,
As a simple, continuous function,
Neither composite nor of course complex.”

So there is a basic lightness of being
Because anything more would then be of parts
And thus well beyond the fundamental arts?

“Yes it is that the base can only be as such
When it’s just a bit more than nothing;
But there is some more to it; just ask to learn.”

Is it too that there are then so many more chances
For arrangements, due to the extravagances?

“Not as meant, but that falls out, as it must,
For since the opposite Not cannot be,
It must then be Everything—of Possibility.”

All at once? Then that is a superposed All.
What makes time begin and then gear its call?

“As great as I am, there are two limits
To which even I must ever obey:
My superpositions must either trace back
To total order or to disorder: two.”

And so time can only begin from order,
As with matter separated from antimatter—
Time pushed forward by this arrangement,
And further pulled forward by disorder?

“‘Tis confirmed, with the Big Bang start,
Through the vast stages of diversity,
Unto the end—of entropy’s heat death.”

As protons to stars to their explosions
And radiations to atoms to cells to life
Unto brains and consciousness?

“Yes, from the stars cometh not just your help,
But me too and everything else out there.
All is the continuance of just the one big effect
Of the one big event of the beginning of time.”

Atoms from stars of electrons/protons became
From the quantum vacuum fluctuations names
For the positive/negative balances of nonexistence,
That penultimate compositioning of our persistence.

“I am that, as the night sky, whom you ask.”

We wish that we can retain your presence
Within us, in rhythm and resonance.

“Everything is part of the IS,
Which is really the best answer to your quiz.”

Who are we really talking to?

“Your selves, for you are the universe come to life.”

I live; I love.

“You do not just live; you are life.
You do not just love; you are love.”

They are both here.

“Life and love do not flee on,
Just ahead of you, unreachable,
Leaving you but to lean forth and drink their wind.
You are the universe turned around to view itself.”

I strive.

“Zest, desire, caring, and other feelings sweet
Are your lightning feet for triumphant feats.”

I reason.

“All manner of shapes haunt the wilderness of the mind,
Many as waste, as in the universe, at large, in kind,
Just waiting and asking to be tamed as sane.”

I ponder.

“You are the golden chalice to the wine that flows;
Drink, drink!
You are the live and resultant existence that knows.
Think, think!”

I imagine.

“Thoughts fly in the mind
Like birds wing the wind;

“Imagination is the atmosphere
Wherein ideas are born and borne
On the waves of the sea in which one sees.”

We have arrived, after 13.57 billion years.

“The glorious light flashes us into being shone,
As the light ‘eternal’ of all time to be known.

“All possibilities must exist,
Because nonexistence cannot be so.
Existence is inevitable.”

What does exist?

“Whatever is possible to exist does exist.”

Are there others elsewhere as we and all?

“Yes, in quite a few places, but afar,
With much intervening space in between.

“Your fruits are of a universal seed,
As yet another yield of All possibility treed,
And siblings elsewhere in the entropic sea
Are also born of such probability.

What more could human mammals want?

“This is it.
There is nothing more,
But in future growth.

“Why fret about life’s ultimate secret,
For whose thoughts can escape this worldly net?
It’s so easy: don’t despair, be happy!
All told, ‘tis best to live without regret.”

It is now and we are here.

“That’s the best place and time.”

…

(Next in the poem,
we will go down, down, to the deep,
Such as those who went
deep into the cave poem you posted.)

Rain on Palestine
by Salah Stétié
(English translation: O5; original poem below)

It's raining rain on Palestine
Rain without rain, rain of fire
For Marie the Virgin there were seven swords
But there are more in the hearts of those
Who can’t sleep in their frail houses no more
Who have only the street of the terrible poor
To twist their arm for their lost son

It's raining rain, raining night
In the plain sunlight of the day lost
Where life begets no more the beautiful name of life
The heart can’t do it anymore the heart can’t do it no more
To see the children cry of distress
The snotty boy the girl with the braided hair

This country of olives is of Christ
The Palm here is his long lost sign
We sang his clear birth
His fragility of convicted child
By the awful Caesar by the awful Herod
Whose hands never would be bleached
If all the Jordan came to wash them

This child of yesterday is today reborn
In the black fold of Palestinian women
Husbands are dead the sons are lost
Sheet metal and bare concrete houses
Have fallen like at Guernica pipes cry out
Facing the tanks and helmeted soldiers
Dumb from the silence of those who kill

Moses, O Moses
Did not want that

It is our planet, earthly and so blue
That was made of air and water so that they live
Together: he harnessed of leather
And the teenager left to cook
In the fire created where the cylinder
gas exploded under accurate fire

Moses, O Moses
Did not want that

Precise shrapnel aimed to the heart
Of the stillborn child in the white church
All are asleep and not just the guards
But the white man of Rome too, so old,
Democracies and their seedy leaders
That one whose forehead is so narrow
Over narrow eyes he confirms Darwin

Poor Palestine of the poor, why
Oh why would you want them to wake up?
In Jerusalem reigns Ubu Roi
Sabra and Shatila in his pocket, and the other
The Nobel Peace Prize, the fake nose

Yes, why would you want us to wake up?
If they want double portion, why not?
Our princes are fast asleep in barrels/day
Le Pen in France comes in with his glass eye
And the House of Glass, in New York
Is once again this "thingy" we know

Why would you move at all, poor Palestine
When they at long last propose to finish you off?

