Seeking to reap what I sowed

I must have been four or five years old at the time.  It could not have been before May of 1989, because I remember we were still in our old house before it was destroyed by the torrential hailstorm on St. Constantine's Day.  We had a fairly large courtyard adjacent to our house where we didn't plant much, as I remember, because nothing seemed to grow there.  I didn't know this, or at least didn't grasp it at the time.  I am jumping to this conclusion now, as I consider it in retrospect.

I didn't know a lot of things as a child.  I was unaware of this ignorance, yet I was very curious and always did things and took initiative without consulting anybody beforehand.  One day, I took a garden hoe and started tilling the land in the aforementioned courtyard, as much as I felt was necessary, or as much as I could, given my age and size.  Then I took handfuls of sugar from the azure box in which we used to keep it for everyday use and sowed it, hoping that one day, in the near future, it would sprout, bloom, and produce more sugar that I could then enjoy in any way I pleased.

In my simple mind or blatant ignorance I was confident and boastful of this, which, to my chagrin, ended up haunting me when word spread and everybody around town kept asking me, 'has the sugar sprouted yet?'  It was an embarrassment for a long time thereafter, especially once I learned—from adults and from a disappointing lack of crop—that things like this did not happen.  I have outgrown that shame and for the first time I am unabashedly admitting to having undertaken this silly venture.  That is not why I write today.

I write instead in remembrance of things past, be they the barren fruit of ignorance or naïveté, or merely happy memories reaching me from a happy past that I have, in vain, sought to recapture for the latter half of my life; I write in support of future ventures, be they pursued by my heart or mind, and I toss aside my pride, my better reason, maturity, and a coterie of other checks and balances, and, simultaneously, commit myself to finding a happiness I once had before the waves of years settled with a crash on my shoulders; I commit myself to reaping the sugar I once sowed.

I don't know yet what this means....

«partir c'est mourir un peu»

vdekjen që prur largimi e ndjeva me nisjen tënde
kur krahët tona u shtokëzuan
dhe shkarazi ndjenë për të fundit herë
njëra-tjetrën

larg teje ftohja nuk vonoi
dhe me kthetrat e saj
trup e shpirt më pushtoi

tani pres ngrohjen që ti rrezaton
kur, si dje, me shpërfillje dërgon dy fjalë;
apo afshet që trupin ma mbulojnë
kur, si sot, në bankën time gjej fletushka
me fjalë që ti shkujdesur hodhe në to

në dëshpërimin tim patetik
shpërfillëse a të shkujdesura,
fjalët e tua më shfaqen si fjalë dashurie
që, si dashnor i lënë harruar,
i pres buzagaz e zemërndezur;
që, si vejan prej ndarjes gjymtuar,
i ruaj e s'kam për t'i hedhur...

«Εαυτόν τιμωρούμενος»

S'e njoha dorën time kur e rrëmbeu kamxhikun
dhe kafshërisht më fshikulloi trupin.
S'i njoha dhëmbët e mprehur në shtrëngim
kur me shtazëri kafshuan buzën
dhe nxorën prej saj çdo dëshirë për puthje.

Në dhimbje mbylla sytë
dhe të tjera tmerre m'u shfaqën
si tortura ndaj vetes
fshehur në brendësinë e qepallave.

Në lojën shkatërrimtare u fut dhe zemra
dhe me rrahjen e saj
u ndesh e u rrah e u mund trupi im, tempulli im,
sa u bë turrë ku flijoj mish e shpirt
kur flakë dashurie të ngjizura aty
marrin vrull e përpijnë qiejt.

«La lettre»

Doucement.

Je t'écris et la lampe écoute.
L'horloge attend à petits coups;
Je vais fermer les yeux sans doute
Et je vais m'endormir de nous...

La lampe est douce et j'ai la fièvre;
On n'entend que ta voix, ta voix...
J'ai ton nom qui rit sur ma lèvre
Et ta caresse est dans mes doigts.

J'ai de la douceur de naguère;
Ton pauvre cœur sanglote en moi;
Et mi-rêvant, je ne sais guère
Si c'est moi qui t'écris, ou toi...

