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Florida
After years of battling depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder, this is where I have gotten. Although it's never easy, I write to release the turmoil ...
Virginia, USA
Seventeen. Inspired by the beauty of the human existence. Twitter/Instagram: @mooopsy
Manila
I do high picthed meows when I don't get what I want
Poems
Alexander K Opicho
Apr 2014
Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe then Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by allowing me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera. In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.
Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha. An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera. In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.
Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha. An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
Arlice W Davenport
Aug 2020
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
Sporting white top hats, the Sierra Nevada mountains
**** up against the new dawn's Andalusian sky, casting
craggy shadows across the quiet calles of Grenada.
Restlessly, the darkened city churns in its sleep.
Federico Garcia Lorca strums his yellow guitar,
tuning it to a cante jondos, a deep song of duende,
dark heart of flamenco and the bullfight and his own
fatalistic poems: moans of his inexorable execution
at Franco's hellish hands. Fascism fears the poet,
the ferocious oracle of duende, who rips out the
roots of authority, the dark clods of captivity, who
vows to dive underground, digesting bitter earth
like bullets from the firing squad. They shout, Victoria!
as Garcia Lorca's listless body slides along the bloodied wall.
Duende, he once told a lecture hall, haunts death's house.
It will not appear until it spies that fiercely angled roof.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
His mother bellows on the spirit's wind, over the hobbled
heads of the dead, in search of an inexpressible "new,"
the endless baptism of freshly created things, as Garcia Lorca
loved to lecture. Ending and refrain burn blood like glass.
Few mourners cast a spell over the public patrons gnawing
on his books, seeking some taste of destiny, identity, some
word of the eternal voice of Spain. I am no Spaniard, yet
I claim to be a poet. Garcia Lorca gifts me with his song.
Its maudlin melody marches up my spine, scorches
my eyes, which smolder under the noonday sun, spewing
ashes to ashes, igniting dust to dust. The dark memory
of the buried ruins of saddened Spain steadily seeps
through wilted wreaths tossed at Franco's feet. No
offering for the conqueror, they exude a sickly odor
of offal, of ordinary flesh rotting on shattered ribs.
Gunshot mixes with marrow, smoke fumigates the poem.
* * *
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
No one is sleeping, yet the world will not awaken.
The slain poet merits no notice. We bow our
heads in humiliation at the philistine ways
of savage, civilized societies. All cultural wealth
but poetry suffocates in its bed. Duende sends Garcia
Lorca’s poems soaring above feeling and desire,
above the consecration of form. How many enjambments
mire in dark waters? How many stanzas lay bricks
of marble and salt? Garcia Lorca sings of hemlock and
demons, of Socrates and Descartes. But the profane
choruses of drunken sailors shatter any hope for his
new poetic style. They reject all the sweet geometry
that maps the darkened heart of southern Spain, where
Moors and Gypsies set up camp, pulling sleights of hand
on gullible gamblers, assured that Andalusia knows no
other artifice than the machine-gun-fire flights of flamenco.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
Garcia Lorca lies on the floor to fence with the phantoms
of his future. His black boots shine in the saddened sun.
The fattened face of Franco appears: an anxious cry for
more water, for dousing naked doves in duende’s black pool.
Writers live and die like newly created roses. Aromas
rise from vast yearnings, inured to the penance of suffering.
Above duende's golden serpent, a crooked soldier salutes
the fruit of Fascism. Dawn's lemons dangle at the edge of time.
Only 19 years embody Garcia Lorca's high-strung calling.
An awkward teen at his writing desk, he scribbles notes
about his mellifluous malaise. Modernismo flourishes in the
shadow songs of caves. Dark doves coo. Duende never lies.
