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I that in heill was and gladnèss Am trublit now with great sickness And feblit with infirmitie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker So wannis this world's vanitie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Unto the Death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at all mellie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Art-magicianis and astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. I see that makaris amang the lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is nocht their facultie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this cuntrie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas! that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has reft Merseir his endite, That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of sentence hie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two better fallowis did no man see:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. And he has now tane, last of a, Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Good Maister Walter Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Sen he has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of force I man his next prey be:- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for Death dispone, After our death that live may we:- Timor Mortis conturbat me ↗
#art
Poems are not often simply emotions but One has enough emotions -- they're experience Experience themselves are not important.... ↗
My Testament translated by Michael Mikos I have lived with you, suffered and shed tears with you. No noble person have I ever passed aside. Today I leave you, ghosts in shadows to pursue, And if happiness were here – in sorrow I stride. I have not left behind me a single offspring Either to play my lute or to carry my name ; My name has passed away like a flash of lightning, And will last for generations like an empty strain. But you that have known me, pass to all in legend That I wore out my youth for the land of my fathers ; When the ship struggled – I stood at the mast to the end, And when she was sinking – I too drowned in deep waters... Yet some day, pondering about the destined lot Of my poor homeland, any noble man will consent That my spirit’s cloak was not by begging begot, But as my ancestors’ glories shines resplendent. Let my faithful friends at night gather together And burn up my poor heart in die leaves of aloe, Return it to die one who gave it to me later : So the world pays mothers – giving them ashes to stow... Let my friends sit down, each one holding a goblet, And drown in wine my burial – and their own despair... If I am a spirit, I’ll appear to them yet, If God frees me from torment, I will not come there... But I beg you – let the living not lose hope ever And bear the torch of learning before their compatriots ; And when called, go to their death one after another, Like the stones tossed by the Lord onto the ramparts... As for me – I am leaving a small group of friends, Those who were able to love my haughty spirit ; One can see I have fulfilled God’s hard assignments And assented to have here – an unwept casket... Who else would go on without the world’s accolades, Such indifference to the world as I display ? To be the helmsman of a boat that’s filled with shades, And fly off as quietly as the shade flies away ? And yet I leave behind me this fateful power, Useless while I live... it just graces my temples ; But when I die, it will, unseen, press you ever, Till it remakes you, bread eaters – into angels. Testament mój Żyłem z wami, cierpiałem i płakałem z wami, Nigdy mi, kto szlachetny, nie był obojętny, Dziś was rzucam i dalej idę w cień - z duchami - A jak gdyby tu szczęście było - idę smętny. Nie zostawiłem tutaj żadnego dziedzica Ani dla mojej lutni, ani dla imienia: - Imię moje tak przeszło jak błyskawica I będzie jak dźwięk pusty trwać przez pokolenia. Lecz wy coście mnie znali, w podaniach przekażcie, Żem dla ojczyzny sterał moje lata młode; A póki okręt walczył siedziałem na maszcie, A gdy tonął - z okrętem poszedłem pod wodę... Ale kiedyś - o smętnych losach zadumany Mojej biednej ojczyzny - przyzna kto szlachetny, Że płaszcz na moim duchu był nie wyżebrany, Lecz świetnościami dawnych moich przodków świetny. Niech przyjaciele moi w nocy się zgromadzą I biedne serce moje spalą w aloesie, I tej, która mi dała to serce, oddadzą - Tak się matkom wypłaca świat, gdy proch odniesie... Niech przyjaciele moi siądą przy pucharze I zapiją mój pogrzeb - oraz własną biedę: Jeżeli będę duchem, to się im pokażę, Jeśli Bóg [mię] uwolni od męki - nie przyjdę... Lecz zaklinam - niech żywi nie tracą nadziei I przed narodem niosą oświaty kaganiec; A kiedy trzeba, na śmierć idą po kolei, Jak kamienie przez Boga rzucone na szaniec!... Co do mnie - ja zostawiam maleńką tu drużbę Tych, co mogli pokochać serce moje dumne; Znać, że srogą spełniłem, twardą bożą służbę I zgodziłem się tu mieć - niepłakaną trumnę. Kto drugi bez świata oklasków się zgodzi Iść... taką obojętność, jak ja, mieć dla świata? Być sternikiem duchami niepełnej łodzi, I tak cicho odlecieć, jak duch, gdy odlata? Jednak zostanie po mnie ta siła fatalna, Co mi żywemu na nic... tylko czoło zdobi: Lecz po śmierci was będzie gniotła niewidzialna, Aż was, zjadacze chleba - w aniołów przerobi. ↗
The Chair I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair look like a throne while you sat on it. Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor, which is dusty as a dry Kansas day. I am stoic as a statue of Buddha, not wanting to bother the old wooden chair, which has been silent now for months. In this sunlit moment I think of you. I can still picture you sitting there-- your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt, the light splashed on your face, like holy water from St. Joseph’s. The chair, with rounded curves like that of a full-figured woman, seems as mellow as a monk in prayer. The breeze blows from beyond the curtains, as if your spirit has come back to rest. Now a cloud passes overhead, and I hush, waiting to hear what rests so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind. Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry your raspy voice like a wispy cloud. ↗
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it "Chops" because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed a lot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year that Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it "Absolutely Nothing" Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each damned wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen. ↗
What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. ↗
#homage #life #poem #reflection #song
