All of a sudden everything changed

All of a sudden, everything changed.
Why did I answer your call?
You said I was right. We are estranged.
All of a sudden, everything changed.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t arranged.
You left. And that is all.
All of a sudden, everything changed.
Why did I answer your call?

*Painting “Tityrus Meliboea and the departure of Gauguin” by Pauls Serusier, 1892.

Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.

Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.

Involved. Immersed. And not drowning.

Bitter. Sad. And not depressed.

Enraged. Annoyed. And not angry.

Unseeing. Eyeless. And not blind.

Ill. Impaired. And not sick.

Useless. Vain. And not futile.

Mute. Speechless. And not silent.

Demolished. Crushed. And not broken.

Far. Gone. And not away.

*Painting – Scarecrow by Candido Portinari (1959)

Not nibbled by mosquitoes

Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.
A mountain in the meadows,
not nibbled by mosquitoes.
Light touching, throwing shadows.
Breath – longer than an aeon.
Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.

 

*Painting “Lion Licking Its Paw” by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1886.

Not even for nothing*

Triumph of pain – treachery of the eyes, the ears, the skin. One has to trudge through this desert all one’s life. To see and to hear. To hear and see. To eat. To laugh. To talk, smoke, drink. To feel. To procreate. To write. To breathe. To be in pain. To bleed, to tremble. To be angry. To suffer. To cry out, to sleep, to wait. Fatigue is everywhere. There is no way, really no way of avoiding it. One has to toil, to feel hot, to feel cold. To caress. To enjoy. To understand, to understand without pause. Every day. Like that, every day, without exception. To urinate. To taste. To let oneself be carried away by useless words. To adopt paces and habits. To seek for phrases, to stretch one’s ears and eyes, to stretch one’s skin. To pretend to love, to love really, perhaps. All that, not even for nothing; for it’s not even possible to resort to nothingness so as to determine one’s life; man is not alone; vulgar, garish things inhabit him, shape him. There’s no way of judging. There is no absurdity, for there is not even any separation between what is and what ought to be. God, if he exists, must be left in full control: never, no, never, shall we really know what a little worm man is.

*The text above is taken from the story “A day of old age” written by J.M.G. Le Clezio.

 

You pass me by

I walk the street. You pass me by.
Our eyes meet. You pass me by.
We laugh, we smile.You pass me by.
And all this while you pass me by.

Seconds run and pass me by.
One by one. They pass me by.
Silently they pass me by.
For what, I ask, they pass me by?

Stop, I beg, don’t pass me by.
Walk nearby, don’t pass me by.
Unknowingly you pass me by.
Why do you always pass me by?

*Painting “Harlequinade” by Albert Bloch, 1911.

Goodnight I say to you, my morning

 

Goodnight I say to you, my morning.
How was your day, I greet the night.
In this life, what’s worth exploring?
Is there something worth a fight?

Goodnight I say to you, my sunshine.
How was your day, I greet the gloom.
Close to my lips I hold a glass of wine
and sip it slowly till I reach my tomb.

Goodnight I say to you, my sunrise.
How was your life, I greet the dead.
Ignore the ground, ignore the skies,
what matters most is in your head.

Goodnight I say to you, my summer.
How was the snow, I greet the spring.
My piercing eyes fell into a slumber.
I cannot see clearly any thing.

Good morning I say to you, my late hour.
How was your night, I greet the day.
On nonsense I’ve spent my time and power,
while hoping to prolong this decay.

 

*Painting “Morning” by Caspar David Friedrich.

Words, do not leave me, please

Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.
Words, I beg you on my knees.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Words, come and be at ease.
Say something that no one knows.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.

*Painting “Pheidippides giving word of victory” by Luc-Olivier Merson, 1869.

Raindrops beating upon my face

Raindrops beating upon my face
as the wind outside is whistling.
The sun has fled without a trace,
With thorns my life is bristling.

Shadows move around in dance
as snowflakes drift from the silent sky.
Lost in my thoughts I walk in a trance,
Is there more than meets the eye?

Oceans full with shallow waters
as mountains sing sweet lullabies.
Tell me, friend, what really matters,
what’s worth to know and memorize?

Darkness looms through deserted lands
as rainbows greet the passersby.
Whose footprints run into these sands?
So far away and yet nearby.

