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My Spaniards hang with eachother, painter Dali and Lorca had a unconventional realationship. Like the stick that holds up the young tree, they held eachother up. Federico García Lorca is possibly the most important Spanish poet and dramatist of his time. Now read this with the famous spaniard lisp.*Grin*

Arbolé, Arbolé . . .
Federico García Lorca

Arbolé, arbolé,
seco y verdí.

La niña del bello rostro
está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
la prende por la cintura.
Pasaron cuatro jinetes
sobre jacas andaluzas,
con trajes de azul y verde,
con largas capas oscuras.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Pasaron tres torerillos
delgaditos de cintura,
con trajes color naranja
y espadas de plata antigua.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Cuando la tarde se puso
morada, con lux difusa,
pasó un joven que llevaba
rosas y mirtos de luna.
"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.
La niña del bello rostro
sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento
ceñido por la cintura.
Arbolé, arbolé.
Seco y verdé.
Y ahora en inglés para los que no leen español, disfruta de.
Translated by William Logan

Tree, tree
dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face
is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers,
grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
with blue and green jackets
and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed,
slender in the waist,
with jackets the color of oranges
and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light,
a young man passed by, wearing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, inuchacha."
And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east
A white and shapeless mass.


Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

As The Sparrow

by Charles Bukowski

To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

L'Amour et le Crâne
de Charles Baudelaire

Vieux cul-de-lampe

L'Amour est assis sur le crâne
De l'Humanité,
Et sur ce trône le profane,
Au rire effronté,

Souffle gaiement des bulles rondes
Qui montent dans l'air,
Comme pour rejoindre les mondes
Au fond de l'éther.

Le globe lumineux et frêle
Prend un grand essor,
Crève et crache son âme grêle
Comme un songe d'or.

J'entends le crâne à chaque bulle
Prier et gémir:—
«Ce jeu féroce et ridicule,
Quand doit-il finir?

Car ce que ta bouche cruelle

Eparpille en l'air,

Monstre assassin, c'est ma cervelle,

Mon sang et ma chair!»

Et maintenant dans l'anglais pour mes amis qui ne lisent pas Français!

Cupid and the Skull
by Charles Baudelaire and translated by William Aggeler

An Old Lamp Base

Cupid is seated on the skull
Of Humanity;
On this throne the impious one
With the shameless laugh

Is gaily blowing round bubbles
That rise in the air
As if they would rejoin the globes
At the ether's end.

The sphere, fragile and luminous,
Takes flight rapidly,
Bursts and spits out its flimsy soul
Like a golden dream.

I hear the skull groan and entreat
At every bubble:
"When is this fierce, ludicrous game
To come to an end?

Because what your pitiless mouth
Scatters in the air,
Monstrous murderer — is my brain,
My flesh and my blood!"

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) was a french poet--some argue one of the greatest french poets of the 19Th century-- who was given the surnom of 'the father of modern criticism,' shocked the Conservatives with his unveiled view of lust and decay. Baudelaire was the first to assimilate modern, artificial, and decadent--was on the side of artificiality, saying that vices are natural and essentially selfish where virtue are artificial because one put forth an conscious effort and restraint in order to be good. To Baudelaire the snobbishly controlled and the dandy were heroes and the ultimate proof of meaningless existence. He was a gentleman who never became vulgar and remained a cool collected smile.
His life was not an easy one, death, sadness and an estranged relationship with his mother after her third marriage, he was sent to boarding school and was expelled. His true passion since childhood was to live by his pen but still he enrolled in Law school, around this time he became addicted to Opium and later contracted lethal syphilis. His debts piled higher and higher around him and he left his studies and never returned.
From 1852 to 1865 he was occupied in translating Edgar Allan Poe's writings. In Poe, Baudelaire found a kindred spirit (Now you probably know why I like him. Anyone who loves Poe is aces in my book). When his Les Fleurs du Mal(The Flowers of Bad) came out all the people who had a hand in the work- author, printer, and publisher -were prosecuted and found guilty of obscenity and blasphemy. In this controversial book he transfers his guilt, sins and lies on the reader making them feel just as the poet felt. Waving the truth before their eyes and shedding the blinders with words, what powerful words, "If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, knives / have not yet ruined us and stitched their quick, / loud patterns on the canvas of our lives, / it is because our souls are still too sick."

With out further ado...the poem!

Fleurs du mal--La Fontaine de Sang

Charles Baudelaire

Il me semble parfois que mon sang coule à flots,

Ainsi qu'une fontaine aux rythmiques sanglots.

Je l'entends bien qui coule avec un long murmure,

Mais je me tâte en vain pour trouver la blessure.

À travers la cité, comme dans un champ clos,

Il s'en va, transformant les pavés en îlots,

Désaltérant la soif de chaque créature,

Et partout colorant en rouge la nature.

J'ai demandé souvent à des vins captieux

D'endormir pour un jour la terreur qui me mine;

Le vin rend l'oeil plus clair et l'oreille plus fine!

J'ai cherché dans l'amour un sommeil oublieux;

Mais l'amour n'est pour moi qu'un matelas d'aiguilles

Fait pour donner à boire à ces cruelles filles!

and now in english, but I have to say the words loose a bit in translation...

Flowers of Evil--The Fountain of Blood
Charles Baudelaire's words translated by Roy Campbell

My blood in waves seems sometimes to be spouting

As though in rhythmic sobs a fountain swooned.

I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting,

I feel myself all over for the wound.

Across the town, as in the lists of battle,

It flows, transforming paving stones to isles,

Slaking the thirst of creatures, men, and cattle,

And colouring all nature red for miles.

Sometimes I've sought relief in precious wines

To lull in me the fear that undermines,

But found they sharpened every sense the more.

I've also sought forgetfulness in lust,

But love's a bed of needles, and they thrust

To give more drink to each rapacious whore.

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

A Dead Rose
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---
Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---
If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---
If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---
If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---
If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---
If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

My one, the sister without peer,
The handsomest of all!
She looks like the rising morning star
At the start of a happy year.
Shining bright, fair of skin,
Lovely the look of her eyes,
Sweet the speech of her lips,
She has not a word too much.
Upright neck, shining breast,
Hair true lapis lazuli;
Arms surpassing gold,
Fingers like lotus buds.
Heavy thighs, narrow waist,
Her legs parade her beauty;
With graceful step she treads the ground,
Captures my heart by her movements.
She causes all men's necks
To turn about to see her;
Joy has he whom she embraces,
He is like the first of men!
When she steps outside she seems
Like that the Sun!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

Oh, the Places You'll Go! (not in its entirety)
Dr. Seuss
Except when you don' t
Because, sometimes, you won't.
I'm sorry to say so but, sadly, it's true and Hang-ups can happen to you.
You can get all hung upin a prickle-ly perch.And your gang will fly on.You'll be left in a Lurch.
You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,that you'll be in a Slump.
And when you're in a Slump,you're not in for much fun.Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.
You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out?
Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose?
How much can you win?
And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...or right-and-three-quarters?
Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...
...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to goor the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a
Yes or a No or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for
Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
NO!That's not for you!
Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

Sometimes Dr. Seuss just has all the words. From the very first time I learned to read this Doctor was my go to guy. One fish, two fish, blue fish, green fish--pigtails and hot pink converse under the plum tree. Oh, the Places You'll Go!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

I carry your heart with me

I carry your heart with me(I carry it in
my heart)I am never without it(anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)I want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

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