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This is a non-editing/filtering version of a live rehearsal session between me and João Grillo (guitarist).

One day later, we performed at Lovecraft Beer Lounge Aveiro :)

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain,
Its ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.
You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.
Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man’s days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours –
And the songs of every poet past and forever.

BGM by Katrina Stone - Digging Tunnels - Instrumental Version

  You too wanted better things, but love
          forces all of us down.  Sorrow bends us more
          forcefully, but the arc doesn't return to its
          point of origin without a reason.
 
          Upwards or downwards!  In holy Night,
          where mute Nature plans the coming days,
          doesn't there reign in the most twisted Orcus
          something straight and direct?
 
          This I have learned.  Never to my knowledge
          did you, all-preserving gods, like mortal
          masters, lead me providentially
          along a straight path.
 
          The gods say that man should test
          everything, and that strongly nourished
          he be thankful for everything, and understand
          the freedom to set forth wherever he will.

BGM by Aleksey Chistilin - The Story of One Life

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
“We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.”
I ask, “But how am I to get up to you ?”
They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.”
“My mother is waiting for me at home, “I say, “How can I leave
her and come?”
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
“We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass.”
I ask, “But how am I to join you?”
They tell me, “Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves.”
I say, “My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?”
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.

BGM by Nsee - Frozen Lake - Slowed and Reverbed

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
from blank gun silencer - 1991

BGM by Nsee - Bloom

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

     But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

     But it was      High up there!      It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love—
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry—
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

     Life is fine!      Fine as wine!      Life is fine!

Music by Tristan Barton - Full Bloom

A Nation of trees, drab green and desolate grey
In the field uniform of modern wars,
Darkens her hills, those endless, outstretched paws
Of Sphinx demolished or stone lion worn away.

They call her a young country, but they lie:
She is the last of lands, the emptiest,
A woman beyond her change of life, a breast
Still tender but within the womb is dry.

Without songs, architecture, history:
The emotions and superstitions of younger lands,
Her rivers of water drown among inland sands,
The river of her immense stupidity

Floods her monotonous tribes from Cairns to Perth.
In them at last the ultimate men arrive
Whose boast is not: "we live" but "we survive",
A type who will inhabit the dying earth.

And her five cities, like five teeming sores,
Each drains her: a vast parasite robber-state
Where second hand Europeans pullulate
Timidly on the edge of alien shores.

Yet there are some like me turn gladly home
From the lush jungle of modern thought, to find
The Arabian desert of the human mind,
Hoping, if still from the deserts the prophets come,

Such savage and scarlet as no green hills dare
Springs in that waste, some spirit which escapes
The learned doubt, the chatter of cultured apes
Which is called civilization over there.

The World Cup, a global stage,

Where nations come to play,

A spectacle of skill and strength,

A test of will and might.

From distant lands they come,

These titans of the game,

To battle on the pitch,

In search of victory and fame.

For one bright month, the world will watch,

As players clash and scores are fought,

A drama of sweat and tears and blood,

A contest of both skill and luck.

And when the final whistle blows,

And the champion is crowned,

We'll look back on the tournament,

And all its highs and lows.

For the World Cup is more than just a game,

It's a celebration of the human spirit,

A triumph of will and determination,

A test of what we're truly worth.

p.s. this is an experiment with chatGPT read by @camelliayang

Football, the beautiful game,

A source of passion and of shame,

A battle on the pitch of life,

Where heroes rise and villains thrive.

With leather ball and studded boots,

We chase and kick and score and hoot,

A symphony of cheers and groans,

As players clash and tackles flown.

For ninety minutes and beyond,

We fight for every inch of ground,

A contest of both mind and might,

Where victory is our sole delight.

So let us play with all our heart,

And never from the game depart,

For football is a noble art,

A test of strength, a test of spirit.

So let the whistle blow, my friends,

And let the match begin,

For football is a game that never ends,

A source of joy and sorrow and sin.

p.s. this is an experiment with chatGPT read by @camelliayang

II

My gaze is clear like a sunflower.