Broken candles burning brightly
but all my rooms are dimly lit.
I close my eyes ever so slightly
to see the light that I emit.

 

*Painting “Man Standing, Arms Extended” by Paul Cezanne, 1878.

Play the cards you get, my friend

Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play the cards to the very end.
Play them uncomplainingly.
Play them freely, willingly.
Though the stakes may not be worth the winning,
Every day can be a new beginning.
Play the hand you have been dealt,
No matter what your heart has felt.
And if the game may not be worth the while,
face every moment with a smile.
Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play them bravely to the end.

 

*Painting “The Card Players” by  Paul Cezanne, 1893.

Let us spend our time alone

Let us spend our time alone
In silence, without talking.
Searching for wisdom’s stone,
Let us spend our time alone
And cultivate what we have sown.
Come, let’s keep on walking.
Let us spend our time alone
In silence, without talking.

 

*Painting “The Way of Silence” by Frantisek Kupka, 1903.

To take all things as they are

To take all things as they are
and adjust my life to what must be.
Then in this world I’ll go far
beyond what any eyes can see.

To say not one dishonest word
and avoid all sham and deceit.
Then my mind’s eye won’t be blurred
and life will seem more upbeat.

To make the most of my lonely hours
and quit day dreaming about the past.
Then I’ll tap into my hidden powers
and live my life with joy at last.

To do what no one has done before
but know that I’m like the rest.
Then I’ll find a cause to fight for
and live my life with zeal and zest.

But I take all things as they are not
and try to sink my inner ship.
Thus my efforts come to nought –
what a splendid ego trip!

 

*Painting “Small Girl Presenting Cherries” by John Russell, 1780.

With no plan, with no purpose

With no plan, with no purpose
I walk around in circles.
I feel calm, not nervous.
With no plan, with no purpose.

With no worry, with no fear
My path is straight and clear.
Here I am to disappear.
With no worry, with no fear.

With no hope, with no promise
I look into the silent abyss.
Everything has gone amiss.
With no hope, with no promise.

With no thought, with no mind
My eyes are dark and blind.
Myself I daily lose and find.
With no thought, with no mind.

With no sorrow, with no pain
I repeat my sins again.
I cannot cleanse this ugly stain.
With no sorrow, with no pain.

*Painting “Planning for the Future” by Basuki Abdullah

 

There is no future, friend

There is no future, friend.
No other life to spend.
Clear out your mind, unbend.
Death really is the end.

There is no future, friend.
So why you still pretend
that broken things you can mend
and that death is not the end?

There is no future, friend.
No peaks and mountains to ascend.
Against the stream though you may wend,
your path quite soon will find its end.

There is no future, friend.
No truth or honor to defend.
To live forever you may intend,
but when death calls, it is the end.

There is no future, friend.
On no god you can depend.
This life you cannot transcend.
Death really is the end.

There is no future, friend.
No other life to spend.
Clear out your mind, unbend.
Death really is the end.

*Painting “Graveyard under Snow” by Caspar David Friedrich, 1826.

I hear the sounds of one hand clapping

I hear the sounds of one hand clapping
and point my finger to the moon.
My life in part I spend napping,
hoping not to wake up too soon.

I see this world through the windows
of my dark and blurred eyes.
What lies outside, who really knows?
Who can pretend to be so wise?

I listen to how people speak
about the current world affairs.
Have they found what they seek
and got an answer to their prayers?

I touch the sky with my fingertips
and breathe the universe in me.
With this life I’ve come to grips
as far as I can tell and see.

I catch my shadows in the nearby park
and try to get lost in the trees.
I dare to fail and miss my mark.
Thus to live in peace and ease.

*Painting “Left hand with the index finger” by Vasily Polenov, 1885.

Open up the closet door

Open up the closet door,
let the skeleton come out.
With a violent cry and a mighty roar,
strive to overcome your doubt.

Leave your skeleton to roam
freely at its pace and will.
Where he is, there is your home –
a place to rest and to stand still.

Look at his pale blue face
with neither fear nor shame,
Longing for a warm embrace,
into your life he came.

Let him do what he wants,
but you observe patiently.
See what ghosts he seeks and hunts,
know the place where he likes to be.

