Together we will create brave space
Because there is no such thing as a “safe space”
We exist in the real world
We all carry scars and we have all caused wounds.
In this space
We seek to turn down the volume of the outside world.
We amplify voices that fight to be heard elsewhere,
We call each other to more truth and love
We have the right to start somewhere and continue to grow.
We have the responsibility to examine what we think we know.
We will not be perfect.
It will not always be what we wish it to be
But
It will be our brave space together,
And
We will work on it side by side.

by Micky Scottbey Jones

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

//Mary Oliver

..




Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

//Mary Oliver

(..)

dzīve atklājas stārķa lidojumā
kas piesūcināja tevi ar sērām?
laime mīt viscaur – ņem sauli par piemēru
rīt dzimstošu bērnu vai aizgājušās nedēļas baložus

kaut vakar kāds mira
maize joprojām dod sātu
un ūdens plūst lejup, un zirgi joprojām to dzer

(..)
//Sohrābs Sepehrī

The Second Coming

By William Butler Yeats



Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

// The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989)

The lover you forsake in dreams becomes a wolf at daybreak:
run softly, leave no trace,
pass light-footed through the years.
Or else lie down with the wolf, let her find you.
One drop of blood will suffice.

honeybee komentārs par to, ka, iespējams, pēc nāves Le Gvinas klātesamība pasaulē ir nevis pazudusi, bet kļuvusi izkliedētāka, kaut kā izcili sasaucās ar šo pašas Le Gvinas dzejoli.
varbūt viņai toreiz jau viss bija skaidrs un izplānots, he.



The skin

“All around us is the skin,
helping keep our bodies in.”

I’ve known that poem sixty years.
There’s more to it than first appears.

If we were skinless, like a cloud,
would we not mingle with the crowd?

Would not our little bodies be
more boundless even than the sea,

and gaseous as the atmosphere?
Would we be there as well as here?

Would I be you, and you be me,
and both of us mere entropy?

The two it takes to tango need
to be discrete, not just discreet.

The skin, however, does have holes
for letting in and out our souls,

our food, and such necessities.
It is designed to serve and please.

It washes well, but with the years
gets wrinkles, little spots and smears,

and somehow doesn’t seem to fit
as seamlessly as once as it did.

But still it is my nomad’s tent,
my shelter, my integument,

the outside of myself, this thin,
seemingly superficial skin,

that hems me neatly all about,
keeping foreign bodies out,
and keeping me, a while yet, in.

//Ursula K. Le Guin, 2008

.





You talked but after your talking all the rest remains.
After your talking—poets, philosophers, contrivers of romances—everything else,
All the rest deduced inside the flesh
Which lives & knows not just what is permitted.

I am a woman held fast now in a great silence.
Not all creatures have your need for words.
Birds you killed, fish you tossed into your boat,
In what words will they find rest & in what heaven?

You received gifts from me; they were accepted.
But you don’t understand how to think about the dead.
The smell of winter apples, of hoarfrost, and of linen.
There are nothing but gifts on this poor, poor Earth.

—Czeslaw Milosz, from Unattainable Earth

(..)



and I wonder what it says about me
that I feel pretty in a dress,
but powerful in a suit.

If misogyny has been coiled
inside of me for so long,

I forget I will not stand
before an impatient judge

with an Adam's apple, hand grasping
gavel, ready to pound a wooden mark.

Give me a God I can relate to.
Commandments from a voice
both soft and powerful.

Give me one accomplishment of Mary's
that did not involve her vagina.

Give me decisions. A wordless
wardrobe. An opinion-
less dress.

Give me a city where my body
is not public property.

Once, my friend and I got catcalled
on Michigan avenue, and she said
Fuck you, while I said Thank you

like I was trained to.

//Blythe Baird

First they came for the socialists,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—
and there was no one left to speak for me.

