Minervan Musings

From your blossoming garden

minervanmuse — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 11:16:11 +0000

Heya all,
Been only too long since my last post here, I know.

Well, as a brief update: Been coping with heavier work duties this past semester culminating in pretty demanding (and draining) ones, and yours truly needs a good hiatus (a la sabbatical) away from the responsibilites she’s been delving in, of late.

So, here’s hoping all mine dear souls are keeping well, and just to add a ‘lil cheer your way, a much-needed weekend musing.
Take care all, minerva*

* * *

Via Poetry Foundation:

The Gardener (85)

By Rabindranath Tagore

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.

From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.

* * *

Via TED,Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s poignant capture of humanity and our shared space. Beautiful!

*Note to kindred souls: If you do have a wee bit of time, do catch the dear sir’s awe-inspiring movie, replete with his trademark breath-taking photographs, entitled “Home.”

Ever more nectarine than the dulcet-throated koel

minervanmuse — Fri, 01 May 2009 15:19:55 +0000

Heya dear all,
Following a most enjoyable tag by dear Aiz, from our Zephyr Friends group webbie.
Thanks again, dear chummi, for the lovely inspiration moment: Had great fun (as you’d have guessed) working on this piece am proud of!
Wishes all, minerva*

***

[Image courtesy of moon-melody]

* * *

பட்டுப்பூக்களின் பொன் ஸ்பரிஸத்திலும் சுகமானதடி..

பௌர்ணமி இரவின் மௌனத்திலும் மெல்லியதாய், மறுநாள்

இளஞ்சூரியனின் கதிரினும் கருணை மிக்கதாய்,

தென்றல் மொழிந்திடும் தித்திக்கும் மௌனத்தினும் மருந்தாய்,

அவள் ஆடிவரும் பூந்தோட்டக் கிளையில் குடிகொண்ட கருங்குயிலின் அமிர்த ஆலாபணையிலும் இனியதடி..

உன் நட்பு.

Gentler than the golden touch of silken blossoms, dear one

Softer than the silence of the night illumined by the silvern moon,

the morrow bringing

Compassion brimming over even the most luxuriant of sun-gold rays

Sweeter than the healing quietude the zephyr whispers,

Ever more nectarine than the dulcet-throated *koel of the blossoming orchards,

This Friendship you’ve blessed me with.

*koel = nightingale

~ minerva* [1 May, 2009 (1813)]

p.s. It’s been ages since I have been genuinely inspired to write, dear *Aiz. Thank you for this beautiful moment, chummi. Wishes always, me*

Together, We are the greatest wealth

minervanmuse — Fri, 01 May 2009 14:28:16 +0000

Heya all,
Been such a looong time, but as always, am grateful for these precious minutes I am blessed with.
Hoping all dear souls have been keeping well, yea.
Onto our weekend rendezvous then, dear folks!
Take care all, minerva*

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Poverty

By Pablo Neruda

Ah you don’t want to,
you’re scared
of poverty,
you don’t want
to go to the market with worn-out shoes
and come back with the same old dress.

My love, we are not fond,
as the rich would like us to be,
of misery. We
shall extract it like an evil tooth
that up to now has bitten the heart of man.

But I don’t want
you to fear it.
If through my fault it comes to your dwelling,
if poverty drives away
your golden shoes,
let it not drive away your laughter which is my life’s bread.
If you can’t pay the rent
go off to work with a proud step,
and remember, my love, that I am watching you
and together we are the greatest wealth
that was ever gathered upon the earth.

* * *

Translation: Donald D. Walsh
from: The Captain’s Verses (Los versos del Capitán),
New Directions Publishing, 1972

La Pobreza

Ay no quieres
te asusta
la pobreza,
no quieres
ir con zapatos rotos al mercado
y volver con el viejo vestido.

Amor, no amamos,
como quieren los ricos,
la miseria. Nosotros
la exterparemos como diente maligno
que hasta ahora ha mordido el corazón del hombre.

