This world is so wide that, even if you flitted around and around it, you would never reach the end of it. This blog is a collage of more or less literary and humorous, outlandish or sometimes even serious glimpses at this great wide world.
Laughing, I ran away from Manoj.
He’d won a kiss from the spinning bottle –
but I felt like making him work a little
before consenting.
From the clearing I went into the evenly
planted pine rows, hiding from Manoj
behind one. I heard him shout, run by,
went round the tree to avoid discovery.
He shouted about the mansion
at the end of the forest, I peeked
and saw it. Not to go in there,
he said, that it was forbidden.
It drew me. I waited for Manoj
to rejoin our friends, who were
singing and laughing in the distance,
and then went closer, to the black
iron fence. The place looked
deserted except for vivid reflections
in the windows. Flashes of people
and violent changes in temper.
A breath of air struck my neck,
as from somebody close by.
I turned, and there was no-one.
Eery, I thought, and noticed
that daylight had clouded over.
Now there was sooty dark
and a shiver as from an impending
storm. Not to worry, I told myself,
you simply walk back. But my
friends’ merry noises were gone.
I walked and again felt a breath
in my back, longer this time,
more forceful, as if from giant
lungs. And there was noise
to it, the suppressed roar
an immense animal would make.
I stood and turned – not a thing –
turned and resumed walking.
Roar and cold air, an impatient
howl. I turned and saw –
This is a rather free retelling of what I remember of the beginning of Raaz (Secret), a Hindi horror film from 2002, which, very quickly and successfully, sets up a scary atmosphere with very simple means, so that this fits in very well with Napowrimo #3, Scared yet?.
Even right now. Limbo is impending, even though not quite upon me yet – my work situation is about to change radically. I won't work in the same place any longer, won't be around the same people, some of whom have become friends over the nearly three years I've been here.
I have all intentions to bid good-bye to my beloved, who is among these people. I've come to the conclusion that it will be best to cut ties completely to regain peace of mind and peace of heart.
So – let me try and work some alchemy, generate light that shines and points me in the right direction.
Written for Sunday Scribblings. The task was to think of demands one would have as a mega ridiculous superstar on tour. While I’ve definitely missed the subject here, I like this somewhat Emily Dickinsonian ditty in all its simplicity, if I may say so myself.
A love song that has stayed with me for decades - ever since I heard it at my friend Paloma's house in Madrid - is Palabras de amor by Joan Manuel Serrat. He originally wrote it in his native Catalan, and the Catalan title is Paraules d'amor. The version I first heard and still prefer to any other recordings, including those by the composer himself, is by Venezuelan singer Soledad Bravo. It is unparalleled in its warmth and intimacy. The translation below is based on the lyrics she sings on her album Punto y Raya from 1974 (same as in the Youtube audio below).
This could well be my swan song to an emotional involvement that has been with me for over two years and is now showing signs of closure.
– Leonard Blumfeld
Words of love
She loved me so much,
And I love her to this very day.
Together we entered
A closed door.
I could say that she meant
The whole world to me then,
When only words of love
Were burning in the hearth.
Words of love, simple and tender.
We knew nothing else, we were fifteen.
We had not had time to learn anything else,
Had just woken from childhood dreams.
We were happy with three phrases
Learned from old comedians
Telling love stories, poets’ dreams.
We knew nothing else, we were fifteen.
Wherever she may be now,
Whatever she may be doing,
I lost her and will never ever
Get to see her again.
But oftentimes when night falls
I hear a song from far away.
Ancient notes, ancient chords,
Ancient words of love.
Words of love, simple and tender.
We knew nothing else, we were fifteen.
We had not had time to learn anything else,
Had just woken from childhood dreams.
Ella me quiso tanto,
yo todavía la quiero.
Juntos atravesamos
una puerta cerrada.
Ella, como podré decir,
era todo mi mundo
cuando en el hogar quemaban
solo palabras de amor.
Palabras de amor, sencillas y tiernas,
no sabíamos más, teníamos quince años,
no habíamos tenido tiempo de aprenderlas,
recién despertábamos de un sueño infantil.
Teníamos bastante con tres frases hechas
que habíamos oído a antiguos comediantes
de historias de amor, sueños de poetas,
no sabíamos más, teníamos quince años.
Ella, dónde estará,
ella, qué estará haciendo,
la perdí y nunca más
la volveré a encontrar.
Pero cuando la noche cae
oigo lejana una canción,
y en las notas, viejos acordes,
viejas palabras de amor.
Palabras de amor, sencillas y tiernas,
no sabíamos más, teníamos quince años,
no habíamos tenido tiempo de aprenderlas,
recién despertábamos de un sueño infantil.
Note
This could be addressed to someone like the Shalini in Dil Chahta Hai (2001), all 3 hours of which I watched again without regret. It is the story of three close friends (played by Aamir Khan, Akshaye Khanna and Saif Ali Khan in excellent roles) and their love relationships.
I must admit to some arbitrary transposition in the poem. The frail sense of humor actually goes with the character Pooja (played by Sonali Kulkarni), but I wanted the name Shalini in there. The Shalini in the movie, played by Preity Zinta in one of her typical lively roles, has much more than a frail sense of humor...
Song from the movie featuring Saif Ali Khan and Sonali Kulkarni.
Or was it raspberries?
That was the title of a book of poems
I bought somewhere in rural Arkansas
in 1978, where three friends and I
had come for boating on the
Buffalo River.
Written by one Edsel ... (not Ford,
I think, definitely not Ford). And
now I can’t find it on my shelves
to help me remember why
those berries, straw or rasp,
run deep.
A poem to illustrate the strangeness of (my) memory and to go with “running” at One Single Impression.
Notes
As I found out with the help of Google, the poet's name is Edsel Ford indeed (there is a Wikipedia article about him), and the title of the collection is “Raspberries Run Deep” (published in 1975). I still haven't located the book, though, so the deep-running raspberries must remain a mystery for now.