Country of Christ do you remember Christ?
Country of Islam why do you want to live?
There are for you the starry tanks of Sharon
As Putin is for Chechnya
And Bush is there to direct the music...
Country of Christ why do you want to live?
Easter is spent and it's the "spring epidemic"
It rains it rains it rains on you, my Palestine,
Country without rain country with rain of fire
And for Marie, "the un-touched by any man",
Always, in the heart of her heart, the thorns


Original :

Pluie sur la Palestine

Il pleut de la pluie sur la Palestine
De la pluie sans pluie de la pluie de feu
Pour Marie la Vierge il y eut sept épées
Il y en a bien plus dans le coeur de celles
Qui ne dorment plus dans leurs maisons frêles
Et qui ont la rue des pauvres terribles
Pour tordre leurs bras sur le fils perdu

Il pleut de la pluie il pleut de la nuit
Dans le plein soleil de ce jour perdu
Où la vie n’a plus son beau nom de vie
Le coeur n’en peut plus le coeur n’en peut plus
De voir les enfants pleurer de détresse
Le garçon morveux la fille en ses tresses

Ce pays d’olive est pays du Christ
La palme est ici son signe perdu
Nous avons chanté sa naissance claire
Sa fragilité d’enfant condamné
Par l’affreux César par l’affreux Hérode
Dont les mains jamais ne seraient blanchies
Si tous les Jourdain venaient les laver

Cet enfant d’hier renaît aujourd’hui
Dans le giron noir des Palestiniennes
Les maris sont morts les fils sont perdus
Les maisons de tôle et de béton nu
Sont tombés comme à Guernica les tuyaux crient
Face aux tanks et face aux soldats casqués
Muets du silence de ceux-là qui tuent

Moïse, Moïse
N’a pas voulu ça

C’est notre planète, terrestre et si bleue
Celle qu’on fit d’air et d’eau pour qu’ils vivent
Ensemble : celui harnaché de cuir
Et l’adolescent qu’on a laissé cuire
Dans l’incendie créé où la bonbonne
De gaz explosa sous le tir précis

Moïse, Moïse
N’a pas voulu ça

Précise mitraille ajustée au coeur
De l’enfant mort-né dans l’église blanche
Tous dorment et pas seulement les gardes
Mais l’Homme blanc de Rome aussi, si vieux,
Les Démocraties et leur Chef miteux
Celui-là de qui le front si étroit
Sur des yeux étroits confirme Darwin

Pauvre Palestine des pauvres, pourquoi
Oui pourquoi veux-tu que ça les réveille ?
A Jérusalem règne l’Ubu-Roi,
Sabra et Chatila en poche, et l’autre
Le Prix Nobel de la Paix, le faux-nez

Oui, pourquoi veux-tu que ça nous réveille ?
S’ils veulent double portion, pourquoi pas ?
Nos princes se sont assoupis en barils/jour
Le Pen en France arrive avec son oeil de verre
Et la Maison de Verre aussi, à New York
Est redevenue le " machin " qu’on sait

A quoi bon bouger, pauvre Palestine
Puisqu’on te propose enfin d’en finir ?

Pays du Christ te souvient-il du Christ ?
Pays d’Islam pourquoi veux-tu revivre ?
Il y a pour toi les chars étoilés de Sharon
Comme il y a pour la Tchétchénie Poutine
Et Bush est là pour régler la musique …
Pays du Christ pourquoi veux-tu vivre ?
Pâques est passé et c’est "printemps d’épidémie"
Il pleut il pleut il pleut sur toi, ma Palestine,
Pays sans pluie pays à pluie de feu
Et pour Marie, "la non-touchée d’un homme",
Il y a toujours, au cœur du cœur, les épines

Beautiful and tragic. Lovely words for a terrible situation. May it bring solace and peace and love to the poor people on who the objective fires of selfrighteousness are rained down. :cry:

If it rains, I'll get wet
If I take an umbrella, I won't get wet
If I take an umbrella, it won't rain

Thanks. I love this poem very much, makes me cry every time I read it. I hope the English reads well.

Thanks. I love this poem very much, makes me cry every time I read it. I hope the English reads well. — Olivier5

It is an extraordinary poem. I will have to read it again. Did you translate it ?
It does read very well - but I wasn't sure about:
Est redevenue le " machin " qu’on sait
Is once again this "thingy" we know

A minor detail but 'thingy' jarred a little. Why not just use the word 'thing' ?

It is an extraordinary poem. I will have to read it again. Did you translate it ?
It does read very well - but I wasn't sure about:
Est redevenue le " machin " qu’on sait
Is once again this "thingy" we know

A minor detail but 'thingy' jarred a little. Why not just use the word 'thing' ? — Amity

Yes I did translate it. Translating poems is always a treason though. As the Italians say: traduttore traditore.

As you know I am not a native speaker so I get things wrong all the time.

Le "machin" is a reference to De Gaulle calling the United Nations (The House of Glass in New York) "un machin" (a thing, but derogatively, i.e. a thing that doesn't do anything). I tried to render the derogative nuance with "thingy"... Any suggestion?

As you know I am not a native speaker so I get things wrong all the time. — Olivier5

Nah. Mostly you are brilliant :100:

"machin" is a reference to De Gaulle calling the United Nations (The House of Glass in New York) "un machin" (a thing, but derogatively, i.e. a thing that doesn't do anything). I tried to render the derogative nuance with "thingy"... Any suggestion? — Olivier5

Thanks for the explanation. I am not getting all the references, as yet.
I can't think of anything-y better :sparkle:
I wish I had half * your talent for translation and interpretation...
* or 'smidgeon'.
How does that translate ?

pincée - so Google tells me...