Henri BARBUSSE

«épicentre»

t'es le centre de toutes mes pensées
de tout ce que je fais
de tout ce que mon cœur désire
de tout à quoi j'aspire

et dans ce monde
(et d'autres à venir)
t'es l'unique rêve
qui hante mes jours sans trêve

t'es la nuit qui ne me laisse fermer les yeux
et la lumière pour te trouver
une dernière fois pour t'embrasser
et voir ma vie, mes peurs, s'y dissiper

«resignata»

i no longer care to be a hero,
no longer care to be a martyr
of this cause i know not myself

these flagellations that slash my back
i no longer care to feel
or see them slice
and whip my body in shapes
i no longer recognise

i no longer care to be my enemy, my foe,
so i can yearn to be your friend
or bear it all

'til i can be the one i long to know

i no longer care to dare
nor care to see how i can fare
if i no longer care to be
if i no longer care to care

«dreams of mine»

my dreams of you have returned.
more ominous than ever
they foreshadow stagnation and solitude
and nights of tremors and writhings
to which you subject my body
without respite, without a pittance
of your thoughts.

my dreams of you have returned.
and with them the sleepless nights
and restless days and inner fights
against a heart so heartily set on you,
against a body so badly needing you,
to bring your smiles and warmth,
to ignite mine and live between us both.

this onerous reverie i know too well
the storms it brings and the tears it can quell
and i know that in my dream of dreams
lies a love i know
too far to reach and reached but by a glow:
this glow of love i now emit
to touch your heart
and to see it submit.

«Je t'aime»

Je t'aime pour toutes les femmes que je n'ai pas connues

Je t'aime pour tous les temps où je n'ai pas vécu

Pour l'odeur du grand large et l'odeur du pain chaud

Pour la neige qui fond pour les premières fleurs

Pour les animaux purs que l'homme n'effraie pas

Je t'aime pour aimer

Je t'aime pour toutes les femmes que je n'aime pas

Qui me reflète sinon toi-même je me vois si peu

Sans toi je ne vois rien qu'une étendue déserte

Entre autrefois et aujourd'hui

Il y a eu toutes ces morts que j'ai franchies sur de la paille

Je n'ai pas pu percer le mur de ton miroir

Il m'a fallu apprendre mot par mot la vie

Comme on oublie

Je t'aime pour ta sagesse qui n'est pas la mienne

Pour la santé

Je t'aime contre tout ce qui n'est qu'illusion

Pour ce cœur immortel que je ne détiens pas

Tu crois être le doute et tu n'est que raison

Tu es le grand soleil qui me monte à la tête

Quand je suis sûr de moi

Paul ÉLUARD

«refren përballë portretit tënd»

fytyra jote në plan të parë

e skuqur nga një dritë dosido
dhe terri i frikshëm në sfond
hyjnë në qetësinë e syve të mi
ku pasqyrohet një dritë e zbehtë ekrani
dhe zgjohet një tjetër terr

kumbon terri ku kumton kujtimi:
një dashuri e njohur së largu
një ngrohtësi e ndier së paku
një fjalë që duke e pritur më mpaku
dhe një dorë hedhur supit,
e një palë sy
e një palë buzë,
që dot s'i pata kur ftohej nata,
që sot i shoh përtej një ekrani të sheshtë
përtej një drite të zbehtë
me zemër të lodhur
me sy të përlotur

«midnight storms and sanguine morns»

I watch the lumbering night made day by lightning
fresh and leafed branches cracking
swaying with the winds and then snapping
falling on moist grasses
their fall slowed by leaf-parachutes
then hastened again by torrents
chopped in pieces of droplets
hurrying toward the ground
with the fresh and green companions
they seize and impound

'tis the morning alone that reveals it all
the aftermath of winds and rainfall
with leafy branches heaved and tossed asunder
with trunks uprooted, their heads regretting
their growth, their blunder
the pride and spurt that brought them under

and I drive through this vegetating maze
refreshed by dews
and choked by the morning haze
my hands at ten and two
my eyes that look afar
awakened too early, still seeing the last star:
mighty Aphrodite lighting my morn
perhaps reminding the trees and me
that all is not forlorn

«internal, unfinished mêlée»

i fuck my way through sluts and whores
to find my way to you
and in my quest i look for more:
to find what's false,
and even more, what's true

i am a lover made a hater,
madder than a hatter,
with bouts of sanity bursting forth
and ebbing when thoughts of love
do cross my path

and i cross my Ts on paper
and dot my eyes
with pearly tears
and find myself with new faces
wrinkled by memories
and tainted by smears
of words that never vibrated within my ears

«as in happy» [or «echoing Rufus»]

I could listen to you all night

talk about this and that

and everything and nothing in between

and forsake all notes from do to do

I could brim with your scent all night

and not exchange it for the mellow yellow pollen

of orange and jasmine blossoms

I could taste your kiss all night

and with its flavour in my palate

feel the sweetness of

acacia and linden honeys fade away insipidly

I could hold you next to me all night

and feel your warmth

escape within my body

and therein light fires

warmer than December embers

And I could look at you all night

and think of nothing but seeing you all day

in all your splendour,

with all you have

that makes me gay

(as in happy)