Follow me through this; I will meander, but I have a destination. And he (or she) who does not stray a bit from the set path is missing out on a hell of a lot of sightseeing.
I just realized that I never explained the reasoning behind the web address of this blog. "Ser un Instante" is one of my favorite Spanish poems of all time. [I haven't actually read enough Spanish poetry to make such a bold statement, but this poem is so incredible that I honestly can't see how it can't be among the best Spanish poems ever.] It is by Rafael Guillén, a major leader and spokesperson for the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. In addition to being a political leader, he wrote many philosophical essays, and apparently poems, which inspired and invigorated many. "Ser un Instante" means "To Be an Instant" and the poem, translated, reads:
Certitude comes as a bedazzlement,
instants of light. Or blackness.
The rest is just hours passing, the backdrop,
gray for contrast. The rest is the void.
It's a moment. The body untenants itself, sets free
that transparency with which it can see itself.
It moves into things, materializes in matter,
and we can sense it from some distant place.
I remember an instant when Paris struck me
with the weight of a burnt-out star.
I remember that total rain. Paris is sad.
Everything lovely is sad while time exists.
To live is to pause with one foot lifted;
losing a step, to gain a second.
Watching a river flow, we don't see the water.
to live is to see the water, to hold its patterns.
I was lazily propped on my elbows over the iron railing
of the Pont des Arts. Suddenly, life flashed out.
It was raining over the Seine and the water, riddled,
turned into stone, the ash of hardened lava.
Nothing alters its order. It's only one heartbeat
of a self which, by surprise, becomes perceptible.
And the density of iron is sensed from within,
and we become the glance that pierces us.
Lucidity always selects unforeseen moments,
as when in the projection room, a failure
interrupts the action, leaving a still-shot.
The motion begins again, and we sink into it.
The heavy silhouette of the Louvre
no longer took up space, but was installed
in some part of me, part of that total consciousness
split by a ray whose aim is absolute.
To be one instant. Yourself immersed in other
things that are. Afterwards, nothing. The universe
continues its whirling death in the void.
But for one moment, it pauses, fully alive.
I remember it rained over Paris. Even the trees
on the banks became eternal. The next moment
the water renewed its course and once more I
watched it, seeing nothing, lose itself under the bridge.
------------------
I stumbled upon this poem randomly; I was searching for the author of another one of my favorite Spanish poems entitled "Mata del Anima Sola" or "Tree of a Lonely Soul," the poem that sparked my interest in Spanish poetry. I initially heard it not in the form of a poem, but in the form of a song, when I heard it at my very first Bergen County Chorus Rehearsal in 2005, during which we were given 3 days to memorize 5 complicated choral pieces before the official performance. "Mata del Anima Sola" was one of the songs we learned to sing, and it was sung completely A capella. We sang it perfectly, and the music we made at the final performance seemed to make the walls shudder; I swear I almost felt as though God was in the room with us, and I don't even believe in God. I remember being so mesmerized by the song that I looked it up, and found that it was adapted into a song from a poem by Alberto Arvelo Torrealba.
The poem (song), translated, reads:
Tree of the lonely soul, wide opening on the riverside--
Now you will be able to say: here slept a clear song.
With the whistle and the sting of the twisted wind,
the dappled and violet dusk quietly entered the corral.
The night, tired mare, shakes her mane and black tail above the riverside
and in its silence, your heart of phantoms is astounded.
While looking for this information, I came upon this webpage of world famous poetry via Google. I spent countless hours over the next few days reading the various poetry on this website, and found myself reading "Ser un Instante" over and over; I was so enchanted by it! It reminded me of the book "Siddhartha" by Herman Hesse. Towards the end of the book there is a scene in which Siddhartha realizes that the river is everywhere at once, that there is no difference between the past, the present, and the future. This poem was my second encounter with this kind of thinking, and I am stupefied by the possibilities such thinking affords, by the endless realm of thought and the ubiquity (or perhaps needlessness?) of time. How different would our lives be if we truly believed that time has no significance? It seems pretty ridiculous just writing about it. These days life comes in blocks of time, each of which is afforded to you in order that you accomplish what society expects of you within that time.
But what about these random encounters, these momentary glimpses of something (or someone) strange or enchanting? Sometimes these encounters aren't actually just momentary; they could last for months, or years, but when we look back at them they really do seem to have lasted only an instant, or perhaps not at all. Perhaps they seemed irrelevant at the same time, but now or in the future they will become useful. Maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about, but this happens to me all the time. I marvel at my encounters and links with these strange things, places, poems that make me euphoric or contemplative, or with people who seem to come from an entirely different world from the one that I have comfortably nested myself into. For example, on Friday I sat next to an army runaway on the bus, sent to jail for a hit and run and expelled from high school for trying to murder somebody. A year and a half ago I sat next to an old couple at a restaurant that gave me what seemed to be random advice at the time, but which happens to be extremely pertinent to me now. A year ago I was randomly sent to London for my first semester abroad and unknowingly changed the course of both my academic and personal pursuits.
Where do these instants fit in with blocked, success-metered time? Do you even notice them? Do you consider them significant? What is significant? What should be?
All questions that I'm too tired to continue thinking about right now.