It is my custom to walk the roads

Looking right and left

And sometimes looking behind me,

And what I see at each moment

Is what I never saw before,

And I’m very good at noticing things.

I’m capable of feeling the same wonder

A newborn child would feel

If he noticed that he’d really and truly been born.

I feel at each moment that I’ve just been born

Into a completely new world...

I believe in the world as in a daisy,

Because I see it. But I don’t think about it,

Because to think is to not understand.

The world wasn’t made for us to think about it

(To think is to have eyes that aren’t well)

But to look at it and to be in agreement.

I have no philosophy, I have senses...

If I speak of Nature it’s not because I know what it is

But because I love it, and for that very reason,

Because those who love never know what they love

Or why they love, or what love is.

To love is eternal innocence,

And the only innocence is not to think...

8 March 1914

Countless lives inhabit us.
I don’t know, when I think or feel,
Who it is that thinks or feels.
I am merely the place
Where things are thought or felt.

I have more than just one soul.
There are more I’s than I myself.
I exist, nevertheless,
Indifferent to them all.
I silence them: I speak.

The crossing urges of what
I feel or do not feel
Struggle in who I am, but I
Ignore them. They dictate nothing
To the I I know: I write.

© Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith
From: Fernando Pessoa & Co. – Selected Poems
Publisher: Grove Press, New York, 1998

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Last week, I invited you to share your favourite love poems.

Here are a few submissions by listeners, read in English, Chinese and German.

Enjoy ：）

1. A love letter from the movie Green Book, read by Valerie Zhang

2. Lösch mir die Augen aus, read by Mr Liu (Lois Hong's dad)

3. A glimpse, read by Linda Leng

4. 致橡树 (To the Oak Tree), read by Jielin Liu

5. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? read by Monica Tong 

6. On the beach, read by Ya Sun

Music by Cristof Walters 

Subscribe to the YouTube Channel

Hello, my dear listeners.

I'm Camellia. The narrator of this podcast.

Thanks a lot for listening to my show over the past two years. I'm glad to have you along the journey with me to feel the beauty of those classic and modern poems.

Today is Chinese Valentine's Day, and I'd like to create a special episode featuring your favourite LOVE poetries. I'd like to invite you to read one of your favourite LOVE poems and send the audio recording to my email box (ymedianz@gmail.com). It can be in different languages and from various countries; as long as it's your favourite love poetry, that's good.

The recording quality doesn't need to be perfect, and you can use your mobile phone or computer to record. I'll collect all submissions early next week and make them into a special episode to post here with your name or any other links you'd like to include. 

Thanks again for your love and support. I look forward to hearing back from your soon! 

 And here is one of my favourite love poems: Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window.

It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul.

"Tell my, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them."

My soul does not reply.

"Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?"

My soul remains silent.

"Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics."

Not a word. Can my soul be dead?

"Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!"

At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything
anything
but
these.

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
         In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
         What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

         I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
         I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
         I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
         We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

         Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
         (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
         Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
         Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
         Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Berkeley, 1955

Sometimes when my eyes are red

I go up on top of the RCA Building

and gaze at my world, Manhattan—

my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,

lofts, beds, coldwater flats

—on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,

its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men

walking the size of specks of wool—

Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,

sun go down over New Jersey where I was born

& Paterson where I played with ants—

my later loves on 15th Street,

my greater loves of Lower East Side,

my once fabulous amours in the Bronx

faraway—

paths crossing in these hidden streets,

my history summed up, my absences

and ecstasies in Harlem—

—sun shining down on all I own

in one eyeblink to the horizon

in my last eternity—

matter is water.

Sad,

I take the elevator and go

down, pondering,

and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s

plateglass, faces,

questioning after who loves,

and stop, bemused

in front of an automobile shopwindow

standing lost in calm thought,

traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me

waiting for a moment when ...

