Saturday Night Music – The Sea and You

 

Dulce Pontes * 8 April 1969

Giorgos Dalaras * 29 September 1949

Her Voice His Eyes

On the other side I had seen a little girl,
her right hand holding a man's left,
leading him towards the night,
her voice being his eyes.
The sun is red, she said, and soon
she will dive into the glistening sea.

Having eyes only for the man at her side

she had not taken notice of me,

and still I felt like an intruder.

Suddenly I sensed myself walking away,

and only the sun could see

my eyes burning with sorrow and joy.

Could you see through walls,
there's a girl holding a man's hand
her voice being his eyes.
© 2009 Sean Jeating

Pretty cool it was

Eilean Donan Castle ...
around half past four in the morning,
when the pub had closed its doors.
*
Memories of morning freshness 
on a very hot day 27 years later. ;-)

Blimey! Fourty years!

Phew. Fourty years ago, the last Sunday in July was the 30th. One week after this agnostic had "made" Station Island, fulfilling a promise to myself, I climbed Croagh Patrick on my bare feet. 
At the time I am writing this, I was trying to get some sleep on the carpark at the foot of Croagh Patrick when I got awaken by both monotone and hysteric a voice, again and again shouting "Get out of it! Get out of it!"
Carefully I opened the car door, got out and – became witness of an exorcism.

Later I asked myself: Why would people do this?

He, f.e., kept a promise
he had given to himself.

Laughing Lhursday*: Irish Metamorphosis

Early this morning spake Tetrapilotomos:
'Until Wednesday then.'
'Oh, trip to Tibet?
'No, march to Mayo.'
'Ah, next Sunday celebrating once again that St. Patrick worked wonder by climbing Croagh Patrick on your bare feet?'
'What wonder?'
'Expelling all snakes from Hiberna.'
'It was no wonder, at all.'
?
'All Old Paddy did was quasi expemplifying a metamorphosis.'
?
'Sean, did you ever notice that since there are no serpents the esmerald island is swarming with priests?'
And with the corners of his mouth twitching, off he went.

* [For first time visitors]:

Typo in the title?
Nah. It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Saturday Night Music – Nunca vas a comprender

 

Rita Payés *29 September 1999

Monochrome Monday

In the woods ...

Friday is Skyday

...

Monochrome Monday

Silent serenade.

Friday is Skyday

...

Monochrome Monday

...

Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce & Beckett

James Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)

Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 – 22 December 1989)

Laughing Lhursday*

Caught!

 * [For first time visitors]:

Typo in the title?
Nah. It's just that I would not
let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Moonlight shadow

...

Monochrome Monday

13.

„Sieh da! Sieh da, Timotheus, Die Kraniche des Ibykus!“

This morning at nine
hundreds of cranes passed Seanhenge.
Winter's coming. Late.

Nine years ago this happened
but still is unforgotten.

 

To my sister

 Forough Farrokhzad (29.12.1934 - 13.02.1967)

Sister, rise up after your freedom,
why are you quiet?
rise up because henceforth
you have to imbibe the blood of tyrannical men.

Seek your rights, Sister,
from those who keep you weak,
from those whose myriad tricks and schemes
keep you seated in a corner of the house.

How long will you be the object of pleasure
In the harem of men's lust?
how long will you bow your proud head at his feet
like a benighted servant?

How long for the sake of a morsel of bread,
will you keep becoming an aged haji's temporary wife,
seeing second and third rival wives.
oppression and cruelty, my sister, for how long?

This angry moan of yours
must surly become a clamorous scream.
you must tear apart this heavy bond
so that your life might be free.

Rise up and uproot the roots of oppression.
give comfort to your bleeding heart.
for the sake of your freedom, strive
to change the law, rise up.

Forough Farrokhzad (29.12.1934 - 13.02.1967)

Splendid Eyesolation

Diving deep
into the ocean of thoughts.
Scars of life.

Barbecue

The meat was delicious.

Relats conjunts: Sobre la ciutat

«Sobre la ciutat» (Marc Chagall – 1918)
*
Relats conjunts

 

 

Somehow I could not sleep in Walpurgis Night. So I got up again, put on my clothes, took the car and drove into the night. After some miles I decided to try what I had not done since I was a little boy. In X - my birthplace - I left the car, looked around to make sure nobody watched me, and then ran as fast as I could and ... yes ... took off. And nobody running behind me, trying to reach my legs and pulling me down. How lovely flying over the roofs, sobre la ciutat.
So why not making a little trip?

One hour later I could see fire shining on the Brocken. As I have no official flying-license, and to avoid the traffic jam over the top, I landed smoothly at the foot of the Brocken, and started to climb. It was raining now, but I didn´t mind. After one hour I arrived at a small clearing. Crossing it suddenly a fairy appeared in front of me, aside her a Leprechaun.

"What are you doing here, Sean?" the fairy asked.

"Climbing up to the top of the Brocken."