Sorry, I guess there is no destination tonight. Or perhaps a question is a better ending to something like this than some clearly insufficient answer.
I just realized that I never explained the reasoning behind the web address of this blog. "Ser un Instante" is one of my favorite Spanish poems of all time. [I haven't actually read enough Spanish poetry to make such a bold statement, but this poem is so incredible that I honestly can't see how it can't be among the best Spanish poems ever.] It is by Rafael Guillén, a major leader and spokesperson for the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. In addition to being a political leader, he wrote many philosophical essays, and apparently poems, which inspired and invigorated many. "Ser un Instante" means "To Be an Instant" and the poem, translated, reads:
Certitude comes as a bedazzlement,
instants of light. Or blackness.
The rest is just hours passing, the backdrop,
gray for contrast. The rest is the void.
It's a moment. The body untenants itself, sets free
that transparency with which it can see itself.
It moves into things, materializes in matter,
and we can sense it from some distant place.
I remember an instant when Paris struck me
with the weight of a burnt-out star.
I remember that total rain. Paris is sad.
Everything lovely is sad while time exists.
To live is to pause with one foot lifted;
losing a step, to gain a second.
Watching a river flow, we don't see the water.
to live is to see the water, to hold its patterns.
I was lazily propped on my elbows over the iron railing
of the Pont des Arts. Suddenly, life flashed out.
It was raining over the Seine and the water, riddled,
turned into stone, the ash of hardened lava.
Nothing alters its order. It's only one heartbeat
of a self which, by surprise, becomes perceptible.
And the density of iron is sensed from within,
and we become the glance that pierces us.
Lucidity always selects unforeseen moments,
as when in the projection room, a failure
interrupts the action, leaving a still-shot.
The motion begins again, and we sink into it.
The heavy silhouette of the Louvre
no longer took up space, but was installed
in some part of me, part of that total consciousness
split by a ray whose aim is absolute.
To be one instant. Yourself immersed in other
things that are. Afterwards, nothing. The universe
continues its whirling death in the void.
But for one moment, it pauses, fully alive.
I remember it rained over Paris. Even the trees
on the banks became eternal. The next moment
the water renewed its course and once more I
watched it, seeing nothing, lose itself under the bridge.
------------------
I stumbled upon this poem randomly; I was searching for the author of another one of my favorite Spanish poems entitled "Mata del Anima Sola" or "Tree of a Lonely Soul," the poem that sparked my interest in Spanish poetry. I initially heard it not in the form of a poem, but in the form of a song, when I heard it at my very first Bergen County Chorus Rehearsal in 2005, during which we were given 3 days to memorize 5 complicated choral pieces before the official performance. "Mata del Anima Sola" was one of the songs we learned to sing, and it was sung completely A capella. We sang it perfectly, and the music we made at the final performance seemed to make the walls shudder; I swear I almost felt as though God was in the room with us, and I don't even believe in God. I remember being so mesmerized by the song that I looked it up, and found that it was adapted into a song from a poem by Alberto Arvelo Torrealba.
The poem (song), translated, reads:
Tree of the lonely soul, wide opening on the riverside--
Now you will be able to say: here slept a clear song.
With the whistle and the sting of the twisted wind,
the dappled and violet dusk quietly entered the corral.
The night, tired mare, shakes her mane and black tail above the riverside
and in its silence, your heart of phantoms is astounded.
While looking for this information, I came upon this webpage of world famous poetry via Google. I spent countless hours over the next few days reading the various poetry on this website, and found myself reading "Ser un Instante" over and over; I was so enchanted by it! It reminded me of the book "Siddhartha" by Herman Hesse. Towards the end of the book there is a scene in which Siddhartha realizes that the river is everywhere at once, that there is no difference between the past, the present, and the future. This poem was my second encounter with this kind of thinking, and I am stupefied by the possibilities such thinking affords, by the endless realm of thought and the ubiquity (or perhaps needlessness?) of time. How different would our lives be if we truly believed that time has no significance? It seems pretty ridiculous just writing about it. These days life comes in blocks of time, each of which is afforded to you in order that you accomplish what society expects of you within that time.
But what about these random encounters, these momentary glimpses of something (or someone) strange or enchanting? Sometimes these encounters aren't actually just momentary; they could last for months, or years, but when we look back at them they really do seem to have lasted only an instant, or perhaps not at all. Perhaps they seemed irrelevant at the same time, but now or in the future they will become useful. Maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about, but this happens to me all the time. I marvel at my encounters and links with these strange things, places, poems that make me euphoric or contemplative, or with people who seem to come from an entirely different world from the one that I have comfortably nested myself into. For example, on Friday I sat next to an army runaway on the bus, sent to jail for a hit and run and expelled from high school for trying to murder somebody. A year and a half ago I sat next to an old couple at a restaurant that gave me what seemed to be random advice at the time, but which happens to be extremely pertinent to me now. A year ago I was randomly sent to London for my first semester abroad and unknowingly changed the course of both my academic and personal pursuits.
Where do these instants fit in with blocked, success-metered time? Do you even notice them? Do you consider them significant? What is significant? What should be?
All questions that I'm too tired to continue thinking about right now.
Sorry, I guess there is no destination tonight. Or perhaps a question is a better ending to something like this than some clearly insufficient answer.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment