Tag Archives: mind

Amazing traces…

Please watch before reading, and listen while you read:

The Idan Raichel Project – Hakol Over (Everything passes)

Idan Raichel clip 2

I need you to dream the colour of spaces,
the time between midnight, tomorrow and trees,
I beg you to fathom amazing traces,
layers of clouds returning to seas…

I dare you to picture small shells of forgiveness,
buried within improbable fields,
requiems sold to merchants of stillness,
swordless battles of useless shields…

I want us to marry in a destitute chapel,
by ministers chanting untimely hymns,
with broken pieces of soft marble,
exchanging a lifetime of broken dreams…


To my autistic diary…


When its motion stopped,
I realised that my circle of life
became an insignificant spot,
desperate, frightened, alone,
like a tired fire juggler
abandoned by an audience
too dull to notice
the beauty of the single detail
constructing their illusion…

“How odd” he said,
“In vitro, every now and then
becomes a schism
embedded deep between
what’s left, and yet to be…”

Streets become discontinued cobbles,
trees become ungerminated seeds,
all birds remain abandoned egg shells,
and every life’s a single heart’s
unfinished tapestry of beats…

Defiant hopelessness…

Never Forget Never Forgive

Nobody’s making attempts anymore
to stir a peace of roses.
Individual daffodils and bunches of sage
challenge shields of rage
hidden under profaned altars
of compromised innocence;
piled mountains of drowned chariots
awaiting another exodus to chase…

I nearly fell for you Delilah,
but I am blind you see,
incapable of discerning
between a hairdresser and barbers.

Nights of shattered crystals
call for vengeance,
and Picasso crying
shards of broken Guernicas
over forgotten mind fields…

It’s always midnight
on the side of treason;
either too early,
or too late
to find another door…

Don’t ever leave your clothes outside
when told to take a shower…

In nomine patris…


An angel once told me,
that castles of sand never die;
each grain’s being washed ashore
other isles,
carrying whispers of hands
having caressed breasts of lovers
long gone…
You king’s lusting lips cannot
condemn you Esther…
His tongue’s still tasting
sweet nectars, drops of gold,
diamonds of your passion’s
unforbidden fruit…
One day, when hidden monsters
shall arise of bottomless horizons,
and northern lights
shall cover eyes of fallen saints,
kings of old and others,
will have forgotten every pain,
each scream of maiden mothers
refused by never fathered christs…

The leaving angel left behind himself,
the sandless  abys,
and passed the key to starving,
restless human minds…

Ribbons, blue…


So many times,
the roads to downtown nowhere
collide at each and every corner,
with blue,
ribbon-like rivers of solitude;
statements of facts about
state of the art,
lost or found pieces
of a hard won peace
of mindless thought lives.

ta-ra-ra bum-tara…

Marching bands of nonsense,
we are.
Each and every one of us,

“Not dark… yet… ” – Schizophrenica Magna

I would remember
any time available for thought.

I could avenge all memories
or less…

I should attain
for nothing more
than senses…


Why’s no one else
available for thinking?

Why so alone
am starving here
for waitings, I…?


Just me and I…

When your mind is in the wrong place…

-A short essay on Nazim Hikmet…-

“at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart”
Nazim Hikmet

How strange… Of most people it would be expected to have been mentally settled by the age of fifty; how wrong…
I have found my introductory quote within the opening thoughts of an -until now- unknown (for me) Turkish writer’s “Don Quixote”…
Fond of Cervantes’ Don since my windmilled childhood, it wasn’t though the lone rider’s quest for Dulcinea which struck my senses -as I have found my own, two decades ago-, but Hikmet’s absolutely elemental statement, which at the beginning of this 2013th year of my becoming half a century old/young, bears a rather stormy significance…

It’s been a week before Nazim Hikmet’s passing away on the 3rd of June, 1963, when I came into a world from which he was about to leave… If I would have known everything he knew at the time, I would have rather stayed… My mother’s womb’s darkness would have been a better place to die than this despicably hopeless world, made just a bit more bearable by my Dulcinea and our four love buds…

Nevertheless, it’s Hikmet’s own discovery which bought me on my own writer’s knees, realising that it might not be long before being too late of using my mind from the place where it always should have been…

Oh, for long have I been seeking understanding from a place bearing nothing else than about 1,5 kg of fat-like tissue, good enough to add up the groceries and play with quantum physics, but uselessly hopeless when it comes to understanding why some idiotic “celebrities” never seem to understand that the problem with helping the “third world’s” starving children is not only the small quantity of candy bars they are offering in front of heavy-cash paying paparazzi’s, but the shamelessly shining Rolex watches on their “charitable” hands…

I’ve always been a leftist, genuinely believing that socialism, stripped of its parasitic “leaders”, is a much better option than the so called “democracies” where “vox populi” is just the number of votes needed every four/five years by an elite ruthlessly playing the usurped “vox Dei” on their behalf…

In fact, about 25 years ago, I was advised to quit a political school I just begun, because of an essay in which I wrote a critique of Romania’s “Animal Farm”-type socialism, based on heart-felt and yes, wept over memories of Engels’ “The Condition of the Working Class in England”, which I have read when I was about thirteen…
Of course, I was totally convinced, as I am today, that it’s not philosophy to blame, but it’s poor grasp and (mal)practice in a world where -more or less political oligarchies- have long taken over all aspects of life, to their own mercantile interests…

Back to my mind…
It’s hard to have found it’s real place, when I wasn’t even aware of what “mind” is, and even less what “heart” is, acting on a rather instinctive range of ethics, spreading from personal to herd…

Well, it looks it’s going to take another -hopefully more than just a- few decades to learn how to properly use my newly found software in its newly found hardware…
Oh, but which is which?
Uh, the min(d) is the soft(ware), because it’s min(e), and the h(e)ar(t) is the hard(ware) because it’s very har(d) to find it in the first place…
But then, why should be something which is mine, soft?
Is it just because it’s made of soft, fatty myelin?

How long, and what will it take to learn Hikmet’s value of one’s every moment of good so scarcely left to him in this life?
Without claiming much similitude with his tormented existence, I’ve fled myself my homeland because the “gentlemen” of the day were just the “comrades” of yesterday, pathetically painted over, and some people started to accidentally fall into allegedly malfunctioning elevator pits…
Yet I still haven’t learned -how could have I, with a misplaced mind- the true value of even the smallest good given and still with me, even if only “until evening”…

I can’t do any better for now than hope to have found at least some… hope after all, by quoting Nazim Hikmet’s verses from his “After Release from Prison”:

“Who’s lying at your side?
Not loneliness, but your wife,
in the peaceful sleep of an angel.
What time is it?
That means you’re safe until evening.
Because it’s the practice of police
Never to raid homes in broad daylight.”