Nxonfu II

Page Sixty-seven

Friday 13 Aug 2010… (yes, another new one)

Zrqhfn

 

V unq pbzr gb gur ubhfe, va n pnir bs gerrf,
Snpvat n furre fxl.
Rirelguvat zbirq, — n oryy uhat ernql gb fgevxr,
Fha naq ersyrpgvba jurryrq ol.
Jura gur oner rlrf jrer orsber zr
Naq gur uvffvat unve,
Uryq hc ng n jvaqbj, frra guebhtu n qbbe.
Gur fgvss onyq rlrf, gur frecragf ba gur sberurnq
Sbezrq va gur nve.
Guvf vf n qrnq fprar sberire abj.
Abguvat jvyy rire fgve.
Gur raq jvvy arire oevtugra vg zber guna guvf,
Abe gur enva oyhe.
Gur jngre jvyy nyjnlf snyy, naq jvvy abg snyy,
Naq gur gvccrq oryy znxr ab fbhaq.
Gur tenff jvyy nyjnlf or tebjvat sbe unl
Qrrc ba gur tebhaq.
Naq V funyy fgnaq urer yvxr n funqbj
Haqre gur terng onynaprq qnl,
Zl rlrf ba gur lryybj qhrg gung jnf yvsgvat va gur jvaq,
Naq qbrf abg qevsg njnl.

 

                                             ~~  louise bogan

Nxonfu I  ~~  Poetry  ~~  Nxonfu III

(gabriella veronese’s mask in original state at www.toscano.com)

 

is cuimhin liom

sehnen posted on May 23, 2008 | views: 151 | Tags: remembering them with flowers (link)x

Page Thirty             (copy)

friday 23 may 2008    greenfield

— Memorial day weekend, and my fourteen stolen friends don’t even have graves for me to go to. Or if they have them, I don’t know where they are or have anyone to take me there. I never had fourteen to mourn all at once before.

                                             Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh
                                             in allen Wipfeln spürest du
                                             kaum einen Hauch.
                                             Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
                                             Warte, nur balde, ruhest du auch. 

                                                        — j.w. von goethe

                                   Si un jour, la vie t’arrache à moi;
                                   Si tu meures quand tu sois loin de moi;
                                   Si tu meures c’n’est pas de problème,
                                   Car moi, je mourrai aussi.

                                                         — edith piaf

                                             Ma shiúlaim o na laethe beo,
                                             an ghrían is an ghealach ar mo chúl.
                                             Nil uaim ach smaointe
                                             ar mo (charai)…
                                             Deora ar mó chroí go brón, (go deo).

                                                      —  mostly eithne brainnan

                                             Sí an crann marbh,
                                             deireadh an tuath.

                                                        — eithne brainnan

Bígí liomsa i gconai, lá is oíche.  No, that can’t ever be again. The mentally deficient and judgmentally hyperactive, control-freak adolsecents at the DMH and CSS took care of that go deo.

Update 8 June 2009:  They can’t be with me ever again, the 14 I love so much, who were the whole center and meaning and purpose to my life. I have a great need to be told what happened to each of them, but no one’s talking. Existence is empty and dark without them. And I failed them, by zigging when I should have zagged in yet another highly pressurized situation — the one with the venomous landlady and the psycho-chick with the mommy married to the mob.

Last memorial day I wrote a poem and posted it on another blog. It begins, “On the last Memorial Day of my life…” And I hoped it would be. I hoped I wouldn’t live for a second memorial day without them. But I have. Why? I remembered them with flowers again this year.

Languages

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read…   Lifelines…   Mugsy’s book

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

sehnsucht, secrets

Page Twenty-six                         (copy)

sehnen posted on May 09, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: is cuimhin liomx

friday 9 may 2008    greenfield

also, es ist Freitag. die Stunden jedes Tages sind schrecklich lang, und die Einsamkeit ist enorm und unbeschreibbar. ich leide unter einer riesigen Sehnsucht  nach meinem eigenen Leben, was gestohlen wurde, und am allerwichtigsten, nach meinen 14 teuren Freunden.

es wird immer härter, immer dunkler.

“bígí liomsa, i gconai, lá is oíche. ag caoineadh ar an uaigneas mór, na deora go brónach.”   (e.brennan) is cuimhin liom na laethe, is cuimhin liom an grá ró-dheas, ró-mhór, na scealta.

und noch ein paar Worte für euch, von unsrer alten Freundin loreena:

                                                                                                                                              

    Cast your eyes on the ocean,
    cast your soul to the sea.
    when the dark night seems endless,
    please remember me.  
 
     …. (l. mckennitt)

ich erinnere mich doch an euch, immer, und die dunkle Nacht ist absolut peinlich und endlos ohne euch. viele, viele “deora go brónach,” und viele hässliche, leere Stunden.

Update 5  June 2009: I’m not going to translate this, as I didn’t when I wrote it last year. I guess the computer can do that for anyone who’s interested. here to the Languages page of my website, if you like that sort of thing.

the dark night is endless, and no matter the medications, so far it stays that way. since I was seven years old, the major meaning and purpose in my life, the major source of fulfillment, was taking care of animals. nothing I do for the last 15 months is important. caring for animals was it. remember that if Matthew can be believed, I have Asperger’s. a number of weird things were done in public places last year that looked like Asperger’s testing to me, and when these odd events were over, Matthew told me that I had it. some Aspergrians can find a way to make it with neurotypicals, maybe most of them, but I never could. for me it was animals. the days are emptier and darker even than they were last year, because last year I still had my denial and my hope, and the tremendous, unwanted distraction of this other crime-crap situation Matthew had told me about, and what all that might mean.

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read…    Being toward death...   Stolen stars

(photo from a gaelsong cover)

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