Ode to a twin soul

For two weeks I was a zombie. An anti-social creature that talked nothing but non-sense on those only two occasions when I had human contact. Insomnia, depression...

After some absence, I almost forgot that basically nothing changed. That my friend is still my friend whom I can tell anything... and when I say anything, I mean anything, even those things that I don't admit to myself even.
And that made me realize how NOT ALONE I am.

Yes, I do miss him. I miss him holding me after talking with my mother and getting depressed over it. I miss to hear his laughter and see his smile. I miss the sound of his voice, the way he is pronouncing the "r". I miss the possibility of many things that were yet to happened.

To say "best friend" is an understatement. He is my twin soul, my alter ego. He's the one who can be so honest with me that I break, and then to be there to catch me so that I won't fall. He's the one in whose arms I can cry for one hour and still he won't be bored. And still be there with me.

And now I want nothing less from life. Nothing less than this. I cannot live with anything less. I shared moments of pure happiness.

My pain is not smaller now, after almost three weeks . Nor I want it to be. Just that I have learned to carry it with me all the time and not to mend under its burden all the time.

I still cry. Everyday. Sometimes when I'm on the street even. Sometimes I'm in the subway and I feel like wanting to take your hand. I don't know why, we didn't do that when we were together... And then i feel the emptiness around me, how lonely I am, although I'm surrounded by all those people. It's like a part of me is missing. You are the part of me that is missing.

Can anyone understand that this is not a woman in-love talking? But a friend? The happiest and saddest friend on the face of the earth?


And you were happy... And I was also happy. I need to understand why. Why you had to leave. I need our snow fight and me cooking for you and I need so many other things with you. But for that I also need you here, with me.


"we met, we were at a distance for a while, we came close, we came real close, we r inseperable. this is how i can summerise" You've done it perfect. I love you

To feel your body part of mine,  now I know how I want to spend my life. I don't want to live like before anymore, now I know what life is for. I want to live for pleasure, in peace beside you, somewhere

You go, go. And you don't come back

I need my sadness because I need to keep on feeling human.

Psapp - Leaving in coffins

I have loved you with all my strength

I have loved you with all the force I was capable of. And now I know that I can love. That I have it in me to love someone. Pure, deep love.

Fear...

I don't want to sleep... If I do...it will be minus one day... I want to stay awake as much as possible... And for Sunday morning to never come... the black Sunday... once it was cricket, now it is farewell... 
I drank to get drunk... after such a long time, I wanted to anihilate my senses... not to care, not to love, just for a tiny second... But sometimes the feelings are just stronger than the alcohol... 

Asato ma sadgamaya mantra, Brhadaranyaka Upanishad — I.iii.28

Asato ma sadgamaya

Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya

Mrtyorma amrtat gamaya
Aum Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!

Lead me from the asat to the sat*
Lead me from darkness to light**
Lead me from death to immortality.***
Aum Peace! Peace! Peace!


* Asat and it's opposite, sat, are dififcult to be translated. Sat contains the meaning of Truth, Real - but ultimate Truth and ultimate Reality, the truth that is true independent from time (true in the past, true in the present and true in the future). The True Self is free from dependence, because dependence in the asat ends in pain always. The True Self is Sat. The consciess of the True Self is beyond time, beyond change. Sat is in reality a true part of all asat objects. 
** To be understood as ignorance and knowledge - one obscures true knowledge, which can be obtain through spiritual enlightment.
*** To be understood not as eternal life, like in the case of Christianity, but as "I was never born, nor I cannot die, because I am not the body, the mind and the intellect, but the eternal, blissful consciousness that serves as the substratum for creation."


The human goal is Self-Realization, to merge into the supreme reality. 

How to create an enemy - Sam Keen, "Faces of the enemy"

Start with an empty canvas
Sketch in broad outline the forms of
men, women, and children.

Dip into the unconsciousness well of your own
disowned darkness
with a wide brush and
strain the strangers with the sinister hue
of the shadow.

Trace onto the face of the enemy the greed,
hatred, carelessness you dare not claim as
your own.

Obscure the sweet individuality of each face.

Erase all hints of the myriad loves, hopes,
fears that play through the kaleidoscope of
every infinite heart.

Twist the smile until it forms the downward
arc of cruelty.

Strip flesh from bone until only the
abstract skeleton of death remains.