"Could be the shortest way to hell", snorted the Leprechaun. "Any milk in your pockets?"

Oh dear! Of course I had no milk in my pockets. That could become difficult. Leprechauns can get extremely naughty, if one has no milk for them, and if it´s deep in the night inmidst a clearing half way to the top of the Brocken.

Automatically I searched my pockets, and ... felt ... impossible!! ... something cool ... a bottle of milk.

Whilst reaching it to the Leprechaun my eyes thought to catch a smile from the fairy's lips.

"Thank you, mate", the Leprechaun said without any surprise in his voice, and immediately started to drink.

"Thank you", I thought in direction of the fairy.

"You are welcome", she said. "Have a wish?"

"Eh, you mean ...?"

"Indeed."

"Any rules?"

"He sounds like a damn clever Paddy", the Leprechaun giggled.

"Indeed", said the fairy. "Even fairies couldn´t fulfil the wish of making a peaceful paradise of this planet. Therefore your wish must be a very personal one."

"Hm. ... Allright then: I wish ..."

"Stop!" said the Leprechaun.

"Yes?"

"You must not speak out your wish, otherwise the magic is gone. Just think it."

"Thank you, friend. But why are you so kind?"

The Leprechaun took his pipe between his lips, blew some smoke-rings and said: "Lucky you had milk in your pockets, mate."

So I thought my wish, and just wanted to say bye, when the Leprechaun asked: "Not surprised we know your name?"

"Well, yes. But I have heard the little folk knows quite a lot."

"We have no cameras, though."

"Cameras?"

"Do you remember the rainbow you shot some years ago on Beara Peninsula?"

"Yes, I like this photo very much."

"So do we", laughed the Leprechaun. "You see, your photo helped us find the gold-pot at the end of the rainbow."

"But ... but ... but how and when did you see the photo? The film got developed in Germany."

"Hm, as you said: We do know quite a lot."

"Keep your secret, friends", I said. We shook hands, and I continued to climb upwards.

Somehow everything was easier. Only the din I thought to have heard from the top had calmed down. Nothing to hear. At last I reached the top. Incredible. Wherever I looked sleeping witches. Two or three seemed to have had an accident: Still sitting on their brooms they looked like being sticked against the trees. Slowly moving on I realised there was only one witch still being dancing. Never heard mystic music reached my ear. I moved on. The witch seemed not to have noticed me. She danced. Beautifully. Ten meters and I'd be able to see her face in the shine of the fire. Trying to make no noise I tiptoed.

Suddenly there was a big noise, as if a giant blew his breath. From one second to the other the fire went out. When my eyes got used to the darkness, I realized a last glowing, in front of where I had seen the witch dancing. At least the full moon sent his silvery shine to the clearing. I hesitated. Carefully I walked on, stumbled over a dead branch. At least I thought so. In the next moment my bottom got a hit, and it was as if a voice hissed: „Idiot." I turned round, bent forward and - it was a broom.

„Was it you who called me idiot?" I whispered.

„At least your ears are intact."

„Why at least?"

„Well, if your eyes were better, you wouldn´t have stumbled over me and disturbed my Peace of the Night."

„Excuse me, but that´s ..."

„Schscht. Not so loud. You could get in damn trouble, if you woke up the ladies. - So now, calm down, sir.: What did you want to ask?"

„Better not to ask anything. I thought it only surprising that you chose ... almost I had said : my phrase."

„Never mind. If you want to stay stupid, don´t ask."

„Well ... then ... How did you come to use it?"

„My boss once - about five years ago - began to wish me the Peace of the Night."

„Your boss?!"

„Well, correctly spoken: my Queen."

„Your Queen? What´s her name?"

„Can´t tell you. Not fancy to get a bloody nose."

„Please."

„No, but you can ask herself."

... and the broom turned around and lay as if sound asleep.

Asking herself? Oh dear! Heart bumping. Blood rushing. Slowly I turned round. There she was. Behind the glooming fire she had stopped dancing. Now she slowly moved in my direction. Passing the gloom I got a glimpse of her face. Unlike the other witches I had seen before, she had no long hair. I got excited. She came closer. Should I flee? No, I decided to stay. Decided? Anyway, soon I'd see her face. 13 meters, twelve, eleven, ten, nine ... three steps more and she would appear in the moon´s cone. ... One ... black brown hair ... two ... my heart jumped ... three ... I saw nothing. I turned round. Where there had been the moon now was a big dark cloud. My knees felt like pudding. My nose smelled a parfume it had never smelled before. What would happen in the next moment? Ah, at least I'd have asked. But only I had opened my mouth I heard her voice very very close to my ear: She said: ...

Z...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz .................

In the next moment I woke up. In front of our house the musicians of the local fire-brigade had intonated „The May has arrived." Later on I saw the car where it is usually parked. But for hours I had nine words echoeing in my head: „I told you, it´s not fate, Sean ... it´s magic!"

That´s my story. And I wonder what will happen next.