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A Paradise of Poems

A Paradise of Poems

By Camellia Yang
Camellia reads classic and contemporary poems from all over the world every week.
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After Summer Fell Apart by Yusef Komunyakaa
I can’t touch you. His face always returns; we exchange long looks in each bad dream & what I see, my God. Honey, sweetheart, I hold you against me but nothing works. Two boats moored, rocking between nowhere & nowhere. A bone inside me whispers maybe tonight, but I keep thinking about the two men wrestling nude in Lawrence’s Women in Love. I can’t get past reels of breath unwinding. He has you. Now he doesn’t. He has you again. Now he doesn’t. You’re at the edge of azaleas shaken loose by a word. I see your rose-colored skirt unfurl. He has a knife to your throat, night birds come back to their branches. A hard wind raps at the door, the new year prowling in a black overcoat. It’s been six months since we made love. Tonight I look at you hugging the pillow, half smiling in your sleep. I want to shake you & ask who. Again I touch myself, unashamed, until his face comes into focus. He’s stolen something from me & I don’t know if it has a name or not— like counting your ribs with one foolish hand & mine with the other.
May 11, 2022
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone by John Keats
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms, Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise – Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve, When the dusk holiday – or holinight Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight, But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day, He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
May 11, 2022
Within by Bianca Caruana
Nice to meet you, I said I admire your strength You have courage and patience I once only dreamt You stand tall and move forward with passion, yet grace Your rivers are flowing, there is light on your face And it emanates to all of the people around And to me, I can see, there is something you’ve found It’s something I was searching, a long while ago A gem in the sand, a stone in the snow I looked under, and over, past mountains, ‘round bends And wandered, miles yonder, to the rainbow's end The journey was thorough But also quite long I got tired and weathered Lost the words to my song May I ask you to help me To teach me what you know To move forward with strength With the peace that you show Well, you see, darling girl, you can pass rainbow’s end And another, and another, it’s an infinite ascend Or you can feel with your heart, put your toes in the sand And know all you need is right where you stand Life is here, it is now You have more than you know Look inside, not out there Close your eyes and let go Listen in to the sound of the voices within The way trees talk to roots, and clouds talk to wind There you’ll find all the answers you’ve been searching for And the light that is dim will shine once more Oh, thank you! I said, full of joy and much glee Then I noticed There was something familiar to me I saw who she was This woman was me
May 01, 2022
Kosmos by Walt Whitman
Who includes diversity and is Nature, Who is the amplitude of the earth, and the coarseness and sexuality of the earth, and the great charity of the earth and the equilibrium also, Who has not look’d forth from the windows the eyes for nothing, or whose brain held audience with messengers for nothing, Who contains believers and disbelievers, who is the most majestic lover, Who holds duly his or her triune proportion of realism, spiritualism, and of the aesthetic or intellectual, Who having consider’d the body finds all its organs and parts good, Who, out of the theory of the earth and of his or her body understands by subtle analogies all other theories, The theory of a city, a poem, and of the large politics of these States; Who believes not only in our globe with its sun and moon, but in other globes with their suns and moons, Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but for all time, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together.
May 01, 2022
Insensibility by Wilfred Owen
Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their feet Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. The front line withers. But they are troops who fade, not flowers, For poets’ tearful fooling: Men, gaps for filling: Losses, who might have fought Longer; but no one bothers. II And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling, And Chance’s strange arithmetic Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling. They keep no check on armies’ decimation. III Happy are these who lose imagination: They have enough to carry with ammunition. Their spirit drags no pack. Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache. Having seen all things red, Their eyes are rid Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. And terror’s first constriction over, Their hearts remain small-drawn. Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle Now long since ironed, Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. IV Happy the soldier home, with not a notion How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack, And many sighs are drained. Happy the lad whose mind was never trained: His days are worth forgetting more than not. He sings along the march Which we march taciturn, because of dusk, The long, forlorn, relentless trend From larger day to huger night. V We wise, who with a thought besmirch Blood over all our soul, How should we see our task But through his blunt and lashless eyes? Alive, he is not vital overmuch; Dying, not mortal overmuch; Nor sad, nor proud, Nor curious at all. He cannot tell Old men’s placidity from his. VI But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, That they should be as stones. Wretched are they, and mean With paucity that never was simplicity. By choice they made themselves immune To pity and whatever moans in man Before the last sea and the hapless stars; Whatever mourns when many leave these shores; Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
March 03, 2022
In Warsaw by Czeslaw Milosz
What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny Day in spring? What are you thinking here, where the wind Blowing from the Vistula scatters The red dust of the rubble? You swore never to be A ritual mourner. You swore never to touch The deep wounds of your nation So you would not make them holy With the accursed holiness that pursues Descendants for many centuries. But the lament of Antigone Searching for her brother Is indeed beyond the power Of endurance. And the heart Is a stone in which is enclosed, Like an insect, the dark love Of a most unhappy land. I did not want to love so. That was not my design. I did not want to pity so. That was not my design. My pen is lighter Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden Is too much for it to bear. How can I live in this country Where the foot knocks against The unburied bones of kin? I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot Write anything; five hands Seize my pen and order me to write The story of their lives and deaths. Was I born to become a ritual mourner? I want to sing of festivities, The greenwood into which Shakespeare Often took me. Leave To poets a moment of happiness, Otherwise your world will perish. It's madness to live without joy And to repeat to the dead Whose part was to be gladness Of action in thought and in the Only two salvaged words: Truth and justice.
March 03, 2022
Dreamwork Three by Jerome Rothenberg
a trembling old man dreams of a chinese garden a comical old man dreams of newspapers under his rabbi's hat a simple tavernkeeper dreams of icicles & fisheyes a sinister tavernkeeper dreams of puddles with an angel of the law in every drop the furrier's plump daughter is dreaming of a patch of old vanilla the furrier's foreign daughter is dreaming of a hat from which a marten hangs the proud accountant dreams of a trolleycar over the frozen river the reluctant accountant dreams of his feet sleep in a fresh pair of red socks the silly uncle dreams of a history written by a team of Spanish doctors the uncle in the next apartment dreams of the cost of Katmandu the retired gangster dreams of a right turn into a field of sacred lemons the dancing gangster dreams of a carriage, a donkey, & a hand that holds the ace of spades the grim man with a proposition dreams of his fingers entering a pair of gloves the excited man with a proposition dreams of the letter E torn from the title of his poem the remarkable elevator operator dreams of the marriage of karl marx the easy elevator operator dreams of a seashell at the entry to the thirteenth floor the candid photographer dreams of a wooden synagogue inside his brother's camera the secret photographer dreams of a school of golden herrings drifting out to sea the yiddish dadaist dreams of rare steaks & platonic pleasures the rosy dadaist dreams that a honeycomb is being squashed against his face the mysterious stranger dreams of a white tablecloth on which black threads are falling the stranger whom no one sees dreams of his sister holding up a string of pearls the asthmatic tax collector dreams of a row of sacred numbers the rebellious tax collector dreams of a bathhouse set among old trees the robust timber merchant dreams of a wind that blows inside the blacksmith's bellows the sobbing timber merchant dreams that his hands have pressed the buttocks of his dreaming bride the man with a fish between his teeth dreams of a famine for forty-five days the man dressed in white dreams of a potato the savage gentile dreams of a dancer with flashy lightbulbs on her shoes the repentant gentile dreams of her fingers bringing honey to his lips the fancy barber dreams that his hands massage the captain's neck the silent barber dreams of a rooster with a thread tied to one leg the salty bridegroom dreams of horses galloping they swirl around the bridegroom's house the genuflecting bridegroom dreams of what his bride slides through her fingers he sees it white & trembling in the early sabbath light the fat man in the derby dreams that it is spring that his seed soon will be falling through an empty sky the ecstatic man in the derby dreams that if he dreams it his words will turn into flowers
February 14, 2022
A Paradise of Poets by Jerome Rothenberg
1 He takes a book down from his shelf & scribbles across a page of text: I am the final one. This means the world will end when he does. 2 In the Inferno, Dante conceives a Paradise of Poets & calls it Limbo. Foolishly he thinks his place is elsewhere. 3 Now the time has come to write a poem about a Paradise of Poets.
February 14, 2022
Out of the Window by Pratap Adhikary
Out of the window I see the heaven's divine shine Proclaiming itself that the world belongs to mine There stands the trees green and tall but as I look far in the mountains it seems very small Out of the window I see the mankind where all in one chain are closely being bind Performing their duties like heart hated soldiers carrying in their mind like enormous boulders Out of the window I see wherever my eyes can go but it saddens me that today the world has turned into a bitter foe. P.S. Happy birthday Pratap Adhikary! Your lovely friend Gaurav wishes you a happy day and sends me this piece of the poem you wrote sitting next to him in class 11! Enjoy! 
February 09, 2022
Untitled by João Grillo
i become little i become tiny i become way bigger than myself i become something i dont care to know for sure splattered amid everything that's all around me tied free and loose bound by air interconnected intent This woven shared perception holy trancending meaning being one singular but not alone different and incomprehensible yet plural, empathetic cathartic together in desire P.S. My talented friend João wrote this piece. We are going to perform a poetry reading session in Aveiro, Portugal this weekend. 
February 09, 2022
Ithaka by C. P. Cavafy
As you set out for Ithaka hope your road is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians, Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope your road is a long one. May there be many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for. But don’t hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich. Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you wouldn't have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean. C. P. Cavafy, "The City" from C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Translation Copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Reproduced with permission of Princeton University Press. Source: C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1975)
February 01, 2022
In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year by W. S. Merwin
It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young Though I have long wondered what it would be like To be me now No older at all it seems from here As far from myself as ever Walking in fog and rain and seeing nothing I imagine all the clocks have died in the night Now no one is looking I could choose my age It would be younger I suppose so I am older It is there at hand I could take it Except for the things I think I would do differently They keep coming between they are what I am They have taught me little I did not know when I was young There is nothing wrong with my age now probably It is how I have come to it Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth There is nothing the matter with speech Just because it lent itself To my uses Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning
February 01, 2022
The Answer by Robinson Jeffers
Then what is the answer?- Not to be deluded by dreams. To know that great civilizations have broken down into violence, and their tyrants come, many times before. When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose the least ugly faction; these evils are essential. To keep one's own integrity, be merciful and uncorrupted and not wish for evil; and not be duped By dreams of universal justice or happiness. These dreams will not be fulfilled. To know this, and know that however ugly the parts appear the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand Is an ugly thing and man dissevered from the earth and stars and his history... for contemplation or in fact... Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness, the greatest beauty is Organic wholeness, the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty of the universe. Love that, not man Apart from that, or else you will share man's pitiful confusions, or drown in despair when his days darken.
January 25, 2022
My Song by Rabindranath Tagore
This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love. This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing. When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness. My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown. It will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road. My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things. And when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart.
January 25, 2022
For Solitude by John O'Donohue
May you recognize in your life the presence, power and light of your soul. May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you intimately with the rhythm of the universe. May you have respect for your own individuality and difference. May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that you have a special destiny here, that behind the facade of your life there is something beautiful and eternal happening. May you learn to see your self with the same delight, pride, and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.
January 18, 2022
Paris In Spring Poem by Sara Teasdale
The city's all a-shining Beneath a fickle sun, A gay young wind's a-blowing, The little shower is done. But the rain-drops still are clinging And falling one by one -- Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time has begun. I know the Bois is twinkling In a sort of hazy sheen, And down the Champs the gray old arch Stands cold and still between. But the walk is flecked with sunlight Where the great acacias lean, Oh it's Paris, it's Paris, And the leaves are growing green. The sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead, There falls a dash of rain, But who would care when such an air Comes blowing up the Seine? And still Ninette sits sewing Beside her window-pane, When it's Paris, it's Paris, And spring-time's come again. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,200+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
January 18, 2022
Envoi by Robert W. Chambers
IX. And if the sun incarnadine The clouds—green leaves shall be your screen; And if the clouds with jealousy Should weep—we'll beg of some kind tree A moment's hospitality. X. Good cheer is here, if you incline; Moss-hidden springs shall bubble wine While squirrels chuckle, rank on rank, And strawberries from every bank Shall blush to see how deep we drank. XI. Winds of the West shall cool our eyes While every woodland creature tries His voice a little, so that he May know his notes more perfectly When crickets start the symphony. XII. Through hazel glade and scented dell Where brooklets ring a tinkling bell, The forest orchestra shall swell, Until the sun-soaked grasses ring With crickets strumming string on string. XIII. Then, with your white hand daintily Scarce touching mine, we'll leave our tree And ramble slowly toward the West Where our high castle's flaming crest, Towering behind the setting sun, Flings out its banners, one by one, Signals of fire, that day is done. XIV. Deep in that palace we shall find How blind we are, how blind! how blind! And how he'll laugh, who holds the key To the great portal's mystery! And how his joyous laugh will ring When you and I shall bid him fling The gates ajar for you and me! XV. Let shadows flee athwart the lea When dark December strips the hedge Along the icy river's edge; Yet, if you will forgive me, lass, The world shall bloom like spring to me, Snow turn to dew upon the grass And fagots blossom where you pass. XVI. Swallows shall sheer the frozen mere, Dead reeds along the mill-pond's rims Shall thrill with summer-thrushes' hymns, While summer breezes blow apace, If you will but forgive me, dear, And let me find a moment's grace, In your sweet eyes and your dear face.
January 09, 2022
The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers
Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink beneath the lake, The shadows lengthen      In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is      Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in      Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in      Lost Carcosa.
January 09, 2022
Secret Love by John Clare
I hid my love when young while I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly I hid my love to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place Where ere I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love goodbye I met her in the greenest dells Where dew drops pearl the wood bluebells The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye The bee kissed and went singing by A sunbeam found a passage there A gold chain round her neck so fair As secret as the wild bee's song She lay there all the summer long I hid my love in field and town Till e'en the breeze would knock me down The bees seemed singing ballads l'er The fly's buss turned a Lion's roar And even silence found a tongue To haunt me all the summer long The riddle nature could not prove Was nothing else but secret love
January 03, 2022
Drawing You From Memory by Billy Collins
I seem to have forgotten several features crucial to the doing of this, for instance, how your lower lip meets your upper lip besides just being below it, and what happens at the end of the nose, how much does it shade the plane of your cheek, and would even a bit of nostril be visible from this angle? Chinese eyes, you call them which could be the difficulty I have in showing the flash of light in your iris, and being so far away from you for so long, I cannot remember what direction it flows, the deep river of your hair. But all of this will come together the minute I see you again at the station, my notebook and pens packed away, your face smiling as I cup it in my hands, or frowning later when we are home and you are berating me in the kitchen waving the pages in my face demanding to know the name of this latest little whore.
January 03, 2022
To Whom It May Concern by Camellia Yang (English & Chinese)
I love strolling on an empty street at five o’clock in the morning. I love discussing the absurdity of the world with wanderers. I enjoy watching the sunrise, slowly waking up the sleeping world. I enjoy having random philosophical conversations with strangers. I make mistakes. I mess things up. I invite chaos to my life, And then self-sabotage with cries. I’m on a journey to accept my weaknesses, Forgive others and myself at the same time. Sometimes I don’t care what people say about my works. It’s a record of how I see the world. Sometimes, I long for someone to see through my art. I only want to mean something to a special person's heart. I laugh a lot, and prank even more. I cherish tiny happiness in the world. Like the hot air on a cup of coffee on a rainy day; Or couples hug and kiss at the airport. I have a pessimistic mind but an optimistic heart. I love and hate humans at the same time. Their motives and behaviours confused me a lot. They can’t understand my intuition either. Sometimes, I'd rather stay away from the crowd And keep people out. I moved from China to New Zealand in my 20s. Then left Auckland to London now to Lisbon at 30s. I’ve travelled to four continents. But there is no place I could call home. I’m always being a Christmas orphan, But never thought my loneliness is a misfortune. Through content creation, I found my roots and built relations. I am still on the road. I don’t know life's next episode. I want to turn my existence into a poem. I want my life to become an exquisite art. Though the path is destined to be hard, Through authenticity, I could find my truth. 08/09/2021 ​Lisbon @camelliayang
December 30, 2021
Air and Light and Time and Space by Charles Bukowski
”– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something has always been in the way but now I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this place, a large studio, you should see the space and the light. for the first time in my life I’m going to have a place and the time to create.” no baby, if you’re going to create you’re going to create whether you work 16 hours a day in a coal mine or you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children while you’re on welfare, you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown away, you’re going to create blind crippled demented, you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your back while the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment, flood and fire. baby, air and light and time and space have nothing to do with it and don’t create anything except maybe a longer life to find new excuses for.
December 29, 2021
How to Meditate by Jack Kerouac
— lights out —fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous ecstasy like a shot of heroin or morphine, the gland inside of my brain discharging the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as I hap-down and hold all my body parts down to a deadstop trance — Healing all my sicknesses — erasing all — not even the shred of a “I-hope-you” or a Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought comes a-springing from afar with its held- forth figure of image, you spoof it out, you spuff it out, you fake it, and it fades, and thought never comes — and with joy you realize for the first time “Thinking’s just like not thinking — So I don’t have to think any more”
December 29, 2021
Paths that lead nowhere by Rosa Alice Branco
There are specialists in love. A man beeps without stopping, stuck in the line of traffic. 
December 27, 2021
No Complaint Book by Rosa Alice Branco
In the beginning was the Word but now no one answers.
December 27, 2021
London Snow by Robert Bridges
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,  In large white flakes falling on the city brown,  Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,        Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;  Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;  Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:        Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;  Hiding difference, making unevenness even,  Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.        All night it fell, and when full inches seven  It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,  The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;        And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness  Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:  The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;        The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;  No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,  And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.        Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,  They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze  Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;        Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;  Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,  ‘O look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’        With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,  Following along the white deserted way,  A country company long dispersed asunder:        When now already the sun, in pale display  Standing by Paul’s high dome, spread forth below  His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.        For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;  And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,  Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:        But even for them awhile no cares encumber  Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,  The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber  At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.
December 22, 2021
A Quoi Bon Dire? by Charlotte Mew
Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I. So I, as I grow stiff and cold To this and that say Good-bye too; And everybody sees that I am old But you. And one fine morning in a sunny lane Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear That nobody can love their way again While over there You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your hair.
December 22, 2021
Walk Me Home by Camellia Yang
Eighty-four thousand thoughts and ideas, Landscape transformation in the  whirligig of time, Everything is evolving and decaying in front of my eyes. ​ Vivid Colours dancing along with the music of nature, Van Gogh’s painting in a tangible form. Infinite fractals emerging and disappearing like the Mandelbrot set and Mandala of Sanskrit. Ram Dass’s message comes into my mind, “We’re all just walking each other home”. We are nameless and formless, We are a pixel and we are a Buddha, We’re loved just for being who we are, just for existing. ​ Let’s accept ourselves and others in full, Try not to control, try not to force,  try to surrender to the power of the universe. Time and space are an illusion. The reality doesn’t seem like what we see. To see beauty, use our heart, not our eyes. Feel, and we shall know. Seek, and we shall find. ​ I rise above the earth and travel through abstract concepts and patterns. A snap of the finger is the moment of eternity. I could have lived forever in that dazzling and wonderful dream, But your sweet smile pulls me back to the material world. ​ Remember, remember, Life is the eighth wonder. When we genuinely want something, The whole universe is always on our side. 八万四千念,数亿年的沧海桑田在眼前流转变幻。 颜色和音乐都有了形态,完美的几何图形不断闪现。 是曼德布洛特复数集合,是佛家梵语的曼陀罗,是梵高笔下艳丽的色彩和流动的图案。 拉姆·达斯告诉我,「人生在世,就是帮助彼此回家」。 每个人都无名无状,是粒子也是佛祖,是形状也是颜色。 我们在这体验爱,散播爱,只要存在着就值得被爱。 无需鞭笞自己不断提升,全然接受自我,不再与生活抗衡。 不去强求人生的轨迹,臣服于宇宙的力量,享受生命这场奇迹。 在广袤的未解之谜中,活着就是终极意义。 我摆脱了思维的限制,在抽象的时空中穿行, 弹指一挥间,刹那即永恒。 炫彩美妙的世界中,突然闪现出你灿烂的笑容, 把我拉回到所谓的现实当中,把学到的一切用来普度众生。 感觉,你就会知晓, 寻找,你就会发现。 整个宇宙是你最好的帮手, 帮助你实现所有的一切。
December 16, 2021
A Spell For Creation by Kathleen Raine
Within the flower there lies a seed, Within the seed there springs a tree, Within the tree there spreads a wood. In the wood there burns a fire, And in the fire there melts a stone, Within the stone a ring of iron. Within the ring there lies an O, Within the O there looks an eye, In the eye there swims a sea, And in the sea reflected sky, And in the sky there shines the sun, Within the sun a bird of gold. Within the bird there beats a heart, And from the heart there flows a song, And in the song there sings a word. In the word there speaks a world, A world of joy, a world of grief, From joy and grief there springs my love. Oh love, my love, there springs a world, And on the world there shines a sun, And in the sun there burns a fire, Within the fire consumes my heart, And in my heart there beats a bird, And in the bird there wakes an eye, Within the eye, earth, sea and sky, Earth, sky and sea within an O Lie like the seed within the flower.
December 13, 2021
Love Poem by Kathleen Raine
Yours is the face that the earth turns to me, Continuous beyond its human features lie The mountain forms that rest against the sky. With your eyes, the reflecting rainbow, the sun's light Sees me; forest and flower, bird and beast Know and hold me forever in the world's thought, Creation's deep untroubled retrospect. When your hand touches mine it is the earth That takes me—the green grass, And rocks and rivers; the green graves, And children still unborn, and ancestors, In love passed down from hand to hand from God. Your love comes from the creation of the world, From those paternal fingers, streaming through the clouds That break with light the surface of the sea. Here, where I trace your body with my hand, Love's presence has no end; For these, your arms that hold me, are the world's. In us, the continents, clouds and oceans meet Our arbitrary selves, extensive with the night, Lost, in the heart's worship, and the body's sleep.
December 13, 2021
To Think of Time Walt Whitman
Of and in all these things, I have dream'd that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law    of us changed,    I have dream'd that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present    and past law,    And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present    and past law,    For I have dream'd that the law they are under now is enough.       If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung, If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray'd!    Then indeed suspicion of death.       Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die    now,    Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward    annihilation?       10 Pleasantly and well-suited I walk, Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good,    The whole universe indicates that it is good,    The past and the present indicate that it is good.       How beautiful and perfect are the animals!    How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!    What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just    as perfect,    The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable    fluids are perfect;    Slowly and surely they have pass'd on to this, and slowly and surely    they yet pass on.       11 I swear I think now that everything without exception has an    eternal Soul!    The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have!    the animals!    I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!    That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is    for it, and the cohering is for it;    And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life    and materials are altogether for it!
December 07, 2021
Never Seek to Tell thy Love BY WILLIAM BLAKE
Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be For the gentle wind does move Silently invisibly I told my love I told my love I told her all my heart Trembling cold in ghastly fears Ah she doth depart Soon as she was gone from me A traveller came by Silently invisibly O was no deny
December 07, 2021
Under One Small Star by Wislawa Szymborska
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all. Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths. I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m. Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don't pay me much attention. Dignity, please be magnanimous. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train. Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then. My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man. I know I won't be justified as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
November 29, 2021
FOR WHAT BINDS US by Jane Hirshfield
There are names for what binds us: strong forces, weak forces. Look around, you can see them: the skin that forms in a half-empty cup, nails rusting into the places they join, joints dovetailed on their own weight. The way things stay so solidly wherever they’ve been set down — and gravity, scientists say, is weak. And see how the flesh grows back across a wound, with a great vehemence, more strong than the simple, untested surface before. There’s a name for it on horses, when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh, as all flesh, is proud of its wounds, wears them as honors given out after battle, small triumphs pinned to the chest — And when two people have loved each other see how it is like a scar between their bodies, stronger, darker, and proud; how the black cord makes of them a single fabric that nothing can tear or mend.
November 29, 2021
Love at First Sight by Wislawa Szymborska
They both thought that a sudden feeling had united them This certainty is beautiful, Even more beautiful than uncertainty. They thought they didn't know each other, nothing had ever happened between them, These streets, these stairs, this corridors, Where they could have met so long ago? I would like to ask them, if they can remember - perhaps in a revolving door face to face one day? A "sorry" in the crowd? "Wrong number" on the 'phone? - but I know the answer. No, they don't remember. How surprised they would be For such a long time already Fate has been playing with them. Not quite yet ready to change into destiny, which brings them nearer and yet further, cutting their path and stifling a laugh, escaping ever further; There were sings, indications, undecipherable, what does in matter. Three years ago, perhaps or even last Tuesday, this leaf flying from one shoulder to another? Something lost and gathered. Who knows, perhaps a ball already in the bushes, in childhood? There were handles, door bells, where, on the trace of a hand, another hand was placed; suitcases next to one another in the left luggage. And maybe one night the same dream forgotten on walking; But every beginning is only a continuation and the book of fate is always open in the middle. translation from Polish by Roman Gren
November 21, 2021
True Love by Wislawa Szymborska
True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own? Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason, drawn randomly from millions but convinced it had to happen this way - in reward for what? For nothing. The light descends from nowhere. Why on these two and not on others? Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does. Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles, and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts. Look at the happy couple. Couldn't they at least try to hide it, fake a little depression for their friends' sake? Listen to them laughing - its an insult. The language they use - deceptively clear. And their little celebrations, rituals, the elaborate mutual routines - it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back! It's hard even to guess how far things might go if people start to follow their example. What could religion and poetry count on? What would be remembered? What renounced? Who'd want to stay within bounds? True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life's highest circles. Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn't populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely. Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die. Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare CavanaghFrom:
November 21, 2021
Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand by Walt Whitman
Whoever you are holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will be useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive, You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard, Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon’d, Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders, Put me down and depart on your way. Or else by stealth in some wood for trial, Or back of a rock in the open air, (For in any roof’d room of a house I emerge not, nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares, Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade’s long-dwelling kiss or the new husband’s kiss, For I am the new husband and I am the comrade. Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip, Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; For thus merely touching you is enough, is best, And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally. But these leaves conning you con at peril, For these leaves and me you will not understand, They will elude you at first and still more afterward, I will certainly elude you, Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! Already you see I have escaped from you. For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it, Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me, Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious, Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more, For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at; Therefore release me and depart on your way.
November 14, 2021
O Me! O Life! by Walt Whitman
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
November 14, 2021
To Autumn by John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
November 10, 2021
A Woman Speaks by Audre Lorde
Moon marked and touched by sun my magic is unwritten but when the sea turns back it will leave my shape behind. I seek no favor untouched by blood unrelenting as the curse of love permanent as my errors or my pride I do not mix love with pity nor hate with scorn and if you would know me look into the entrails of Uranus where the restless oceans pound. I do not dwell within my birth nor my divinities who am ageless and half-grown and still seeking my sisters witches in Dahomey wear me inside their coiled cloths as our mother did mourning. I have been woman for a long time beware my smile I am treacherous with old magic and the noon's new fury with all your wide futures promised I am woman and not white.
November 10, 2021
Well, I Have Lost You by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly; In my own way, and with my full consent. Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely Went to their deaths more proud than this one went. Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping I will confess; but that's permitted me; Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free. If I had loved you less or played you slyly I might have held you for a summer more, But at the cost of words I value highly, And no such summer as the one before. Should I outlive this anguish-and men do- I shall have only good to say of you.
November 02, 2021
Loving you less than life, a little less by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Loving you less than life, a little less Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess I cannot swear I love you not at all. For there is that about you in this light— A yellow darkness, sinister of rain— Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. And I am made aware of many a week I shall consume, remembering in what way Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek And what divine absurdities you say: Till all the world, and I, and surely you, Will know I love you, whether or not I do.
November 02, 2021
Give Me The Splendid Silent Sun by Walt Whitman
1.Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, Give me autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows, Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape, Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content, Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturb’d, Give me for marriage a sweet-breath’d woman of whom I should never tire, Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the world a rural domestic life, Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only, Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities! These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack’d by the war-strife,) These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets, Where you hold me enchain’d a certain time refusing to give me up, Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich’d of soul, you give me forever faces; (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, see my own soul trampling down what it ask’d for.)2.Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; Give me faces and streets—give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes—give me women—give me comrades and lovers by the thousand! Let me see new ones every day—let me hold new ones by the hand every day! Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan! Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of the trumpets and drums! (The soldiers in companies or regiments—some starting away, flush’d and reckless, Some, their time up, returning with thinn’d ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torchlight procession! The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded,) Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
October 25, 2021
To Imagination by Emily Bronte
When weary with the long day's care, And earthly change from pain to pain, And lost, and ready to despair, Thy kind voice calls me back again: Oh, my true friend! I am not lone, While then canst speak with such a tone! So hopeless is the world without; The world within I doubly prize; Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt, And cold suspicion never rise; Where thou, and I, and Liberty, Have undisputed sovereignty. What matters it, that all around Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, If but within our bosom's bound We hold a bright, untroubled sky, Warm with ten thousand mingled rays Of suns that know no winter days? Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown: But thou art ever there, to bring The hovering vision back, and breathe New glories o'er the blighted spring, And call a lovelier Life from Death. And whisper, with a voice divine, Of real worlds, as bright as thine. I trust not to thy phantom bliss, Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, With never-failing thankfulness, I welcome thee, Benignant Power; Sure solacer of human cares, And sweeter hope, when hope despairs! Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
October 25, 2021
The Eyes Where Love In Chastest Fire Would Glow by Luis Vaz de Camoes
The eyes where love in chastest fire would glow, Joying to be consumed amidst their light, The face whereon with wondrous lustre bright The purple rose was blushing o'er the snow; The hair whereof the sun would envious grow, It made his own less golden to the sight; The well-formed body and the hand so white, All to cold earth reduced lies here below! In tender age, a beauty all entire, E'en like a blossom gathered ere its time, Lies withered in the hand of heartless death: How doth not Love for pity's sake expire? Ah! not for her who flies to life sublime, But for himself whom night extinguisheth. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal. 
October 20, 2021
For a Version of I Ching by Jorge Luis Borges
Para una versión del I King El porvenir es tan irrevocable Como el rígido ayer. No hay una cosa Que no sea una letra silenciosa De la eternal escritura indescrifrable Cuyo libro es el tiempo. Quien se aleja De su casa ya ha vuelto. Nuestra vida Es la senda futura y recorrida. Nada nos dice adiós. Nada nos deja. No te rindas. La ergástula es oscura, La firme trama es de incesante hierro, Pero en algún recodo de tu encierro Puede haber un descuido, una hendidura, El camino es fatal como la flecha Pero en las grietas está Dios, que acecha. For a Version of I Ching The imminent is as immutable As rigid yesterday. There is no matter That rates more than a single, silent letter In the eternal and inscrutable Writing whose book in time. He who believes He’s left his home already has come back. Life is a future and well-traveled track. Nothing dismisses us. Nothing leaves. Do not give up. The prison is bereft Of light, its fabric is incessant iron, But in some corner of your mean environs You might discover a mistake, a cleft. The road is fatal as an arrow’s flight But God is watching in the narrowest light. -- Jorge Luis Borges (trans. by Eric McHenry) Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
October 20, 2021
Follow Your Destiny by Ricardo Reis
Follow your destiny, Water your plants, Love your roses. The rest is shadow Of unknown trees. Reality is always More or less Than what we want. Only we are always Equal to ourselves. It’s good to live alone, And noble and great Always to live simply. Leave pain on the altar As an offering to the gods. See life from a distance. Never question it. There’s nothing it can Tell you. The answer Lies beyond the Gods. But quietly imitate Olympus in your heart. The gods are gods Because they don’t think About what they are. 1 July 1916 Translated from the Portuguese by Richard Zenith Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
September 08, 2021
Beholding Her by Luis Vaz de Camoes
When I behold you, Lady! when my eyes Dwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight, I give my spirit to that one delight, And earth appears to me a Paradise. And when I hear you speak, and see you smile, Full satisfied, absorb'd, my centr'd mind Deems all the world's vain hopes and joys the while As empty as the unsubstantial wind. Lady! I feel your charms, yet dare not raise To that high theme the unequal song of praise,-- A power for that to language was not given; Nor marvel I, when I those beauties view, Lady! that He, whose power created you, Could form the stars and yonder glorious heaven. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
September 08, 2021
Love is a fire that burns unseen by Luís de Camões
Amor é um fogo que arde sem se ver, é ferida que doi, e não se sente; é um contentamento descontente, é dor que desatina sem doer. É um não querer mais que bem querer; é um andar solitário entre a gente; é nunca contentar-se de contente; é um cuidar que ganha em se perder. É querer estar preso por vontade; é servir a quem vence, o vencedor; é ter com quem nos mata, lealdade. Mas como causar pode seu favor nos corações humanos amizade, se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor? Translation by Richard Zenith Love is a fire that burns unseen, a wound that aches yet isn’t felt, an always discontent contentment, a pain that rages without hurting, a longing for nothing but to long, a loneliness in the midst of people, a never feeling pleased when pleased, a passion that gains when lost in thought. It’s being enslaved of your own free will; it’s counting your defeat a victory; it’s staying loyal to your killer. But if it’s so self-contradictory, how can Love, when Love chooses, bring human hearts into sympathy?
August 25, 2021
Saudade by Miguel Falabella
Saudade for a brother who lives far off. Saudade for a childhood waterfall. Saudade for the flavour of a fruit never to be found again. Saudade for the father who died, for the imaginary friend who never existed. Saudade for a city. Saudade for ourselves, when we see that time doesn’t forgive us. All these saudades hurt. But the saudade that hurts the most is the one for someone beloved
August 25, 2021
Sonnet XXXI by Fernando Pessoa
I am older than Nature and her Time By all the timeless age of Consciousness, And my adult oblivion of the clime Where I was born makes me not countryless. Ay, and dim through my daylight thoughts escape Yearnings for that land where my childhood dreamed, Which I cannot recall in colour or shape But haunts my hours like something that hath gleamed And yet is not as light remembered, Nor to the left or to the right conceived; And all round me tastes as if life were dead And the world made but to be disbelieved.   Thus I my hope on unknown truth lay; yet   How but by hope do I the unknown truth get? Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
August 18, 2021
London by Manmohan Ghose
Farewell, sweetest country; out of my heart, you roses, Wayside roses, nodding, the slow traveller to keep. Too long have I drowsed alone in the meadows deep, Too long alone endured the silence Nature espouses. Oh, the rush, the rapture of life! throngs, lights, houses, This is London. I wake as a sentinel from sleep. Stunned with the fresh thunder, the harsh delightful noises, I move entranced on the thronging pavement. How sweet, To eyes sated with green, the dusty brick-walled street! And the lone spirit, of self so weary, how it rejoices To be lost in others, bathed in the tones of human voices, And feel hurried along the happy tread of feet. And a sense of vast sympathy my heart almost crazes, The warmth of kindred hearts in thousands beating with mine. Each fresh face, each figure, my spirit drinks like wine, Thousands endlessly passing. Violets, daisies, What is your charm to the passionate charm of faces, This ravishing reality, this earthliness divine? O murmur of men more sweet than all the wood's caresses, How sweet only to be an unknown leaf that sings In the forest of life! Cease, Nature, thy whisperings. Can I talk with leaves, or fall in love with breezes? Beautiful boughs, your shade not a human pang appeases. This is London. I lie, and twine in the roots of things.
August 18, 2021
Stanzas by Emily Brontë
Often rebuked, yet always back returning    To those first feelings that were born with me, And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning    For idle dreams of things that cannot be: To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;    Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; And visions rising, legion after legion,    Bring the unreal world too strangely near. I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,    And not in paths of high morality, And not among the half-distinguished faces,    The clouded forms of long-past history. I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:    It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;    Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side. What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?    More glory and more grief than I can tell: The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling    Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
August 12, 2021
Remembrance by Emily Brontë
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring; Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again? Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
August 12, 2021
The Truelove by David Whyte
There is a faith in loving fiercely the one who is rightfully yours, especially if you have waited years and especially if part of you never believed you could deserve this loved and beckoning hand held out to you this way. I am thinking of faith now and the testaments of loneliness and what we feel we are worthy of in this world. Years ago in the Hebrides, I remember an old man who walked every morning on the grey stones to the shore of baying seals, who would press his hat to his chest in the blustering salt wind and say his prayer to the turbulent Jesus hidden in the water, and I think of the story of the storm and everyone waking and seeing the distant yet familiar figure far across the water calling to them and how we are all preparing for that abrupt waking, and that calling, and that moment we have to say yes, except it will not come so grandly so Biblically but more subtly and intimately in the face of the one you know you have to love so that when we finally step out of the boat toward them, we find everything holds us, and everything confirms our courage, and if you wanted to drown you could, but you don’t because finally after all this struggle and all these years you simply don’t want to any more you’ve simply had enough of drowning and you want to live and you want to love and you will walk across any territory and any darkness however fluid and however dangerous to take the one hand you know belongs in yours.
August 02, 2021
Sprint, rest, sprint, rest by Camellia Yang
Airpods in my ears, Playing podcasts and music, Hiding from the crowd. Maybe I’ll go deaf, But Beethoven composed music when he was deaf. There is no excuse, Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, and repeat. Glasses on my eyes, Ten hours a week on average, Reading books. Maybe I’ll go blind, But Borges wrote books when he was blind. There is no excuse, Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, and repeat Weights on my shoulders, Running shoes ready, Training every day. Maybe I’ll suffer from injuries, But Hawkins spread science to the masses in his wheelchair. There is no excuse, Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, and repeat. Thoughts and ideas are everywhere, Dreams and consciousness are interweaving. Maybe I’ll lose my sanity, But Nash created the game theory with schizophrenia. There is no excuse, Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, and repeat. Ernest Hemingway risked his life at war, It’s ok to be bold and adventurous; Fernando Pessoa invented heteronyms to live and write, It’s ok to be alone and unknown; Nikki Lauda burnt his face and came back from the dead, It’s ok to let your soul and work speak on your behalf.  Nothing has the power to stop what you do, Just keep sprint, rest and repeat. I take off everything I have, And accept who I truly am. It might be far beyond the reach of my ability to obtain such achievements, But I promise myself never to give up, And to remember, Sprint, rest, sprint, rest and repeat. (Inspired by Larry Ellison's biographies)  Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
August 02, 2021
All through eternity by Rumi
All through eternity Beauty unveils His exquisite form in the solitude of nothingness; He holds a mirror to His Face and beholds His own beauty. he is the knower and the known, the seer and the seen; No eye but His own has ever looked upon this Universe. His every quality finds an expression: Eternity becomes the verdant field of Time and Space; Love, the life-giving garden of this world. Every branch and leaf and fruit Reveals an aspect of His perfection- They cypress give hint of His majesty, The rose gives tidings of His beauty. Whenever Beauty looks, Love is also there; Whenever beauty shows a rosy cheek Love lights Her fire from that flame. When beauty dwells in the dark folds of night Love comes and finds a heart entangled in tresses. Beauty and Love are as body and soul. Beauty is the mine, Love is the diamond. They have together since the beginning of time- Side by side, step by step. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 28, 2021
A Moment Of Happiness by Rumi
A moment of happiness, you and I sitting on the verandah, apparently two, but one in soul, you and I. We feel the flowing water of life here, you and I, with the garden's beauty and the birds singing. The stars will be watching us, and we will show them what it is to be a thin crescent moon. You and I unselfed, will be together, indifferent to idle speculation, you and I. The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar as we laugh together, you and I. In one form upon this earth, and in another form in a timeless sweet land. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 28, 2021
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco’d with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire it. In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder’d bones, In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes, In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low, In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky, In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs, In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods, In vain the razor-bill’d auk sails far north to Labrador, I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 21, 2021
After Silence for Rachel Carson by Neil Gaiman
Seasons on seasons. The spring is signaled by birdsong coyotes screech and yammer in the moonlight and the first flowers open. I saw two owls today in the daylight, on silent wings. They landed as one and watched me sleepily. Oh who? they called. Or how, or how who? Then they leaned into the trunk into the sun that shone through the tight-curled buds, and vanished into dappled shadows never waiting for an answer. Like the sapling that buckles the sidewalk and grows until it has reached its height all of us begin in darkness. Some of us reach maturity. A few become old: we went over time’s waterfall and lived, Time barely cares. We are a pool of knowledge and advice the wisdom of the tribe, but we have stumbled, fallen face-first into our new uncomfortable roles. Remembering, as if it happened to someone else, the race to breed, or to succeed, the aching need that drove our thoughts and shaped each deed, those days are through. We do not need to grow, we’re done, we grew. Who speaks? And why? She was killed by her breasts, by tumours in them: A clump of cells that would not listen to orders to disband no chemical suggestions that they were big enough that, sometimes, it’s a fine thing just to die, were heeded. And the trees are leafless and black against the sky and the bats in fatal whiteface sleep and rot and the jellyfish drift and pulse through the warming waters and everything changes. And some things are truly lost. Wild in the weeds, the breeze scatters the seeds, and it lifts the wings of the pine processionary moth, and bears the green glint of the emerald borer, Now the elms go the way of the chestnut trees. Becoming memories and dusty furniture. The ash trees go the way of the elms. And somebody has to say that we never need to grow forever. That we, like the trees, can reach our full growth, and mature, in wisdom and in time, that we can be enough of us. That there can be room for other breeds and kinds and lives. Who’ll whisper it: that tumours kill their hosts, and then themselves? We’re done. We grew. Enough. All the gods on the hilltops and all the gods on the waves the gods that became seals the voices on the winds the quiet places, where if we are silent we can listen, we can learn. Who speaks? And why? Someone could ask the questions, too. Like who? Who knew? What’s true? And how? Or who? How could it work? What happens then? Are consequences consequent? The answers come from the world itself The songs are silent, and the spring is long in coming. There’s a voice that rumbles beneath us and after the end the voice still reaches us Like a bird that cries in hunger or a song that pleads for a different future. Because all of us dream of a different future. And somebody needs to listen. To pause. To hold. To inhale, and find the moment before the exhale, when everything is in balance and nothing moves. In balance: here’s life, here’s death, and this is eternity holding its breath. After the world has ended After the silent spring Into the waiting silence another song begins. Nothing is ever over life breathes life in its turn Sometimes the people listen Sometimes the people learn Who speaks? And why?
July 21, 2021
Good Bones by Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children. For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird. For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 14, 2021
When I Die I Want Your Hands On My Eyes By Pablo Neruda
When I die I want your hands on my eyes: I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands to pass their freshness over me one more time to feel the smoothness that changed my destiny. I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep, I want for your ears to go on hearing the wind, for you to smell the sea that we loved together and for you to go on walking the sand where we walked. I want for what I love to go on living and as for you I loved you and sang you above everything, for that, go on flowering, flowery one, so that you reach all that my love orders for you, so that my shadow passes through your hair, so that they know by this the reason for my song. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 14, 2021
I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone by Rainer Maria Rilke
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone     enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small     enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone. I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 05, 2021
THE NINTH ELEGY” by Rainer Maria Rilke
Why, if it could begin as laurel, and be spent so, this space of Being, a little darker than all the surrounding green, with little waves at the edge of every leaf (like a breeze’s smile)—: why then have to be human — and shunning destiny long for destiny?… Oh, not because happiness exists, that over-hasty profit from imminent loss, not out of curiosity, or to practice the heart, which could exist in the laurel… But because being here is much, and because all that’s here seems to need us, the ephemeral, that strangely concerns us. We: the most ephemeral. Once, for each thing, only once. Once, and no more. And we too, once. Never again. But this once, to have been, though only once, to have been an earthly thing — seems irrevocable. […] Earth, is it not this that you want: to rise invisibly in us? — Is that not your dream, to be invisible, one day? — Earth! Invisible! What is your urgent command if not transformation? Earth, beloved, I will. O, believe me, you need no more Spring-times to win me: only one, ah, one, is already more than my blood can stand. Namelessly, I have been truly yours, from the first. You were always right, and your most sacred inspiration is that familiar Death. See I live. On what? Neither childhood nor future grows less… Excess of being wells up in my heart. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learners to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
July 05, 2021
I Remember I Remember - written by Thomas Hood
I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learner to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.
June 28, 2021
Try to accept this fat red hurt is your starting point, in the way a pen must be put to paper      in one particular spot, then move beyond the globby flap of blame      and past           the mono-sulk                of pain. Change the subject, before it’s too late. Sketch out what health you do possess, what signal-cascades, what flotilla of cells circumnavigate you, then draw yourself back      together again, in a language      of your own. Your body’s talk is loose as lymph — it’ll have you open out      as a tree, or sneak up on pain      as assassin,      sidekick,      or wolf. Encourage this for healing won’t come at you      straight. Embrace the lack of heroics — this isn’t Hollywood, it’s you, in a plot that may or may not resolve. Twitter:@camelliayang Website: Join 1,000+ lifelong learner to receive a monthly newsletter from the Chiwi Journal.