—Attributed to Martin Niemöller (1892–1984),
anti-Nazi German pastor

Elēģija




Reiz arī mēs par aizmirstiem dzejniekiem kļūsim.
Mūsu uzdevumu pārņems kāds cits,
miršanas apliecības mums izsniegtas tiks,
lieliska harmonija būs mūsu alga.
Gadu gadiem mēs karogu nesām,
visu cilvēkam lemto iepazinām,
tagad notālēm skatīsim saules rietus
bez rūgtuma un mokām
kā divi cilvēki, kuriem ir skaidrs,
ka dzīve – tas ir bezgalīgs miers,
nevis godkāre,
nevis alkas, lai patiktu kādam.
Visu redzēsim atkailinātu,
bet bez mazākās cinisma nokrāsas,
visu mīlēdami ar bezgala pašaizliedzību
kā divi cilvēki vecuma durvīs, kuri nomaļus atiet,
lai vēlreiz izbaudītu cilvēka mūža dzeju,
kuru filozofiski gari dēvē par laimi.

//Vitezslavs Nezvals (atdz. Imants Auziņš)

Caurums

Lāgiem es nepārprotami jūtu, kā mīlestība
nāk uz mani paralēlās straumēs –
tas ir kā Ventas rumbā vai dušā,
vai it kā es stāvētu zem milzīga caurdura –
un jūs, čabulīši,
jūsu acis, jūsu rokas, jūsu mutes ir caurumi.

Jūs esat tie caurumi, kad jums ir prieks
redzēt, piemēram, mani,
kad mamma zvana un saka, ka iedos līdzi
šokolādi, ko apēst ceļā,
kad kāds ir atnācis pretī, kabačus cepis, vārījis zupu,
kad vīrs mani maigi kā savu miesu,
bet izstādē mākslinieks piepeši iznāk
un pats mani apskauj.

Un tad vēl tā gaisma.
Pamosties košas saules pielietā telpā,
un kā kustas aizkaru ornamenti,
un diena ārā jauna un tīra,
izej un reibsti no visa plašuma,
un nepanesami gribas pateicībā tad raudāt,
noslīgt ceļos jūrmalas smiltīs vai sniegā
vai krāsainās lapās, un jūsmīgi teikt:
Es gribu būt caurums.

Un arī tad, kad gājums vairs nebūs medains un rēns,
kad apklusīs dziesmas un mostoties nedejos augu ēnas,
kad mammai zupas vairs nebūs,
man pašai būs jāizcep tonnām kabaču
un jāpalīdz izcilāt slimais tētis,
nesabojājot katetra maisu,
un kad es, es pati būšu tas mākslinieks,
kam jāapkampj katrs izstādes apmeklētājs
kā vienīgais viesis,

kad bērni mani lielāku plēsīs
un izbirs no manis strīpā kā zirņi
un visi tad gribēs tās šokolādes un apskāvienus;
kad aizgriezies klusēs vīrs,
bet draugi tālu pludmalē priecāsies vieni paši bez manis,
nē, kad noskums un manī mierinājumu nemeklēs,
kad laukos sunītis purniņu uzstājīgi iebakstīs lielos,
bet man tieši būs beigusies putra,
kad Rīgas kaimiņš neļķi uz astoto martu vairs nenesīs,
jo nevarēs iziet no dzīvokļa,
kad galva reibs ne vairs no aizkustinājuma –
vienalga, es gribu būt caurums.

Es gribu būt duršlāga caurums –
nu kaut vai apsūbējis,
pavisam mazai un šaurai straumītei.

Un varbūt tieši tāpēc, ka es nezinu, kur tagad ir tētis
un vai tas ir turpat, no kurienes atnāca bērni,
un man īstenībā ir bail,
ka mēs neaugšāmcelsimies miesā,
bet neko citu labu es nespēju iztēloties;
un arī ja zeme nav tāda, ka kārotos nomesties ceļos,
var vienkārši pamāt ar galvu un konstatēt sausi –
es joprojām to gribu.

Gribu būt caurums mīlestībai.

//Anna Auziņa

šitā tēma mani vienmēr uzrunā. ne velti par kaut ko ļoti līdzīgu ir viens no maniem mīļākajiem dzejoļiem.

the genius of the crowd




there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

//charles bukowski

Testament (Homage to Walt Whitman)



I, Erica Jong, in the midst of my life,
having had two parents, two sisters,
two husbands, two books of poems
& three decades of pain,
having cried for those that did not love me
those who loved me- but not enough
& those whom I did not love-

declare myself now for joy

There is pain enough to nourish us everywhere;
it is joy that is scarce…

and tears to drown in, and bile enough to swallow all day long.

