Qasida of the Lost Tribe

By the time I reached the campsite of my beloved,
her caravan had already moved on.

I contemplated the harshness of Nature
and my self-imposed life away from the tribe.

Tribal life may be blessed, but is it for you?
I smart for the caravan, and for you to diverge.

– Leonard “Heretic” Blumfeld (© 2011)

Notes

In the quest for a quasida according to Poetic Asides I looked at the Wikipedia definition and wrote one that is 100% true to the old concept (quoted here from Wikipedia):

In his 9th century “Book of Poetry and Poets” (Kitab al-shi'r wa-al-shu'ara') the Arab writer ibn Qutaybah describes the (Arabic) qasida as formed of three parts:

• a nostalgic opening in which the poet reflects on what has passed, known as nasib. A common concept is the pursuit of the poet of the caravan of his beloved: by the time he reaches their campsite they have already moved on.

• a release or disengagement, the takhallus, often achieved by describing his transition from the nostalgia of the nasib to the second section, the travel section or rahil, in which the poet contemplates the harshness of nature and life away from the tribe.

• the message of the poem, which can take several forms: praise of the tribe (fakhr), satire about other tribes (hija) or some moral maxim (hikam).

A big part of the fun I have with poetic forms is to distort, overcome or disobey them (hence the “Heretic”). By the way: Federico García Lorca also wrote qasidas (“casida” in Spanish), and if I remember correctly, he didn't give much of a hoot about adhering to the form either.

Soledad en …

Some­‑
times
there is
nothing as
lonely as a crowd
milling merrily around you.

– Leonard "Master of Truisms" Blumfeld (© 2010)

Written for One Single Impression and Lonely. The title, added retroactively, alludes to García Lorca's Poemas de la soledad en Columbia University from Poeta en Nueva York (1930).

Bleak house

Bleak house,
mean hiccup,
queer lantern.

Bleak approach,
looming hiccup,
queer sax.

Bleak landing,
dazed hiccup,
queer knack.

– Leonard "García" Blumfeld

Written to involve Bleak, Hiccup and Queer from 3WW in various. somewhat García Lorcaesque ways.

Nearer, up close

Verde, que te quiero verde
– Federico García Lorca

My smooth approach
did not help –
again, again
its green smoothness eluded me

I approached harshly
this time,
and its smooth greenness
shrank away

Again, again –
do not approach me smoothly

Who are you
to sneak like this?

I knew about you,
from the start, your steps
make my quartz structure
tremble

Again, again
my green

Approach me
with me in mind

Approach me green,
you’ll be inside,
you will be smoothly


– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2008)

Note
Written in response to today’s prompt at Three Word Wednesday, which was to write using these three words: approach, bottle, smooth. In García Lorca’s poem the wind is green ... here it’s a prosaic bottle. Or is it?

Oops
Just noticed that I did not use bottle! Well, since it's all about one, do I need to name it?

What the horoscope said vs. what really happened

The horoscope delivered this morning by the e-mailman sounded quite nice:

Today you might feel like relaxing and being lazy. Working tends to be your addiction, so it can be hard for you to rest. Try not to do chores. In fact, if you can get away with it, don't force yourself to do anything! Give yourself permission to goof off. Allow the dust to pile up another day. It will still be waiting for you tomorrow. Allow your spirits to be recharged before you venture out into the world again.

So how did that compare with today's reality?

• Negative on the relaxing, laziness, no chores, no nothing front. Work is not really my addiction (more going on creative tangents), but I went in anyway and did what there was to do. Maybe a little more slowly than at other times.
• Positive on letting the dust pile up. This is something I'm really good at in general. I let the dust pile up at home while I was at work. And, lo and behold, it was still there when I got home a while ago.
  
• Recharging the spirit... Well, there was some of that at work since it was Luca's birthday, and just about everybody showed up in his office because he's a swell guy ... all the Italians, of course, but also the Spaniards, the French, the Russians, the Australian, one Brit and yours truly. Eyed Francesca occasionally, who is beauty in the eye of any beholder, but talked mostly to Clara, who is from sherry country, about such coherent things as yoga, García Lorca's "Bodas de sangre," his poetry and the folk songs he put to music, plus similarities between certain cooking habits in Clara's village and in Morocco. Now and then I busied myself with pouring champagne and serving carrot birthday cake. That made me feel useful.

And now I will recharge some more ... with some food and possibly the movie The Big Hit (Mark Wahlberg, Lou Diamond Phillips, Christina Applegate) recommended by my son the other night as something outrageously funny. Let's see!

Gacela of the three dark pigeons

Three dark pigeons were sitting on the ground in a triangle.

“I am chest,” said the first one.
“I am beak,” said the second.
“And I am eye,” said the third.

The first one was another,
the second one could not speak,
and the third one was none.

Three dark pigeons were sitting on the ground in a triangle.

– Leonard Blumfeld

Unavoidable note
This is what you get when you walk over to Penny Market for a frustration snack and notice three pigeons seated in the parking lot. Brings up memories of García Lorca's Gacela de las palomas oscuras, and your mind starts playing around...

Federico García Lorca: Gacela of the Dark Death

I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.

I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.

When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.

Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

Translated by Robert Bly

Note
This is not the translation recited by Joan Baez on Baptism. (Cf. my previous post.) That one was translated by Stephen Spender. I know I have it somewhere. Must look for it.

Update
The Stephen Spender/ J.L. Gili translation can be seen at steer forth! along with the Spanish original.

Out of the window, sharply

I've been sitting here on Sunday morning editing tags.
What a thing to do on Sunday morning, without even having had breakfast.

When I caught myself at this (after approx. 20 min of it),
I, for some reason, remembered through the past darkly,*

and that it was probably a wise idea to situate myself
in the world I live in consciously,

by looking out the window sharply. The world is out there
all right, it consists of thinly white clouds and baby-blue sky,

of quiet houses, grey walls, red roofs and spiky antennae.
Not a whisp of smoke out any chimney. Has it all died on me?

Now don't get rhetorical, I admonish myself. If it were dead,
my dear, you'd know first hand, because you'd be dead yourself.

– Len B.

* Apparently a song by the Rolling Stones. I'd thought it was the title of a poem by Henry Treece, recited by Joan Baez. Will have to verify. The world-so-wide web has failed, I'll have to revert to my empirical means.

Will let you know the results soon, like in about 5 minutes. This is, once again, blogging on the razor edge of time.

I'm back!

• Empirical means have failed. That Joan Baez record is not among the ones I have in my living room. Probably in the basement, where some of her stuff has been banned. My first record ever was Joan Baez' "The first ten years." Living in the country with no access to music stores, I'd mail-ordered it. Anxiously checking the mail for it every day for weeks. It took an awful long time to arrive. That was in 1970. I was 14.
  
• The poem by Henry Treece I remembered is called "Old Welsh Song" (I'll post it soon).
• I may have possibly and wrongly been thinking of García Lorca's "Gacela of the dark death", which Joan B. also recited on the same record. (To be posted as well; this is turning into a thread.)
  
• I'll have to listen to that Rolling Stones number.

Back again, some 10 minutes later:

• Riddle solved. The Joan Baez album is called "Baptism," and the piece on it I'd actually been thinking about was "Of the dark past" by James Joyce. There you go.
  

Oh the tricks that memory and association can play...