DISSOLUTA NEGLIGENTIA PROPE DOLUM EST

2013. and…time to face the truth.

actually the conditions of the world nowadays are perfect for you to understand what ignorance is.

ignorance, is not just to be intended as a lack of knowledge or culture, but mostly as negligence and laziness: these all are signs of a closed mind. and that’s where ignorance basically lives.

IGNORANCE IS A DISEASE.

and should be given the same importance you give any other disease ( whether you care too much or not at all ).

if you are ill outside, you can’t fully be yourself, you can’t fully see yourself, and you can’t fully live.

if you are ill inside, well, is the same, no, it’s even worst.

you will miss the tears and the shouts of joy, you will never play with freedom: and when happiness will smile at you, singing your name, you will not see it, because you don’t know its shape, and you will not hear it, because you don’t know its symphony.

ignorance stands in the way of your happiness.

is this what you wish for?

 

a.aime

NAPOWRIMO CONTEST // 16th APRIL 2013 // A VICTIMLESS CRIME

And now our (optional, as always) prompt. This is an oldie-but-a-goodie and it ties in nicely with our featured link! Today, I’d like you to write a “translation” of a poem in a language you don’t actually know. Go to the Poetry International Language List, pick a language, and then follow it to a poet and a poem. Generally the Poetry International website will present a poem in its original language on the left, and any translation on the right. Cut and paste the original into the text-editing program of your choice (and try not to peek too much at the translation). Now, use the sound and shape of the words and lines to guide you, without worrying too much about whether your translation makes sense.Once you have your rough “translation,” you could leave it at that, or continue to shape the poem. It’s up to you. Happy writing!

 

ORIGINAL FORM IN ROMANIAN: Această tristeţe nu este a mea by Doina Ioanid ( this sadness is not mine )

Această tristeţe nu este a mea. E a bătrînilor care nu mai pot urca scările, a copilului care nu poate vorbi, a bărbatului furios de propria-i neputinţă, a acestei primăveri tîmpe ce se hrăneşte cu morţii mei, a femeii care nu-şi mai poate seduce bărbatul, a zilelor ce nu reuşesc să rămînă, a fetei devorate de lumina nordului. Această tristeţe nu este a mea şi cu toate astea nu pot să scap de ea.

 

I WROTE A NEW POEM KEEPING JUST THE SOUNDS OF THE TRANSLATION OF THE WORDS IN AMERICAN ENGLISH ( SO ITS NOT A TRANSLATION, ITS MY WORK )

 

NEW POEM : A VICTIMLESS CRIME

a coast, trust anew in me. and bats won’t care my pot or scars, an eclipse cares a new faith for me, barbarians furious about their repellent properties, accept your primary time, honest, a victimless crime, a female care, my truelove knot is seducing the barbarians, sailor flashes, it’s raining, war cry, a clash dissolves the north light. a coast, trust anew in me, see how cute is the new girl with pot and scars, at the sea.

a.aime

NAPOWRIMO CONTEST // 2nd APRIL 2013 // TEARS OF UNICORN

today this pavement smells familiar. I’ve never really appreciated the bristly surface of this carpet,

but when he embraces me with this hysterical strength,

i can nearly feel my mother’s uterus closer to my baby little fingers.

the desert around me makes me feel like a crowned Queen.

it’s just…my bones, just my bones i want to feel buttoning up to the earth.

what else? i’m tired of this war, i’d come back to my far far Paris,

or to a waitress uniform or just something white,

to hide this vocation for triumph and cry.

the curves of the carpet,

indeed,

follow the lineaments of my face,

already torn apart from the tears,

from the willing to throw away these ideas,

that somewhere inside are ripping my stomach apart.

my heart is in the throat, in the throat of the void.

as if, in the desert, there was only one light, mine.

but what’s the difference? what’s the difference??

I walk, my face covered in tears,

because they can’t find me anymore,

because i’m alone with my idea.

and now i’m a little scared.

even just a voice, bring me down to the ground, again;

but this time, the carpet isn’t embracing me anymore.

nobody is embracing me anymore,

because i’ve erased my past, i’ve erased my present and i’ve erased my future,

that now is just me and is working as a waitress.

now the wind outside is raping me.

i can see the street. i can see many lives. but i cannot see mine.

I picture her happy, chased by poppy petals all along Beirut’s high road,

i picture her playing with tea leaves, and paint her hair black,

then white, then back to black, and finally white again.

I miss her now.

I miss her because art is not cold. art is not static. art is a journey, not an arrival.

it’s a procedure, not a product.

her, my life, has become my cause and consequence. and now she’s not here!

because to be both woman and artist, you must lose within yourself,

without any help, you just have to let yourself fall.

and the lack of balance will be your new stability.

yeh, ’cause i lost my thread,

i’ve tied my filaments to the wrong edges,

and now, even just a voice, dissolves them in the insatiable vortex of life,

of the continuous movement.

and now wish i could come back to something white,

white white white,

completely white: but my clothes, are not that white anymore.

life has ejaculated on them for too long and now they got the color of her sperm.

milan, amsterdam, london, paris, LIFE , why did you let me go?

i feel you pulling back…

i feel you changing shape…

and then, when i’m about to set me free,

you stand in front of me

and let all the filaments slide down to the earth;

and with my hands to the sky,

I forsake everything.

a.aime