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to

the romantic war news on the radio

... all movement stops

& I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,

tenderness flowing thru the buildings,

my fingertips touching reality’s face,

my own face streaked with tears in the mirror

of some window—at dusk—

where I have no desire—

for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese

lampshades of intellection—

Confused by the spectacle around me,

Man struggling up the street

with packages, newspapers,

ties, beautiful suits

toward his desire

Man, woman, streaming over the pavements

red lights clocking hurried watches &

movements at the curb—

And all these streets leading

so crosswise, honking, lengthily,

by avenues

stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums

thru such halting traffic

screaming cars and engines

so painfully to this

countryside, this graveyard

this stillness

on deathbed or mountain

once seen

never regained or desired

in the mind to come

where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.

New York, October 1958

I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

I can’t touch you.

His face always returns;

we exchange long looks

in each bad dream

& what I see, my God.

Honey, sweetheart,

I hold you against me

but nothing works.

Two boats moored,

rocking between nowhere

& nowhere.

A bone inside me whispers

maybe tonight,

but I keep thinking

about the two men wrestling nude

in Lawrence’s Women in Love.

I can’t get past

reels of breath unwinding.

He has you. Now

he doesn’t. He has you

again. Now he doesn’t.

You’re at the edge of azaleas

shaken loose by a word.

I see your rose-colored

skirt unfurl.

He has a knife

to your throat,

night birds come back

to their branches.

A hard wind raps at the door,

the new year prowling

in a black overcoat.

It’s been six months

since we made love.

Tonight I look at you

hugging the pillow,

half smiling in your sleep.

I want to shake you & ask

who. Again I touch myself,

unashamed, until

his face comes into focus.

He’s stolen something

from me & I don’t know

if it has a name or not—

like counting your ribs

with one foolish hand

& mine with the other.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,

Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,

Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,

Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,

Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,

Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –

Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,

When the dusk holiday – or holinight

Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave

The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,

But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,

He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

Nice to meet you, I said
I admire your strength
You have courage and patience
I once only dreamt

You stand tall and move forward with passion, yet grace
Your rivers are flowing, there is light on your face
And it emanates to all of the people around
And to me, I can see, there is something you’ve found

It’s something I was searching, a long while ago
A gem in the sand, a stone in the snow
I looked under, and over, past mountains, ‘round bends
And wandered, miles yonder, to the rainbow's end

The journey was thorough
But also quite long
I got tired and weathered
Lost the words to my song

May I ask you to help me
To teach me what you know
To move forward with strength
With the peace that you show

Well, you see, darling girl, you can pass rainbow’s end
And another, and another, it’s an infinite ascend
Or you can feel with your heart, put your toes in the sand
And know all you need is right where you stand

Life is here, it is now
You have more than you know
Look inside, not out there
Close your eyes and let go

Listen in to the sound of the voices within
The way trees talk to roots, and clouds talk to wind
There you’ll find all the answers you’ve been searching for
And the light that is dim will shine once more

Oh, thank you! I said, full of joy and much glee
Then I noticed
There was something familiar to me

I saw who she was
This woman was me

Who includes diversity and is Nature,
Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also,
Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing,
Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover,
Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the aesthetic or intellectual,
Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good,
Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories,
The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States;
Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons,
Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations,
The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.

Happy are men who yet before they are killed

Can let their veins run cold.

Whom no compassion fleers

Or makes their feet

Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.

The front line withers.

But they are troops who fade, not flowers,

For poets’ tearful fooling:

Men, gaps for filling:

Losses, who might have fought

Longer; but no one bothers.

II

And some cease feeling

Even themselves or for themselves.

Dullness best solves

The tease and doubt of shelling,

And Chance’s strange arithmetic

Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.

They keep no check on armies’ decimation.

III

Happy are these who lose imagination:

They have enough to carry with ammunition.

Their spirit drags no pack.

Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.

Having seen all things red,

Their eyes are rid

Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.

And terror’s first constriction over,

Their hearts remain small-drawn.

Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle

Now long since ironed,

Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.

IV

Happy the soldier home, with not a notion

How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,

And many sighs are drained.

Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:

His days are worth forgetting more than not.

He sings along the march

Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,

The long, forlorn, relentless trend

From larger day to huger night.

V

We wise, who with a thought besmirch

Blood over all our soul,

How should we see our task

But through his blunt and lashless eyes?

Alive, he is not vital overmuch;

Dying, not mortal overmuch;

Nor sad, nor proud,

Nor curious at all.

He cannot tell

Old men’s placidity from his.

VI

But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,

That they should be as stones.

Wretched are they, and mean

With paucity that never was simplicity.

By choice they made themselves immune

To pity and whatever moans in man

Before the last sea and the hapless stars;

Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;

Whatever shares

The eternal reciprocity of tears.

What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins
Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny
Day in spring?

What are you thinking here, where the wind
Blowing from the Vistula scatters
The red dust of the rubble?

You swore never to be
A ritual mourner.
You swore never to touch
The deep wounds of your nation
So you would not make them holy
With the accursed holiness that pursues
Descendants for many centuries.

But the lament of Antigone
Searching for her brother
Is indeed beyond the power
Of endurance. And the heart
Is a stone in which is enclosed,
Like an insect, the dark love
Of a most unhappy land.

I did not want to love so.
That was not my design.
I did not want to pity so.
That was not my design.
My pen is lighter
Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden
Is too much for it to bear.
How can I live in this country
Where the foot knocks against
The unburied bones of kin?

I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot
Write anything; five hands
Seize my pen and order me to write
The story of their lives and deaths.
Was I born to become
a ritual mourner?
I want to sing of festivities,
The greenwood into which Shakespeare
Often took me. Leave
To poets a moment of happiness,
Otherwise your world will perish.

It's madness to live without joy
And to repeat to the dead
Whose part was to be gladness
Of action in thought and in the
Only two salvaged words:
Truth and justice.

a trembling old man dreams of a chinese garden

a comical old man dreams of newspapers under his rabbi's hat

a simple tavernkeeper dreams of icicles & fisheyes

a sinister tavernkeeper dreams of puddles with an angel of the law in every drop

the furrier's plump daughter is dreaming of a patch of old vanilla

the furrier's foreign daughter is dreaming of a hat from which a marten hangs

the proud accountant dreams of a trolleycar over the frozen river

the reluctant accountant dreams of his feet sleep in a fresh pair of red socks

the silly uncle dreams of a history written by a team of Spanish doctors

the uncle in the next apartment dreams of the cost of Katmandu

the retired gangster dreams of a right turn into a field of sacred lemons

the dancing gangster dreams of a carriage, a donkey, & a hand that holds the ace of spades

the grim man with a proposition dreams of his fingers entering a pair of gloves

the excited man with a proposition dreams of the letter E torn from the title of his poem

the remarkable elevator operator dreams of the marriage of karl marx

the easy elevator operator dreams of a seashell at the entry to the thirteenth floor

the candid photographer dreams of a wooden synagogue inside his brother's camera

the secret photographer dreams of a school of golden herrings drifting out to sea

the yiddish dadaist dreams of rare steaks & platonic pleasures

the rosy dadaist dreams that a honeycomb is being squashed against his face

the mysterious stranger dreams of a white tablecloth on which black threads are falling

the stranger whom no one sees dreams of his sister holding up a string of pearls

the asthmatic tax collector dreams of a row of sacred numbers

the rebellious tax collector dreams of a bathhouse set among old trees

the robust timber merchant dreams of a wind that blows inside the blacksmith's bellows

the sobbing timber merchant dreams that his hands have pressed the buttocks of his dreaming bride

the man with a fish between his teeth dreams of a famine for forty-five days

the man dressed in white dreams of a potato

the savage gentile dreams of a dancer with flashy lightbulbs on her shoes

the repentant gentile dreams of her fingers bringing honey to his lips

the fancy barber dreams that his hands massage the captain's neck

the silent barber dreams of a rooster with a thread tied to one leg

the salty bridegroom dreams of horses galloping they swirl around the bridegroom's house

the genuflecting bridegroom dreams of what his bride slides through her fingers he sees it white & trembling in the early sabbath light

the fat man in the derby dreams that it is spring that his seed soon will be falling through an empty sky

the ecstatic man in the derby dreams that if he dreams it his words will turn into flowers

