"philology" poems
1126
Shall I take thee, the Poet said
To the propounded word?
Be stationed with the Candidates
Till I have finer tried—
The Poet searched Philology
And when about to ring
For the suspended Candidate
There came unsummoned in—
That portion of the Vision
The Word applied to fill
Not unto nomination
The Cherubim reveal—
6.4k
for Nick and Kaitie
1.
Yesterday, right when our call got dropped,
I was going to tell you something about marriage.
I was going to tell you something gnomic,
a maxim worth getting engraved.
I've since forgotten,
but I believe it was akin to saying that, like Truth,
marriage is impossible to define in verbal space.
So, I guess I'm glad I forgot. The words
would've seemed either too hastily conceived for their subject matter
or else weightless, enigmatic – without impact.
I think it was Auden who whined, “Marriage is rarely bliss,”
though he lightened the phrase by encapsulating it in the context of modern physics –
namely, at least it has the ability to take place,
and that should be enough to bring bliss equal to Buddha’s Emptiness.
So, I'm happy our call got
dropped,
for the dial tone was
the pithiest aphorism on marriage any sentient life could've produced.
The key word is “produced.”
2.
This is what marriage is not:
Socrates gurgling hemlock
on his dusty prison cot,
giggling as he glimpsed a dikast’s deformed ****
Nietzsche tenured for philology
at Basel; Nietzsche feverishly etching
Fick diese scheiße! on a Jena clinic's wall; biology
predetermining the team for which he was pitching;
a poem; a hotdog; *******
a discharged Kalashnikov
engendering generational pain
somewhere in Saratov
circa 1942;
this is what marriage is not:
hatred, jealousy, ballyhoo,
obsessive yearnings for a yacht;
this is what marriage is not:
anything one pair of hands has wrought.
August 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
1651
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
4k
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.
The original:
Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Със цялата тъга на чужденеца
"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова
Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.
Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.
Пред ръката ти.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 11:37 PM UTC
Corina Junghiatu is a bilingual poet/writer hailing from Romania. She holds a Master Degree in Philology and Phychopedagogy and likewise she graduated from The Faculty of Letters and Philosophy in Bucharest. She speaks five foreign languages.
Corina has written and publishing two books of poetry: „Exile in the light” and „The ritual of a Sunrise”. She is Administrator and Publication Coordinator of Motivational Strips, editor of "Bharath Vision" website, and Chief Advisor of World Nations Writers' Union Kazakhstan. Corina has won many awards from international institutions of repute, for poetry.
Recently, Corina Junghiatu, together with 350 poets and writers from 80 countries, received a certificate of appreciation for her entire literary activity, on the occasion of the 74th anniversary of the Independence Day of the Republic of India. This certificate was was handed by the famous writer Shiju H. Pallithazheth the Founder of Motivational Strips, World's Most Active Writers Forum and Padma Shree Dr. Vishnu Pandya, President of Gujarat Sahitya Akademy, a government institution of the state of Gujarat (India).
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
1342
“Was not” was all the Statement.
The Unpretension stuns—
Perhaps—the Comprehension—
They wore no Lexicons—
But lest our Speculation
In inanition die
Because “God took him” mention—
That was Philology—
1.6k
Hear
Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania; Konstantinova/In Memoriam/
Under the Coat of Arms
In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto.
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor
and dignity.
Vania Konstantinova
Behind the Gates
Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade,
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks,
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap –
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …
Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
poetry don't work for anyone else
like to the desperates
who do not find peace in world
and it lacks equanimous beauty to the terrible
to agony
what is wrong
disfigured
deranged
forgotten
poetry is the cradle of crazy
that beyond philology
they look for a motherly hug in words
poetry is not a show
it's the very current of life
and you can see the roots when walking
it's erring from being in being
recreating again and again
in its metamorphosis
poetry is the sweet song of mythological beings
something that we do not see but in which we believe
a spell
a contraption
between paths that slopes
and plunges without rest
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
Dramatic- reacting to the little noises and imperceptible infractions of the loveless law
-cj
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC