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| Monday, February 1, 2010 |
| HOURS |
HOURS
In spite of or rather because of
A boundless imagination bequeathed by my forebears
Leaping and skimming over life's incidents and accidents
Waiting and patience are not only virtues
In spite of or rather because of a certain sentience
That begins but doesn't complete the sentence
Phrases are like life; sometimes broken
At times unfinished and often unspoken
And these hours dribbling and dragging on, forever on
From the very beginning, the moment one is born.
When the end comes, alone in a foreign land
The hours will stop and nobody needs to understand.
Copyrght: Rani Turton Labels: forebears, foreign land, imagination, incidents, patience, phrases, sixty hours |
posted by Rani Turton @ 11:07 PM   |
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| Tuesday, January 5, 2010 |
| The Lyrics To This Song: Poem |
The Lyrics To This Song
In sunlight, strong or weak; watching a floating leaf;
In rain that wet my head and washed out my eyes
In snow gliding like a ghost
Whenever the wind on the hill blew
And I thought of whatever I knew.
The lyrics to this song
Came to the memory of your glance
I, the poet, the exiled and you
Not knowing where to place me
In your ordered world:
I have nothing in my hands, not even a flower;
Just the love in my heart and all it's power.
Come, walk with me slowly up this slope
Life is so short and I do so much need
Your warm clasping hand
And a little bit of hope.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Labels: a new life, exiled, Flower on road, hands, hope, lyrics, ordered world, poet, songs |
| posted by Rani Turton @ 11:42 PM |
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| Tuesday, December 29, 2009 |
| So Acute Was My Loneliness: Poem |
So Acute Was My Loneliness
Cobbled stones, not dust.
So acute was my loneliness that dream I must.
Escapism was a flight from dreary realism.
If roam I must, if chains I must break
Alone, in this pebble-strewn destiny
My happiness I must fake.
So acute was my loneliness that home was far
Too far; too far and distant my loved ones and my thoughts
That in that black cosmic wilderness even the North Star
Seemed close enough to touch. That even my words
Seemed transparent and tinted with Orientalism;
So distant and cold, so empty my worlds.
So acute was my loneliness even the poems would not come
The words fled, the streets wet, a spectre I had become
My memories tinged with the bitter things I had done.
All alone. When dawns touched my lids after fitful sleep
I had resolved never, never to weep
However deep the pain. However acute the pain
The sun would shine tomorrow and I would become myself again.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Labels: Acute loneliness, bitter, card painting, cosmic wilderness, empty worlds, wet streets |
| posted by Rani Turton @ 1:08 AM |
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| Friday, December 18, 2009 |
| Jerome Iber |
Jerome Iber
A MON FILS DISPARU
Sur sa guitare, il m'avait composé
Une chanson qu'il aimait me chanter
On s'amusait à notre façon
Lui à la guitare, moi à l'accordéon
La java bleue, le petit bal du samedi soir
Faisaient partie de notre répertoire
Il jouait, il chantait
Et tout Auxerre l'applaudissait
Une nuit le destin l’a surpris
Pour toujours il s'est endormi
Au matin quand la police le retrouve
J'aurais voulu qu'il y soit un petit mot pour moi.
REFRAIN
Pardonne moi, maman je t'aime
Mais je dois partir
Maman, ne pleure pas
On se retrouvera
2 COUPLETS
Il en a fait danser, avec son flamenco
Des gitans et même des gadjos
Aujourd'hui j'ai mal
Mais sa voix est toujours là
Il me reste son CD
Sur lequel il aimait me chanter
REFRAIN
Pardonne-moi maman, je t'aime
Continue de jouer continue de chanter
Ne pleure pas maman
Un jour viendra
On se retrouvera
...
Copyright: JACQUELINE
To My Deceased Son
On his guitar he had composd for me
A song he liked me to sing
We played around in our own way
Him his guitar and me with my accordion
The java blue and the Saturday Night ball
Was part of our repertory
He played, he sang
And the whole of Auxerre applauded.
One night suprised by destiny
He went to sleep forever
When the police found him in the morning
I would have liked a little word for me.
REFRAIN:
Pardon me, mother, I love you
But I have to go
Mother, don't cry
We'll meet again
With his flaemenco he made the gadjos dance
And even the gypsies
Today I'm in pain
But his voice is always here
I still have his Cd
On which he used to love to sing
Refrain
Forgive me, mother, I love you
Carry on playing and singing
Don't cry, mother
The day will come
We'll meet again.
Copyright: Jacqueline
Labels: destiny, fils disparu, flamenco, Jerome iber, Maman |
| posted by Rani Turton @ 11:42 PM |
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| When A Woman Goes To Pieces: Poem |
When a Woman Goes To Pieces
When a woman goes to pieces
Hysteria and fragility are often evoked
When a man goes to pieces
Its often just workload.
The opposite can also be true.
If a woman tells her mate
I'm going to pieces he'll tell her
'Get yourself together,
Or soon it'll be too late'.
A woman is rarely alone when she wants to be,
In times of acute personal misery.
But alas when she doesn't want to be
People become rare in their scarcity.
So social fronts and smiling facades
Busy workers and perfect mothers
Mill around busy shopping arcades
What if a woman has the right to say
Please just leave me alone for today?
Copyright: Rani Turton
Labels: Alone, fragility, going to pieces, hysteria, social facades |
| posted by Rani Turton @ 1:34 AM |
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| Tuesday, December 1, 2009 |
| This Burdened Heart: Poem |
This Burdened Heart
This burdened heart speaks low but clear
That today destiny’s lanes are not very clear;
That pain, like rain, can mist up the eyes
That clouds, like pain can block out the skies
That somewhere else my heart wants to go
There are dreams and all I had to forego
Burdening my heart: where lies happiness
If my mind lies elsewhere, oscillating and vacillating:
Restrained and constrained, layers within layers
Life is but a stage and we, the players
But also when total liberty beckons, perplexed
My soul is vanquished, there are no walls to demolish
No mountains to climb, no one to care;
Nobody to say, nobody at all
“Not now, not like this, not this time”
That somewhere in this century we are alone, bewildered,
Abandoned, that we are
Parts of burdened hearts, that lie lost, thrown aside
Neglected, dejected, rejected
That there are no signposts on the crumbling way.
This burdened heart stops and starts
Carries on, bump-a-lump; will not give up
Life is but a brimming cup.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Labels: brimming cup, burdened heart, life's a stage, signposts |
| posted by Rani Turton @ 3:41 PM |
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