1

He takes a book down from his shelf & scribbles across a

page of text: I am the final one. This means the world will

end when he does.

2

In the Inferno, Dante conceives a Paradise of Poets & calls

it Limbo.

Foolishly he thinks his place is elsewhere.

3

Now the time has come to write a poem about a Paradise of Poets.

i become little

i become tiny

i become way bigger than myself

i become something i dont care to know for sure

splattered amid everything that's all around me

tied free and loose

bound by air

interconnected intent

This woven shared perception

holy

trancending meaning

being one

singular

but not alone

different and incomprehensible

yet plural, empathetic

cathartic

together in desire

P.S. My talented friend João wrote this piece. We are going to perform a poetry reading session in Aveiro, Portugal this weekend. 

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

C. P. Cavafy, "The City" from C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Translation Copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Reproduced with permission of Princeton University Press.

Source: C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1975)

It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young

Though I have long wondered what it would be like

To be me now

No older at all it seems from here

As far from myself as ever

Walking in fog and rain and seeing nothing

I imagine all the clocks have died in the night

Now no one is looking I could choose my age

It would be younger I suppose so I am older

It is there at hand I could take it

Except for the things I think I would do differently

They keep coming between they are what I am

They have taught me little I did not know when I was young

There is nothing wrong with my age now probably

It is how I have come to it

Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth

There is nothing the matter with speech

Just because it lent itself

To my uses

Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars

It is my emptiness among them

While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

Then what is the answer?- Not to be deluded by dreams.
To know that great civilizations have broken down into violence,
and their tyrants come, many times before.
When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose
the least ugly faction; these evils are essential.
To keep one's own integrity, be merciful and uncorrupted
and not wish for evil; and not be duped
By dreams of universal justice or happiness. These dreams will
not be fulfilled.
To know this, and know that however ugly the parts appear
the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand
Is an ugly thing and man dissevered from the earth and stars
and his history... for contemplation or in fact...
Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness,
the greatest beauty is
Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty
of the universe. Love that, not man
Apart from that, or else you will share man's pitiful confusions,
or drown in despair when his days darken.

May you recognize in your life the presence,

power and light of your soul.

May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging

connects you intimately with the rhythm of the

universe.

May you have respect for your own individuality and

difference.

May you realize that the shape of your soul is

unique, that you have a special destiny here, that behind the facade of your life

there is something beautiful and eternal happening.

May you learn to see your self

with the same delight,

pride, and expectation

with which God sees you in every moment.

The city's all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind's a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one --
Oh it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it's Paris, it's Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.

The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it's Paris, it's Paris,
And spring-time's come again.

Twitter：@camelliayang

Website: https://www.camelliayang.com/

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IX.

And if the sun incarnadine
The clouds—green leaves shall be your screen;
And if the clouds with jealousy
Should weep—we'll beg of some kind tree
A moment's hospitality.

X.

Good cheer is here, if you incline;
Moss-hidden springs shall bubble wine
While squirrels chuckle, rank on rank,
And strawberries from every bank
Shall blush to see how deep we drank.

XI.

Winds of the West shall cool our eyes
While every woodland creature tries
His voice a little, so that he
May know his notes more perfectly
When crickets start the symphony.

XII.

Through hazel glade and scented dell
Where brooklets ring a tinkling bell,
The forest orchestra shall swell,
Until the sun-soaked grasses ring
With crickets strumming string on string.

XIII.