Pero no quiero
que la temas.
Si llega por mi culpa a tu morada,
si la pobreza expulsa
tus zapatos dorados,
que no expulse tu risa que es el pan de mi vida.
Si no peudes pagar el alquiler
sal al trabajo con paso orgulloso,
y piensa, amor, que yo te estoy mirando
y somos juntos la mayor riqueza
que jamás se reunió sobre la tierra.

Kindle the magic flame.

minervanmuse — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 15:47:06 +0000

Heya all,
Taking a brief respite from pretty draining times of late. Hoping all dear souls are keeping well, too.
Here then, our weekend rendezvous.
Do take care all & Wishes, minerva*

* * *

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

World Builder, a short film by Bruce Branit.

A beautifully poignant tribute to the human Imagination, our human endeavours (of Sci-fi/ technology) & of course, at the end of all things, our purest passions (of love, humanity).

* * *

Via Bartleby.com:

A New Theme

By George William (A.E.) Russell

I fain would leave the tender songs
I sang to you of old,
Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs
The magic never told.

And touch no more the thoughts, the moods,
That win the easy praise;
But venture in the untrodden woods
To carve the future ways.

Though far or strange or cold appear
The shadowy things I tell,
within the heart the hidden seer
Knows and remembers well.

I think that in the coming time
The hearts and hopes of men
The mountain tops of life shall climb,
The gods return again.

I strive to blow the magic horn
It feebly murmureth;
Arise on some enchanted morn,
Poet, with God’s own breath!

And sound the horn I cannot blow,
And by the secret name
Each exile of the heart will know
Kindle the magic flame.

Thou hast made my heart captive..

minervanmuse — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 14:06:28 +0000

Hey dear all,
Am back for a short respite, despite the busy days of late.
Time for our ‘lil weekend rendezvous, then.
Enjoy the awesome video (by Yanni, an ol’ fave artiste of yours truly), accompanied by a Tagorian gem.
Take care all & Wishes, minerva*

* * *

Yanni & his ubercool orchestra performing a newer version of his ol’ fave classic, “Nostalgia”

* * *

Via the Internet Sacred Text Archive:

From the Gitanjali

By Rabindranath Tagore

I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement.

The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky.
The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on.

My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice.
I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled.
Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master!

* * *

*On the Minervan airwaves of late:
Even whilst work looms ahead as usual, these few weeks have been magical, when it comes to yours truly’s beautiful stumbling upon blessed voices. Here’s what am hooked onto of late: Dear lady, Sona Mohapatra’s “Abhi Nahin Aana Sajna“… Nectarine voice, na? Mmm..

Singing through a rolled newspaper..

minervanmuse — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 05:25:02 +0000

Heya dear all,
Been a long while (our usual refrain ) since our last rendezvous, in mine haven here, yea.

Times’ve been busy at work, with loadsa novel learning experiences ~ a pleasant mix of beautiful, and challenging times.

Well, let’s make haste then, to our long-awaited weekend musing.
Take care all & Wishes, as always,
Lookin’ forward to dear Harisaab’s b’day (Yayyy!), minerva*

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Looking Around Believing

By Gary Soto

How strange that we can begin at any time.
With two feet we get down the street.
With a hand we undo the rose.
With an eye we lift up the peach tree
And hold it up to the wind — white blossoms
At our feet. Like today. I started
In the yard with my daughter,
With my wife poking at a potted geranium,
And now I am walking down the street,
Amazed that the sun is only so high,
Just over the roof, and a child
Is singing through a rolled newspaper
And a terrier is leaping like a flea
And at the bakery I pass, a palm,
Like a suctioning starfish, is pressed
To the window. We’re keeping busy —
This way, that way, we’re making shadows
Where sunlight was, making words
Where there was only noise in the trees.

* * *

Muse-worthy Watch: Do watch out for the beautiful, central message of how Friendship transcends such limiting identity-tags as race/religion/language, and even age.. Sweet.