Righteous indignation is the religion of the dead, in the house of the dead
where the dead speak to eachother in creaking voices
each arguing a more unhappy childhood than the other.
Unhappiness is cheap,
Childhood is a universal affliction.
I say to hell with the analysts of minus & plus

the life-shrinkers, the diminishers of joy.
I say to hell with anyone
who would suck on misery
like a pacifier
in a toothless mouth.

I say to hell with doom…
Doom is cheap

If the apocalypse is coming,
let us wait for it in joy…

let us not gnash our teeth on the molars of corpses-
though the molars of corpses are plentiful enough.
let us not scorn laughter though scorn is plentiful enough.
Let us laugh and bring plenty to the scorners
for they scorn themselves.
I myself have been a scorner
and have chosen scornful men,
men to echo all that was narrow in myself, men to hurt me as I hurt myself.

In my stinginess my friends have been stingy,
In my narrowness my men have been mean.

I resolve Now for joy.

If that resolve means I must live alone,
I accept aloneness.

If the joy house I inhabit must be
a house of my own making,
I accept that making…

No joy-denyer can deny me now.
For what I have is undeniable.
I inhabit my own house,
the house of joy…

Dear Walt Whiman, horny old nurse to pain,
speaker of passwords primeval.
merit refuser, poet of body and soul..
You were hankering, gross, mystical, nude,
you astonished with the odour of your armpits,
You cocked your hat as you chose;
you cocked your cock,

but you knew “the me myself’.

You believed in your soul,
and believing made others believe in theirs.

The soul is contagious.
One man catches another’s
like the plague;
and we are all patient spiders
to each other.
If we can spin the joy thread
& also catch it-
If we can be sufficient to ourselves,
we need fear no entangling webs…

How to spin joy out of an empty heart?
The joy-egg germinates even in despair.
Orgasms of gloom convulse the world;

& and the joy-seekers huddle together.

We meet on the pages of books & by beachwood fires,
We meet scrawled blackly in many-folded letters.
We know each other by free & generous hands,
We swing like spiders on each other’s souls.



//Erica Jong

PASAKAS ZIRNĪTS



Kad nu tev kādreiz manis nepietiek?!
Jo tu jau gribi; lai es mūžam augu.
Un kā es to lai izdaru, ko liek?
Ja neizdaru, pazaudēju draugu!

Ko aplinki! - es teikšu taisnību:
Es tevim laba diezgan neesmu,
Tu gribi mani vienmēr labāku, -
Tad meklē, varbūt citu atrodi,
Kur kādu augošāku meiteni,
Kā pasakā to zirnīti,
Ko debesīs kāpt.


//Rainis

.



so I will die one day,
but if it must be soon
please,
God,
let it be beautiful.
let my black skin explode
all Cosmic
as if I didn’t breathe galaxies
as if I didn’t hold the entire universe between my thighs
as if this beauty was anything but infinite
and poised toward destruction
as if this beauty was anything but beauty.
this body keeps me so Ugly.
and what is this body
if not mourning,
if not already a knot on the noose?
I put on this skin like it’s performance art.
such a slip of a thing.
whichever you would prefer,
whatever you think would look better
on this body today.
my art is only about my body.
all art is only about this body
and however long it has left
to keep breathing.
and what is my breath
if not a countdown?
what are these lips
if not holy?
already a prayer.
something like
Dear God,
may I Ash
I Terrify
I Lazarus
again and again and again

—
Lady Lazarus Sings the Blues, Kiki Nicole

Laim




Pe durim klouve.
Tuk, tuk!
Taipus durim stāv ābel,
zars isstieps,
nelaimiks roud:
Man ekša i dobums!

Vai tas i kād problem?
Dobuma i viet prekš laim.


//Heli Lāksonena

Here among fading things in a realm of
decline,
be a ringing glass shattered by its own
sound.

//R.M.Rilke (translated by Michael Wood)