Then, with your white hand daintily
Scarce touching mine, we'll leave our tree
And ramble slowly toward the West
Where our high castle's flaming crest,
Towering behind the setting sun,
Flings out its banners, one by one,
Signals of fire, that day is done.

XIV.

Deep in that palace we shall find
How blind we are, how blind! how blind!
And how he'll laugh, who holds the key
To the great portal's mystery!
And how his joyous laugh will ring
When you and I shall bid him fling
The gates ajar for you and me!

XV.

Let shadows flee athwart the lea
When dark December strips the hedge
Along the icy river's edge;
Yet, if you will forgive me, lass,
The world shall bloom like spring to me,
Snow turn to dew upon the grass
And fagots blossom where you pass.

XVI.

Swallows shall sheer the frozen mere,
Dead reeds along the mill-pond's rims
Shall thrill with summer-thrushes' hymns,
While summer breezes blow apace,
If you will but forgive me, dear,
And let me find a moment's grace,
In your sweet eyes and your dear face.

Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
     In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
     Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
     Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
     Lost Carcosa.

I hid my love when young while I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place
Where ere I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love goodbye

I met her in the greenest dells
Where dew drops pearl the wood bluebells
The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye
The bee kissed and went singing by
A sunbeam found a passage there
A gold chain round her neck so fair
As secret as the wild bee's song
She lay there all the summer long

I hid my love in field and town
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down
The bees seemed singing ballads l'er
The fly's buss turned a Lion's roar
And even silence found a tongue
To haunt me all the summer long
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love

I love strolling on an empty street at five o’clock in the morning.
I love discussing the absurdity of the world with wanderers.
I enjoy watching the sunrise, slowly waking up the sleeping world.
I enjoy having random philosophical conversations with strangers.


I make mistakes.
I mess things up.
I invite chaos to my life,
And then self-sabotage with cries.
I’m on a journey to accept my weaknesses,
Forgive others and myself at the same time.


Sometimes I don’t care what people say about my works.
It’s a record of how I see the world.
Sometimes, I long for someone to see through my art.
I only want to mean something to a special person's heart.


I laugh a lot, and prank even more.
I cherish tiny happiness in the world.
Like the hot air on a cup of coffee on a rainy day;
Or couples hug and kiss at the airport.


I have a pessimistic mind but an optimistic heart.
I love and hate humans at the same time.
Their motives and behaviours confused me a lot.
They can’t understand my intuition either.
Sometimes, I'd rather stay away from the crowd
And keep people out.


I moved from China to New Zealand in my 20s.
Then left Auckland to London now to Lisbon at 30s.
I’ve travelled to four continents.
But there is no place I could call home.
I’m always being a Christmas orphan,
But never thought my loneliness is a misfortune.
Through content creation,
I found my roots and built relations.


I am still on the road.
I don’t know life's next episode.
I want to turn my existence into a poem.
I want my life to become an exquisite art.
Though the path is destined to be hard,
Through authenticity, I could find my truth.


08/09/2021
​Lisbon

https://www.camelliayang.com/blog/cy

@camelliayang

”– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

There are specialists in love. A man beeps without stopping,

stuck in the line of traffic. 

In the beginning was the Word

but now no one answers.

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,  In large white flakes falling on the city brown,  Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,        Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;  Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;  Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:        Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;  Hiding difference, making unevenness even,  Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.        All night it fell, and when full inches seven  It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,  The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;        And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness  Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:  The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;        The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;  No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,  And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.        Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,  They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze  Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;        Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;  Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,  ‘O look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’        With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,  Following along the white deserted way,  A country company long dispersed asunder:        When now already the sun, in pale display  Standing by Paul’s high dome, spread forth below  His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.        For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;  And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,  Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:        But even for them awhile no cares encumber  Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,  The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber  At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
But I.

So I, as I grow stiff and cold
To this and that say Good-bye too;
And everybody sees that I am old
But you.

And one fine morning in a sunny lane
Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear
That nobody can love their way again
While over there
You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.

Eighty-four thousand thoughts and ideas,

Landscape transformation in the  whirligig of time,

Everything is evolving and decaying in front of my eyes.

​

Vivid Colours dancing along with the music of nature,

Van Gogh’s painting in a tangible form.

Infinite fractals emerging and disappearing like the Mandelbrot set and Mandala of Sanskrit.

Ram Dass’s message comes into my mind,

“We’re all just walking each other home”.

We are nameless and formless,

We are a pixel and we are a Buddha,

We’re loved just for being who we are, just for existing.

​

Let’s accept ourselves and others in full,

Try not to control, try not to force, 

try to surrender to the power of the universe.

Time and space are an illusion.

The reality doesn’t seem like what we see.

To see beauty, use our heart, not our eyes.

Feel, and we shall know.

Seek, and we shall find.

​

I rise above the earth and travel through abstract concepts and patterns.

A snap of the finger is the moment of eternity.

I could have lived forever in that dazzling and wonderful dream,

But your sweet smile pulls me back to the material world.

​

Remember, remember,

Life is the eighth wonder.

When we genuinely want something,

The whole universe is always on our side.

八万四千念，数亿年的沧海桑田在眼前流转变幻。

颜色和音乐都有了形态，完美的几何图形不断闪现。

是曼德布洛特复数集合，是佛家梵语的曼陀罗，是梵高笔下艳丽的色彩和流动的图案。

拉姆·达斯告诉我，「人生在世，就是帮助彼此回家」。

每个人都无名无状，是粒子也是佛祖，是形状也是颜色。

我们在这体验爱，散播爱，只要存在着就值得被爱。

无需鞭笞自己不断提升，全然接受自我，不再与生活抗衡。

不去强求人生的轨迹，臣服于宇宙的力量，享受生命这场奇迹。

在广袤的未解之谜中，活着就是终极意义。

我摆脱了思维的限制，在抽象的时空中穿行，

弹指一挥间，刹那即永恒。

炫彩美妙的世界中，突然闪现出你灿烂的笑容，

把我拉回到所谓的现实当中，把学到的一切用来普度众生。

感觉，你就会知晓，

寻找，你就会发现。

整个宇宙是你最好的帮手，

帮助你实现所有的一切。

Within the flower there lies a seed,
Within the seed there springs a tree,
Within the tree there spreads a wood.

In the wood there burns a fire,
And in the fire there melts a stone,
Within the stone a ring of iron.

Within the ring there lies an O,
Within the O there looks an eye,
In the eye there swims a sea,

And in the sea reflected sky,
And in the sky there shines the sun,
Within the sun a bird of gold.

Within the bird there beats a heart,
And from the heart there flows a song,
And in the song there sings a word.

In the word there speaks a world,
A world of joy, a world of grief,
From joy and grief there springs my love.

Oh love, my love, there springs a world,
And on the world there shines a sun,
And in the sun there burns a fire,

Within the fire consumes my heart,
And in my heart there beats a bird,
And in the bird there wakes an eye,

Within the eye, earth, sea and sky,
Earth, sky and sea within an O
Lie like the seed within the flower.

Yours is the face that the earth turns to me,
Continuous beyond its human features lie
The mountain forms that rest against the sky.
With your eyes, the reflecting rainbow, the sun's light
Sees me; forest and flower, bird and beast
Know and hold me forever in the world's thought,
Creation's deep untroubled retrospect.

When your hand touches mine it is the earth
That takes me—the green grass,
And rocks and rivers; the green graves,
And children still unborn, and ancestors,
In love passed down from hand to hand from God.
Your love comes from the creation of the world,
From those paternal fingers, streaming through the clouds
That break with light the surface of the sea.

Here, where I trace your body with my hand,
Love's presence has no end;
For these, your arms that hold me, are the world's.
In us, the continents, clouds and oceans meet
Our arbitrary selves, extensive with the night,
Lost, in the heart's worship, and the body's sleep.