Enjoy the video rendered by dear lady, Shubha Mudgal. Love her voice!
Take care all.

Baagon Na Jaa by Shubha Mudgal

In Time with the Echo of Your Song

minervanmuse — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 13:58:06 +0000

Heya all,
Been a looong while I know (this seems the refrain of late, yea).
Hoping all dear souls have been keeping well.

To keep ’tis pulsing heart & its pursuits of love alive then, here, our weekend musing.
Do take care all & Stay lovely all,
minerva*

* * *

Via TED, an incredibly awesome performance by the amazing Teresa Carreño Youth Orchestra, comprising the uber-talented conductor, Gustavo Dudamel, with his orchestra of 18 to 28-year-old high school kids from Venezuela.

Truly, an ineffably lovely day-brightener to yours truly, who especially loved the effervescent closure of the second rendition, Arturo Márquez’ Danzón No. 2. Bravo!

Great musical masterpieces speak a joyous language of their own yes, but when such glorious work is rendered with the wondrous dedication & creative imagination of the young, what else could ever be more beautiful than this?

For another brilliant rendition of Arturo Márquez’ Danzón No. 2 (that yours truly can’t seem to get enough of), rendered by the Simon Bolivar Orchestra, but conducted by Gustavo Dudamel again.

* * *

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Soleá *
By Randolyn Zinn

No singing. No dancing.
Let the spores multiply on the dishes. My feet won’t move.

Outside the window celadon leaves tremble against the glass
but they don’t comfort me. It will take stillness to recover

from yesterday’s news. What was I supposed to do…?
Oh yes, limes and plums. There are mouths to feed.

But first le me mark out the counts of your absence,
Palm against palm.

Uno dos quatro cinco siete nueve un dos…

Hands lay quiet in my lap now, fingers won’t make
a flower, and dreams are no help. I looked for you

all night in tablaos, found a shawl you might have worn once
strewn across the floor of an empty house in Càdiz.

I was strangely happy in the search.

“Por ti
las horitas de la noche
me las paso sin dormir…”

I haven’t forgotten the tangos, the siguiriyas,
the sequence of arms, right crossing left,

snapping pitos keeping time, awake all night.
The fleetest hours were yours.

I want to hear my shoes—black, with nails hammered
into wooden heels–pounding out zapateados as crisp

as machine gun fire. And my skirt—the tiny house I lived in,
my silk casita, dyed the color of blood to attract the bull,

swirling open from the cries of Gypsies.

¡Ay, ay! ¡Ole¡ ¡Asi se canta! ¡Asi se baila! ¡Ole.!

I could walk down the hill and buy a bottle of Rioja
to drink tonight at sunset, but my feet won’t move.

When I close my eyes, your face quivers on my lids,
in time with the echo of your song.

(*in flamenco, a song or dance of pathos, usually performed as a solo)

One window is enough for me.

minervanmuse — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 06:49:22 +0000

Hey all,
Hope all dear souls have been fine.
Been a looong hiatus I know ~ and this’s only set to continue, what with the onset of the new year and its unique gifts.

Just to friends close to the heart:
This year looks set to be one of new adventures, including some ventures that feel as if they easily rank amongst the zaniest choices yours truly has taken. Let’s see..

On the work front, have been entrusted with charges with an interesting mix of personality – some with the potential to be (dangerously) endearing and some, well, not so. A surprising realisation I guess, since I hadn’t really imagined any of them to be as beautiful as the old’ lot who’d been my reigning impetus to keep going on despite trying times.

Yes, am looking forward to meeting my old beloved Lit Kidz ~ with whom an irredeemable part of ’tis pulsing heart will always remain ~ when they return to the campus for their ‘O’ level results.
Want to be there when they get their official passports to their future journeys they’ll now chart on their own – not so much to know their grades, but just to see the sweet souls I’ve terribly missed.
Just looking upon them from the corner of the hall would suffice to make this heart leap anew.