His mother wails, wrapped in her mantilla of Spanish black. Head
thrown back, heels clicking hard, she swirls against the fiery flanks
of flamenco. Prancing like an epic stallion, she nudges her anguished
son: asleep, asleep. Today, duende has entered the dark house of death.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
Sporting white top hats, the Sierra Nevada mountains
**** up against the new dawn's Andalusian sky, casting
craggy shadows across the quiet calles of Grenada.
Restlessly, the darkened city churns in its sleep.
Federico Garcia Lorca strums his yellow guitar,
tuning it to a cante jondos, a deep song of duende,
dark heart of flamenco and the bullfight and his own
fatalistic poems: moans of his inexorable execution
at Franco's hellish hands. Fascism fears the poet,
the ferocious oracle of duende, who rips out the
roots of authority, the dark clods of captivity, who
vows to dive underground, digesting bitter earth
like bullets from the firing squad. They shout, Victoria!
as Garcia Lorca's listless body slides along the bloodied wall.
Duende, he once told a lecture hall, haunts death's house.
It will not appear until it spies that fiercely angled roof.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two dark doves
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
His mother bellows on the spirit's wind, over the hobbled
heads of the dead, in search of an inexpressible "new,"
the endless baptism of freshly created things, as Garcia Lorca
loved to lecture. Ending and refrain burn blood like glass.
Few mourners cast a spell over the public patrons gnawing
on his books, seeking some taste of destiny, identity, some
word of the eternal voice of Spain. I am no Spaniard, yet
I claim to be a poet. Garcia Lorca gifts me with his song.
Its maudlin melody marches up my spine, scorches
my eyes, which smolder under the noonday sun, spewing
ashes to ashes, igniting dust to dust. The dark memory
of the buried ruins of saddened Spain steadily seeps
through wilted wreaths tossed at Franco's feet. No
offering for the conqueror, they exude a sickly odor
of offal, of ordinary flesh rotting on shattered ribs.
Gunshot mixes with marrow, smoke fumigates the poem.
* * *
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “City That Does Not Sleep”
No one is sleeping, yet the world will not awaken.
The slain poet merits no notice. We bow our
heads in humiliation at the philistine ways
of savage, civilized societies. All cultural wealth
but poetry suffocates in its bed. Duende sends Garcia
Lorca’s poems soaring above feeling and desire,
above the consecration of form. How many enjambments
mire in dark waters? How many stanzas lay bricks
of marble and salt? Garcia Lorca sings of hemlock and
demons, of Socrates and Descartes. But the profane
choruses of drunken sailors shatter any hope for his
new poetic style. They reject all the sweet geometry
that maps the darkened heart of southern Spain, where
Moors and Gypsies set up camp, pulling sleights of hand
on gullible gamblers, assured that Andalusia knows no
other artifice than the machine-gun-fire flights of flamenco.
* * *
In the branches of the laurel tree
I saw two naked doves
One was the other
and both were none
— Federico Garcia Lorca, “Of the Dark Doves”
Garcia Lorca lies on the floor to fence with the phantoms
of his future. His black boots shine in the saddened sun.
The fattened face of Franco appears: an anxious cry for
more water, for dousing naked doves in duende’s black pool.
Writers live and die like newly created roses. Aromas
rise from vast yearnings, inured to the penance of suffering.
Above duende's golden serpent, a crooked soldier salutes
the fruit of Fascism. Dawn's lemons dangle at the edge of time.
Only 19 years embody Garcia Lorca's high-strung calling.
An awkward teen at his writing desk, he scribbles notes
about his mellifluous malaise. Modernismo flourishes in the
shadow songs of caves. Dark doves coo. Duende never lies.
His mother wails, wrapped in her mantilla of Spanish black. Head
thrown back, heels clicking hard, she swirls against the fiery flanks
of flamenco. Prancing like an epic stallion, she nudges her anguished
son: asleep, asleep. Today, duende has entered the dark house of death.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Mirza Ghalib Translations
Michael R Burch
Apr 2020
Mirza Ghalib Translations
Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is considered to be one of the best Urdu poets of all time. The last great poet of the Mughal Empire, Ghalib was a master of the sher (couplet) and the ghazal (a lyric poem formed from couplets). Ghalib remains popular in India, Pakistan, and among the Hindustani diaspora. He also wrote poetry in Persian.