Exaggerate each feature until man is
metamorphasized into beast, vermin, insect.

Fill in the background with malignant
figures from ancient nightmares – devils,
demons, myrmidons of evil.

When your icon of the enemy is complete
you will be able to kill without guilt,
slaughter without shame.

The thing you destroy will have become
merely an enemy of God, an impediment
to the sacred dialectic of history.

Sam Keen, "Faces of the Enemy. Reflections of the Hostile Imagination", Harper San Francisco, 1991

Yesterday's sadness

Yesterday I was this sad: 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4R4PVEwX5U


Sorry, the video was embedded by request

Enmity destroys freedom

Enmity destroys freedom. Only lovers are free to come and go. Enemies dare not let each other out of sight. In the eabsence of being we cling to having; the vacuum of love is filled by hate.

Sam Keen, "Faces of the Enemy", Harper San Francisco, 1991, page 106

We have time, by Octavian Paler

We have time for everything.
To sleep, to run here and there
To regret our mistakes and to be wrong again,
To judge others and excuse ourselves,
We have time to read and write,
To correct what we have written, and to regret what we have written,
We have time to make plans and not stick to them
We have time for illusions and then to go through their ashes later on,
We have time time for ambitions and diseases,
To blame destiny and details,
We have time to look at the clowds, the commercials or a simple accident,
We have time to dismiss our questions,
To postpone the answers,
We have time to break a dream and then reinvent it,
We have time to make friends, to loose them,
We have time for lessons which we then forget,
We have time to receive gifts that we don't understand.
We have time for everything.

There is no time for just a small amount of tenderness.
When we want that also, we die

A Confession! by Amit Srivastava

I knew Amit's poetry, he showed it before... but never have I asked him if I can put it here before today... it seemed simple in the beginning, but after reading and reading, after paying the right attention to the way he chose the words... I was even more impressed than before... He's a researcher, academician, activits, and casual writer. He's the most dedicated, deep and complex person I had the chance to meet.

A Confession!

I never did what I wanted to do,
Hardly have I cared to live the expectations through
Time kept changing its dimensions, I guess.
Although I was all about thoughtfulness
for weak, for poor and for helpless
I reached them, though my resources did not allow
I forgot the personal things and
manners of private affairs,
Ignored the hardship of problems of life,
to meet my consciousness, to feed my vendetta!
Here I am with only one life,
and a peak of it, I realized -
I cannotdo much... neither can my innocent efforts
things will be the same in this world,
the inertia will  be greater, gravitiy will be souring.
The gaps, the odds have been here...
Might will be always right!
Humanity shall still fight!
And I have just one life,
Let it live for a while -
No regrets - no complaints - just day and nights!

The old lady

Every evening when I come back from work (the hour varies, from 9 PM to 11 PM) I walk by an old lady. She is homeless. She sits on the ground, with an icon and she is always reading a religious book. It drives me crazy to see her every day like that.

She is about my height, is dressed for the cold weather outside (even -15 degrees this winter). I don't know where she spends her days, because she arrives there at approximately 5 PM and I honestly don't know if she sleeps on the streets or not. Two months ago, her clothes were looking better. Last week her clothes (same clothes) seemed used. What is odd is that she does not smell bad (our homeless people smell horrible). She does not beg. She just stays there and reads from that religious book. I used to give her money. Every evening. I still give her money, from time to time. But now I don't know why, I feel ashamed. I never listened to her saying thank you to me for giving her money. I couldn't stand that. My heart breaks into small pieces everytime I see her.

She is another victim of our communist regime and of our wonderful transition towards capitalism. There are so many like her out there. And I don't understand. If i search on Google for NGOs that deal with poverty, I find many. But what do these NGOs really do? Why aren't they helping old people?

My dream is to have money one day, much money and build a shelter for old people who end up in the streets (their children kick them out, they are tricked by others into giving them their homes or simply lived in a house given by the state before 1989 and now find themselves being thrown out in the streets because they can't buy that house - a three-room apartment here costs (or costed before the crisis) over 100.000 euros). The average salary in Romania is 400-500 euros. And the old people receive pensions from the state (we have a public pensions' system, and the private pensions market is new here). Some 20% of the old people receive state pensions lower than 100 euros (some less than 50 euros).