Here then, our first Weekend Musing of 2009!

Have a Beautiful & Blessed New Year ahead all.
May this Earth be richly blessed.

Do take care all & Wishes, minerva*

* * *

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Window
By Forough Farrokhzad

A window for seeing.
A window for hearing.
A window I like well
that plunges to the heart of the earth
and opens to the vast unceasing love in blue.
A window lavishing the tiny hands of loneliness
with the night’s perfume from gentle stars.
A window through which one could invite
the sun for a visit to abandoned geraniums.

One window is enough for me.

I come from the land of dolls, from under
the shade of paper trees in a storybook grove;
from arid seasons of barren friendship and love
in the unpaved alleys of innocence;
from years when the pallid letters of the alphabet
grew up behind desks of tubercular schools;
from the precise moment children could write
“stone” on the board and the startled starlings took wing
from the ancient tree.

I come from among the roots of carnivorous plants,
and my head stills swirls with the sound
of a butterfly’s terror – crucified with a pin to a book.

When my trust hung from the feeble rope of justice
and the whole city tore my heart’s lamps to shreds,
when love’s innocent eyes were bound
with the dark kerchief of the law, and blood gushed
from my dreams’ unglued temples,
when my life was no longer anything,
nothing at all except the tick tick of a clock on the wall,
I understood that I must, must, must
deliriously love.

One window is enough for me.

All deep things are song.

minervanmuse — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 18:21:56 +0000

All deep things are song.
It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song;
as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!
~ Thomas Carlyle

Heya all,
Hoping all dear souls have been keeping well.
Been away at an awesome 3-day Conference, hence the brief hiatus.

*Note to dearer souls: Will be away on a short trip this week.
Will leave kindred souls with a lovely video (you’ll know) I’d stumbled upon. Enjoy the video & Take care, dear all.
Wishes, as always, minerva*

Stand By Me by Playing for Change,
an awesome movement “created to inspire, connect and bring peace to the world through music”

While the heartwarming video above – a cover of Ben E. King’s lovely original – celebrates street musicians who hail from various countries & cultures across the globe, Playing for Change has been proving a beautiful fount of inspiration by itself too, as in *here*.

Music is the universal language of mankind.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“And that, is Heaven.”

minervanmuse — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 17:04:11 +0000

Heya all,
Been clearing out clutter in mine work/home worlds of late – and this ‘lil gem of a tale i’d kept aside some time ago, kept reappearing.. So there, sharing some food for thought with kindred souls here.
Take care all. Wishes*

The Secrets of Heaven and Hell

By Fr. John W. Groff Jr.

The old monk sat by the side of the road. With his eyes closed, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap, he sat. In deep meditation, he sat.

Suddenly, his zazen was interrupted by the harsh and demanding voice of a samurai warrior. “Old man! Teach me about heaven and hell!”

At first, as though he had not heard, there was no perceptible response from the monk. But gradually he began to open his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as the samurai stood there, waiting impatiently, growing more and more agitated with each passing second.

“You wish to know the secrets of heaven and hell?” replied the monk at last.
“You, who are so unkempt.
You, whose hands and feet are covered with dirt.
You, whose hair is uncombed, whose breath is foul, whose sword is all rusty and neglected.
You, who are ugly and whose mother dresses you funny. You would ask me of heaven and hell?”

The samurai uttered a vile curse. He drew his sword and raised it high above his head. His face turned to crimson, and the veins on his neck stood out in bold relief as he prepared to sever the monk’s head from its shoulders.

“That is hell,” said the old man gently, just as the sword began its descent.

In that fraction of a second, the samurai was overcome with amazement, awe, compassion and love for this gentle being who had dared to risk his very life to give him such a teaching. He stopped his sword in mid-flight and his eyes filled with grateful tears.

“And that,” said the monk, “is heaven.”