It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?
Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.
Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound
and we might have pronounced you a saint ...
Yes, if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.
You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.
We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.
Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.
I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.
The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!
The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, yet still I yearn for more.
Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing afar.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart leak, before it bleeds to death?
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...
What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?
My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.
Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.
She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.
Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.
She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.
Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when everything falls as the distant stars rise?
Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Shared Blessings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She soon informed me that God does not belong to any one man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I depart your paradise.
To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Thus I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?
We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!
You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.
You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.
Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience while passion races;
must my heart bleed constantly before it expires?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Step carefully Ghalib—this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your
downfall.
Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me God belongs to no man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
We have often heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.
A lifetime of sighs scarcely reveals its effects,
yet how impatiently I wait for you to untangle your hair!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every wave conceals monsters,
and yet teardrops become pearls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ll only wish ill on myself today,
for when I wished for good, bad came my way.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
People don’t change, it’s just that their true colors are revealed.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Oh naïve heart, what will become of you?
Is there no relief for your pain? What will you do?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I get that Ghalib is not much,
but when a slave comes free, what’s the problem?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My face lights up whenever I see my lover;
now she thinks my illness has been cured!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If you want to hear rhetoric flower,
hand me the wine decanter.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I tease her, but she remains tight-lipped ...
if only she'd sipped a little wine!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Mirza Ghalib, translations, Urdu, Hindi, love, philosophy, heart, stone, sainthood
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)
Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is considered to be one of the best Urdu poets of all time. The last great poet of the Mughal Empire, Ghalib was a master of the sher (couplet) and the ghazal (a lyric poem formed from couplets). Ghalib remains popular in India, Pakistan, and among the Hindustani diaspora. He also wrote poetry in Persian.
It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?
Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.
Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound
and we might have pronounced you a saint ...
Yes, if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.
You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.
We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.
Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.
I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.
The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!
The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, yet still I yearn for more.
Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing afar.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart leak, before it bleeds to death?
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...
What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?
My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.
Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.
She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.
Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.
She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.
Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when everything falls as the distant stars rise?
Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Shared Blessings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She soon informed me that God does not belong to any one man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I depart your paradise.
To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Thus I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?
We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!
You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.
You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.
Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.
Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love requires patience while passion races;
must my heart bleed constantly before it expires?
Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!
Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Step carefully Ghalib—this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your
downfall.
Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me God belongs to no man!
Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
We have often heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.
A lifetime of sighs scarcely reveals its effects,
yet how impatiently I wait for you to untangle your hair!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Every wave conceals monsters,
and yet teardrops become pearls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’ll only wish ill on myself today,
for when I wished for good, bad came my way.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
People don’t change, it’s just that their true colors are revealed.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Oh naïve heart, what will become of you?
Is there no relief for your pain? What will you do?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I get that Ghalib is not much,
but when a slave comes free, what’s the problem?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My face lights up whenever I see my lover;
now she thinks my illness has been cured!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
If you want to hear rhetoric flower,
hand me the wine decanter.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I tease her, but she remains tight-lipped ...
if only she'd sipped a little wine!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Mirza Ghalib, translations, Urdu, Hindi, love, philosophy, heart, stone, sainthood
Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.
Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.
When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.
Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.
Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.
I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.
At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.
Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.
Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.
La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?
Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.
What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?
Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.
Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?
Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.
Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?
So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!
The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.
Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.
Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.
High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.
Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!
Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.
Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.
When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.
The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.
Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.
Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)
The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.
In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.
(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)
In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.
At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.
Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!
I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.
Are you going, nightingale?
Go!
I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.
Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!
I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.
Are you departing, love?
Depart!
(To my deserted heart!)