Theoretically, because we are a EU member state, we can access structural funds. But the corruption rate here is sooo high that you must have connections to be able to access one of these funds.Why the hell isn't my government accessing funds for these people? Why aren't the NGOs accessing funds for these people? Moreover, because we are now part of the EU, organizations like the UN invest less in Romania.

I never deared to talk to this woman. I don't even know exactly how she looks like, how her face looks like. I always wanted to take a picture of her, but I just pass by every day with the camera in my bag...And I never get enough courage to do it. What is she? A piece in an exposition?

I like his commitment, his deepness, his metaphysical sadness, his constant search, his constant improvement. Never giving up.

Song Of the Mystic - Beauty, by David

Contemporary spiritual poets:

And the child spoke unto the Mystic:

"Master speak to me of Beauty, for I have
yet to see the face of Her sacred soul."

And the Mystic answered, saying:

You are wrong my child; many were the
days when She smiled upon you, and you knew
it not.
Many were the nights when She whispered
the song of Life unto your ear, but always were
you asleep.
Be there something of more innocence than
the gentle cooing of a newborn babe?
Be there something of more purity than the
shadow of a woman's alluring smile?
Be there something of more tenderness
than the endearing look held in the eyes of a mother?
And is not the sum of such innocence, purity
and tenderness the essence of all Beauty?
Open the eyes of your soul, and Beauty shall
reveal Herself unto you.
Listen with the ears of your heart, and She
will sing Her silent melody.
And if you see Beauty where all others see
naught but ugliness, then truly do you look through
the loving eyes of God.

Kabir

In this case, words are futile

Moartea căprioarei, de Nicolae Labiş (The death of the deer)

Poezia ce mi-a marcat existenţa / The poem that left a powerful impression on my thoughts

Moartea cărprioarei

Seceta a ucis orice boare de vânt.
Soarele s-a topit şi a curs pe pământ.
A rămas cerul fierbinte şi gol.
Ciuturile scot din fântână nămol.
Peste păduri tot mai des focuri, focuri,
Dansează sălbatice, satanice jocuri.

Mă iau dupa tata la deal printre târsuri,
Şi brazii mă zgârie, răi şi uscaţi.
Pornim amândoi vânătoarea de capre,
Vânătoarea foametei în munţii Carpaţi.
Setea mă năruie. Fierbe pe piatra
Firul de apa prelins din cişmea.
Tâmpla apasă pe umăr. Păşesc ca pe-o altă
Planetă, imensă si grea.

Aşteptăm într-un loc unde încă mai sună,
Din strunele undelor line, izvoarele.
Când va scăpăta soarele, când va licări luna,
Aici vor veni să s-adape
Una câte una caprioarele.

Spun tatii că mi-i sete şi-mi face semn să tac.
Ameţitoare apă, ce limpede te clatini!
Mă simt legat prin sete de vietatea care va muri
La ceas oprit de lege si de datini.

Cu foşnet veştejit răsuflă valea.
Ce-ngrozitoare înserare pluteşte-n univers!
Pe zare curge sânge şi pieptul mi-i roşu, de parcă
Mâinile pline de sânge pe piept mi le-am şters.

Ca pe-un altar ard ferigi cu flăcari vineţii,
Şi stelele uimite clipiră printre ele.
Vai, cum aş vrea să nu mai vii, să nu mai vii,
Frumoasă jertfă a pădurii mele!

Ea s-arătă săltând şi se opri
Privind în jur c-un fel de teamă,
Şi nările-i subţiri înfiorară apa
Cu cercuri lunecoase de aramă.

Sticlea în ochii-i umezi ceva nelămurit,
Ştiam că va muri si c-o s-o doară.
Mi se părea că retraiesc un mit
Cu fata prefăcută-n căprioară.
De sus, lumina palidă, lunară,
Cernea pe blana-i caldă flori calde de cireş.
Vai cum doream ca pentru-întâia oară
Bătaia puştii tatii sã dea greş!

Dar văile vuiră. Căzută în genunchi,
Ea ridicase capul, îl clătina spre stele,
Îl prăvăli apoi, stârnind pe apă
Fugare roiuri negre de mărgele.
O pasare albastră zvâcnise dintre ramuri,
Şi viaţa căprioarei spre zările târzii
Zburase lin, cu ţipăt, ca păsările toamna
Când lasă cuiburi sure şi pustii.

Împleticit m-am dus şi i-am închis
Ochii umbroşi, trist străjuiţi de coarne,
Şi-am tresărit tăcut şi alb când tata
Mi-a şuierat cu bucurie: - Avem carne!

Spun tatii că mi-i sete şi-mi face semn să beau.
Ameţitoare apă, ce-ntunecat te clatini!
Mă simt legat prin sete de vietatea care a murit
La ceas oprit de lege şi de datini...
Dar legea ni-i deşartă şi străină
Când viaţa-n noi cu greu se mai anină,
Iar datina şi mila sunt deşarte,
Când soru-mea-i flămândă, bolnavă şi pe moarte.

Pe-o nara puşca tatii scoate fum.
Vai, fără vânt aleargă frunzarele duium!
Înalţă tata foc înfricoşat.
Vai, cât de mult pădurea s-a schimbat!
Din ierburi prind în mâini fără să ştiu
Un clopoţel cu clinchet argintiu...
De pe frigare tata scoate-n unghii
Inima căprioarei si rărunchii.

Ce-i inima? Mi-i foame! Vreau să trăiesc şi-aş vrea ....
Tu, iartă-mă, fecioară - tu, căprioara mea!
Mi-i somn. Ce nalt îi focul! Şi codrul, ce adânc!
Plâng. Ce gândeşte tata? Mănânc şi plâng. Mănânc!

The Death of the Deer

The drought has stifled every feather of wind,

The sun melted down on the earth, left behind

An empty, exhausted, blistering sky,

The buckets come up from the fountains all dry.

More and more over woods fires, fires,

Dance above savage, demoniac pyres.

I follow my father through the bushes uphill,

The fir-trees scrape me, withered up and evil,

Together, we start the deer hunting quest,

The hunting of hunger in the Carpathian forest.

Thirst ruins me. The thin string of water

Drip, drop, from the spout is sizzling on stone.

My temple is throbbing. I walk on another

Enormous and heavy, strange planet alone.

We wait in a place where, from strings of calm waves,

The streams still resound.

When the sun will be set, when the moon will rise, round,

One by one, in a line, up here,

they will come to drink, the deer.

I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he hushes me at once,

Bemusing water, how clearly you glow!

I`m tied by thirst to the soul meant to die

At an hour forbidden by custom and by law.

The valley rustles with a withered hiss,

Crosswise the sky, a dire twilight lit

the clouds, and far, above the cliff,

blood drips. My chest is red, as if

I wiped my hands of blood on it.

With bluish flames through ferns, as in a dream,

Astounded stars begin to gleam

Sacrifice of my woods, oh, beautiful prey,

How I wish you did not come, how I pray!

She bounces lightly then she stops

And looks with caution through the grass

Her slender nostrils stirred the water

In circles shimmering like brass.

A hazy fear glared deep inside her eyes

I knew that she would suffer;

I knew that she would die,

As she stood there, still, she was the sheer

Myth of the maid embodied in a deer.

White cherry flowers, high above her

The moon was sifting on her fur.

Oh, how I wish, oh, how I pray,

My father`s gun to miss its prey!

The valleys roared. Knelt, in the stream,

She raised her head, as in a dream

She watched the sky, the moon, the stars

Then fell and water gleamed with scars.

A blue bird rushed, in a tree, unknown

The deer`s life has softly flown,

Crying like birds when they depart

And their fall migrations start.

I went to close her eyes, below

So sadly laid her antlers shadow

I startled livid when, suddenly, offbeat,

My father screeched with joy: “Meat, we have meat!

I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he nods that I may drink.

Bemusing water, how sullenly you glow!

I feel tied by thirst to the soul that died

At an hour forbidden by custom and by law…

But our laws are useless and dead

When our life hangs up on a thread

And custom, law and pity are quickly gone

When sis` is sick and hungry at home.

The smokes comes out of my father`s gun

The leafage in flocks starts to run!

My father kindles a terrible fire

The wood seems now darker and higher!

I pick up from the grass, as in a dream,

A tiny bell with silver gleam,

My father, from the spit rends with his nails

The deer`s heart and her entrails.

You, heart? I`m hungry! I want to live, I wish, although…

Forgive me deer, forgive me virgin-doe!

I`m tired. How tall is now the fire! The woods, how deep!

I cry. What does my father think? I eat and cry. I eat!

My Younger Self and My Older Self, by Sri Chinmoy

My younger self, ego,
Tells me that I can be happy
By being separated from the oneness-soul.
My larger self, oneness universal
Tells me that there is no such thing
As ego-separativity.
It is all oneness-song,
Oneness-perfection,
Oneness-reality.
I and my older self together shall stay,
Together shall sing,
Together shall dance.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, by Adrienne Rich

                1
            
You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory."

Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor, fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact.  In the prime of your life.

Nervy, glowering, your daughter
wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.

              2
            
Banging the coffee-pot into the sink
she hears the angels chiding, and looks out
past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.

The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she's let the tapstream scald her arm,
a match burn to her thumbnail,

or held her hand above the kettle's snout
right inthe woolly steam.  They are probably angels,
since nothing hurts her anymore, except
each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.

              3
            
A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes.  And Nature,
that sprung-lidded, still commodious
steamer-trunk of tempora and mores
gets stuffed with it all:    the mildewed orange-flowers,
the female pills, the terrible breasts
of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument,
each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream
across the cut glass and majolica
like Furies cornered from their prey:
The argument ad feminam, all the old knives
that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours,
ma semblable, ma soeur!

              4
            
Knowing themselves too well in one another:
their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn,
the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn...
Reading while waiting
for the iron to heat,
writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum,
or, more often,
iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird,
dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.

              5
            
Dulce ridens, dulce loquens,
she shaves her legs until they gleam
like petrified mammoth-tusk.

              6
            
When to her lute Corinna sings
neither words nor music are her own;
only the long hair dipping
over her cheek, only the song
of silk against her knees
and these
adjusted in reflections of an eye.

Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before
an unlocked door, that cage of cages,
tell us, you bird, you tragical machine--
is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down
by love, for you the only natural action,
are you edged more keen
to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown
her household books to you, daughter-in-law,
that her sons never saw?

              7
            
"To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence."
Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.

              8
            
"You all die at fifteen," said Diderot,
and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream
behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been,
all that we were--fire, tears,
wit, taste, martyred ambition--
stirs like the memory of refused adultery
the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.

              9
            
Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all? Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time's precious chronic invalid,--
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us--
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.

Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.

              10
            
Well,
she's long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince

but her cargo
no promise then:
delivered
palpable
ours.

Peace, by Swami Vivekananda

Behold, it comes in might,
The power that is not power,
The light that is in darkness,
The shade in dazzling light.

It is joy that never spoke,
And grief unfelt, profound,
Immortal life unlived,
Eternal death unmourned.

It is not joy nor sorrow,
But that which is between,
It is not noght nor morrow,
But that which joins them in.

It is sweet rest in music;
And pause in sacred art;
The silence between speaking;
Between two fits of passion --
It is the calm of heart.

It is beauty never seen,
And love that stands alone,
It is song that lives un-sung,
And knowledge never known.

It is death between two lives,
And lull between two storms,
The void whence rose creation,
And that where it returns.

To it the tear-drop goes,
To spread the smiling form
It is the Goal of Life,
And Peace -- its only home!

From a letter to Miss MacLeod, 26th December 1900
Composed at Ridgely Manor, New York, 1899.

Poetry of Vivekananda, by Swami Vivekananda

All love is expansion, all selfishness is contraction.
Love is therefore the only law of life.
He who loves lives, he who is selfish is dying.
Therefore love for love's sake,
because it is law of life, just as you breathe to live

Aici ajunsese acest unic insingurat, si el unul printre altii atat de numerosi din orasul acesta de insingurati.[...] Se poate intampla insa ca la prima vedere sa nu-i observi, si asta, fie datorita faptului ca macar o buna parte din ei la prime vedere nu par ca sunt, fie ca, in multe cazuri, nu vor sa para. Sau altfel, datorita faptului ca o multime de oameni care pretind ca sunt, sporesc si mai mult confuzia in aceasta problema, facandu-ne sa credem ca in cele din urma nu exista insingurati adevarati. Fiindca, evident ca daca un om nu are picioare sau nu are ambele maini, stim cu totii, sau credem ca stim, ca omul acesta este neputincios. Si in aceeasi clipa acest om incepe sa fie mai putin neputincios, deoarece l-am observat si suferim pentru el, ii cumparam pieptanase inutile si fotografii in culori de Carlitos Gardel. Iar atunci, acest mutilat care nu are picioare sau mainile amandoua inceteaza de a mai fi partial sau total categoria de insingurat total la care ne gandim, asa incat ajungem sa ne incerce numaidecat un nelamurit sentiment de ciuda, poate din pricina nenumaratilor absolut insingurati care, tot in aceeasi clipa (neavand indrazneala sau siguranta si nici spiritul de agresiune al celor adevarati, cu pieptanase si portrete in culori) isi indura tacuti si cu demintate suprema soarta de autentici nenorociti." (Ernesto Sabato)

