Poetry & Arts
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Roses
Et rose elle a vécu ce qui vivent les roses /L' espace d'un matin.
And rose lived what lives roses / space of morning.
De mémoire de rose, on n'a jamais vu mourir un jardinier.
From rose memories, they have never seen a dying gardener.
Diderot
O que seria da humanidade sem as rosas?
What it would be of humanity without the roses?
Anacreonte
Rosa, oh pura contradição,
volúpia de ser o sono de ninguém
sob tantas pálpebras.
Rose, oh pure contradiction,
pleasure of being the sleep of nobody
under so many eyelids.
Rainer Maria Rilke
As rosas não falam,
simplesmente as rosas exalam
o perfume que roubam de ti.
The roses do not speak,
simply give off
the perfume that they steal of you.
Cartola
E eu que tenho rosas como tema
canto no compasso que quiser.
And I that I take roses as a subject
I sing in the beat i want.
Dorival Caymi
Toutes les roses que je chante
Toutes les roses de mon choix
Toutes les roses que j'invente
Je les vante en vain de ma voix
Devant la Rose que je vois.
all roses which I sing
all roses of my choice
all roses which I invent
I extol them for nothing in my voice
in front of the rose which I see
Louis Aragon
ROSE
... set free the rose
see the crime
all the beauty
silly and fleeting
in a garden
scanty and risky
the rose is purged
of his excesses
— sins
— double the knees
cry out for God
pray, that rose
soul of pain:
splits,
dies.
pure,
naive,
calm,
mystic rose.
Rose.
ROSE SEDUCTION
The perfume was spread
of his fragrance bed,
was done
lukewarm shell on indigo air.
I did not even know of wind
the flower
in the absent wilderness color
covered of clay and pain.
Gazes, satins, wool
the most fine, tenuous
they are frayed to the time voice,
and the wish dreams and sings.
Soul of air, just dress
in the florescence body
rose-girl in seed
flows of the ground in a future.
I see now the color of the face,
enticing the song
daring, cunning, aromatic–
his name is seduction.
WHITE ROSE
The dove escaped from the cloudy country
dream or ghost of human residence
— is that rose, livid and delicate,
Snow-White...
In a crystal barge goes away, contained,
dense fragrance and brilliance then are moved
for the huge descent moment,
while spilling perfumes, the corolla.
And guarded, the rose in his retirement
fragile, so fragile...—
the air, bright essence,
sublime speech, in the numb prayer,
sweet, so sweet, seeming lively,
and the wind pushes the chime of the hours.
ROSE ROSAE
There is a corner of garden
never visited
I contemplate it now
after so many years.
The sun goes already low
the day leans back
suspended moment
of light and twilight.
I talk to you about the flower
sight in a glance
petals from silk
in soul of meat.
Rose
I will never know your name.
DRY ROSE
Blue book... Blue flower fell
in silk and dream.
Reminds of me the instant, my love
when it went with the hours.
I will guard it still and always
in the same page.
And my love, I see the face,
of thick flower.
ROSE-WORD
It is peace, and night
air drizzles
thick fog.
Everything rests.
Flower... Perfume
on deep air.
The door opens
From occluded shell
in the motionless sea.
The bold speech
undoes the rose
in the mist altar.
BLUE ROSE
A mandolin was touching in there less,
and the velvet was flowing
in the blue lethargy of diffuse color,
flooding of fragrances, the twilight.
I contemplate the hand that touches the corolla
of ice flower and clandestine hot coal:
a daring and graceful bandit,
eyes of eagle in purple brilliance.
Of my place, everything seems somebody else's
to the light gesture of a proud girl,
when the head is lowering for the kiss.
Flat changes the scale for you,
and it bleeds the daring lip of the adventurer
for the bristling thorn of a rose.
VIOLATED ROSE
( To anonymous “
My pain does not live at my home,
but in a garden of centuries running
in his scathing uproar. The time, on fire,
the talent of this hour is suffering.
Of the wide city avenues,
the cars cross twisted line—
riders in motorbikes, without age
they came to approach me in my door.
One took me the clock. Another… The ring.
My golden cord broke.
And the inconstant room i smiled
while having my glance inside his.
Withdrew of the sash reddened weapon.
Kissed... Gave me the rose and my life.
© HSSofia 2007 THE POET AND THE ROSE The poet walks only in his stone row, you launch pointed spears in the chest without garment, in this battle without end and fact, it thrives the purple rose, and his bucolic thorn. The pains of the poet, rejoicing, forget the injured hand, as they know about the rose. And while seeing on a flame surface, risky and precious, the boy remains recklessly. The blood is hot coal, and the glance just wants the rose, wrapped in imprecise and aromatic nature, thorn from velvet to the touch of a poet. While crying of pain, always he prefers the weeping to the cold inanity of life without enchantment, in spite of the death-rattle and the open wound. DRY ROSE Of the blue book the blue flower fell in silk and dream. Reminds me the instant, when my love went with the hours. I will always guard it and still in the same page. And my love, I see his face, of thick flower. ROSE OF SNOW Now it staunches the short thought looking at the snow from a distant country. But not so soon not so inert in the open instant. look at the corolla stares at his face snow rose. look fast: the snowy of the petal fades already on air.