Nedreptate, de Nichita Stanescu

De ce sa auzim si de ce sa avem urechi pentru auz ?
Atat de pacatosi sa fim noi incit sa fim nevoiti
sa avem
sperante, pentru frumusete
si pentru duiosie, ochi
si pentru alergare, picioare ?
Atat de nefericiti sa fim noi
incit sa trebuiasca sa ne iubim.
Atat de nestabili sa fim noi
incit sa trebuiasca sa ne prelungim
prin nastere
tristetea noastra urita
si dragostea noastra infrigurata ?

No Coward Soul is Mine, by Emily Bronte

I cannot say that this is my favorite poem, but then again, this is my tribute to Emily Bronte, for "Wuthering Hights" is my favorite novel.

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the worlds storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heavens glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast.
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life -- that in me has rest,
As I -- Undying Life -- have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move mens hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast Rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou -- Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

A Women Well Set Free, by Sumanagalamata

A woman well set free! How free I am,
How wonderfully free, from kitchen drudgery.
Free from the harsh grip of hunger,
And from empty cooking pots,
Free too of that unscrupulous man,
The weaver of sunshades.
Calm now, and serene I am,
All lust and hatred purged.
To the shade of the spreading trees I go
And contemplate my happiness.

Some midnight thoughts

Since I have discovered not who i am, but who I want to be, I have done nothing but break the rules. The social rules, I mean.

I have never felt that I am truly part of this world. I was living my life through other peoples' lives. And not even other people, but potential "me-s"... Miruna if... That was me... So at one moment I sat and I centralized all these "Miruna ifs" into one single "Miruna if", a potential Miruna if you want. And now I'm heading towards her, towards Me. Some parts of the new me are completed...some others are not up to me 100%. But still I'm doing something for myself.

I like to see how others perceive me. In my last field trip I was fortunate enough to live with a girl who liked to analyze people and she was open enough to discuss her observations. I've learned many things about myself because of her, but I've also got a quick look on how others see me. Actually, my best luck with her is that she isn't polite. Don't get me wrong, she's not impolite. Just that she usually speaks whatever is on her mind (or at least this is the impression she leaves to most people).

Phenomenal Woman, by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Desire (Do you Love me?)

Do you love me?

Love Poems of Rumi, edited by Deepak Chopra

Desire (The Lover's Passion) - Deepak Chopra feat. Demi Moore

A lover knows only humility, he has no choice.
He steals into your alley at night, he has no choice.
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair, don't fret,
he has no choice.
In his frenzied love for you, he longs to break the chains of his imprisonment,
he has no choice.

A lover asked his beloved:
- Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied: I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.

I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself.

I am your lover, come to my side,
I will open the gate to your love.
Come settle with me, let us be neighbours to the stars.
You have been hiding so long, endlessly drifting in the sea of my love.
Even so, you have always been connected to me.
Concealed, revealed, in the unknown, in the un-manifest.
I am life itself.

You have been a prisoner of a little pond,
I am the ocean and its turbulent flood.
Come merge with me,
leave this world of ignorance.
Be with me, I will open the gate to your love.

I desire you more than food or drink
My body my senses my mind hunger for your taste
I can sense your presence in my heart
although you belong to all the world
I wait with silent passïon for one gesture one glance
from you.

Are you looking for me? by Kabir

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat.

My shoulder is against yours.

you will not find me in the stupas, not in Indian shrine

rooms, nor in synagogues, nor in cathedrals:

not in masses, nor kirtans, not in legs winding

around your own neck, nor in eating nothing but

vegetables.

When you really look for me, you will see me

instantly --

you will find me in the tiniest house of time.

Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?

He is the breath inside the breath.