And lock your soul in that place
where your skeleton had been.
Then a smile won’t leave your face,
anew your life will begin.

*Painting “Funeral Symphony” by Mikalojus Ciurlionis, 1903.

It matters not one bit

What the world may think of me,
it matters not one bit.
Whether chained, enslaved or free
my life is as I see it.

What I do for good or ill,
it matters not one bit.
Nothing I do of my own will,
only what my genes permit.

How high I seem to climb,
it matters not one bit.
All things come in good time
to those who never quit.

How many small ambitions I have achieved,
it matters not one bit.
My brain is tricked and deceived
to think as I see fit.

And if our lives fell short,
it matters not one bit.
No one is a different sort.
to death we all submit.

*Painting “A Boor Asleep” by Adriaen Brouwer.

For thousand years I wait and wait

For thousand years I wait and wait
and spin in vain my prayer wheel.
Is this my life, is this my fate?
For thousand years I wait and wait.
Myself I can invent, create.
From nothingness to something real.
For thousand years I wait and wait
and spin in vain my prayer wheel.

*Painting – “Cupid with the Wheel of Fortune” by Titian, c.1520.

My prayer is a merry laughter

My prayer is a merry laughter
in which I say: “Ha ha! Ha ha!”
I do not care what comes after.
My prayer is a merry laughter.
Life is but a yearning for the hereafter.
A hope to cancel nature’s law.
My prayer is a merry laughter
in which I say: “Ha ha! Ha ha!”

*Painting – “The Young Rembrandt as Democritus the Laughing Philosopher” by Rembrandt, 1629.

Set a goal before your eyes

Set a goal before your eyes.
Stretch your wings and reach the skies.
Countless times fall down and rise.
Set a goal before your eyes.

Leave all fears and doubts behind.
With clenched teeth work hard and grind.
Only these few things keep in mind –
Leave all fears and doubts behind.

Dare to walk the path you choose.
Fear not any bumps or bruise.
Before you win, you have to lose.
Dare to walk the path you choose

Never let your head hang down.
Be a king and wear your crown.
In your dreams immerse and drown
Never let your head hang down.

For this life you have been made
Do not stand in the dark and shade.
There is no reason to be afraid.
For this life you have been made.

*Painting “Landscape with an Archer” by David Ligare, 1991.

*Nothing needed to assemble nothing church for nobodies

The study of theology is the study of nothing. It is founded in nothing; it rests on no principles; it proceeds by no authorities; it has no data; it can demonstrate nothing; and admits of no conclusion. Thomas Pain

Chicago (AP) – Roy Larson, religion writer for the Chicago Sun-Times, recently had a visitor at the newspaper. Gene Townsend wanted to talk to him about a new church.
“When I introduced myself, I was struck by his lack of enthusiasm. The reason soon became clear,” said Larson.
Their conversation went like this:
“I understand you’re starting a new church.”
“That’s right,” replied Townsend.
“What’s it called?”
“The Church of the Living Apathists.”
“What’s an apathist?”
“Someone who’s apathetic.”
“Why did you ask for the religion writer?” Larson asked.
“Because we’re religious apathists. We’re apathetic about religion. If we were apathetic about sports, I would have asked for the sports writer.”
“You said ‘we’. That means you’ve got some cohorts. Right?”
“Right.”
“Have you gotten yourselves organized?”
“We’ve had a few meetings. We’ve got the application blanks to organize as a not-for-profit corporation in Illinois.”
“Do you plan to file them?”
“I don’t know. So far we’ve been too apathetic. Besides, we don’t have an address. Or any money. And we never will.”
“Do you have any scriptures?”
“Yeah. It’s a book filled with blank pages.”
“What’s your chief symbol?”
“It’s a gray rectangle. It symbolizes nothing.”
“Are you the high priest or are there any ministers in your church?”
“A true priest in our faith would be one who wouldn’t show up for meetings.”
“Doesn’t that make you a phony? Why did you bestir yourself to come in and tell me about your new church?” asked Larson.
Townsend said: “I guess you’d have to say I’m not a true believer. I’m a borderline apathist.”
“Why did you come in?”
“I just happened to be walking by the building and decided to stop.”
“Do you plan to call any meetings to get your church under way?”
“We’re thinking about it.”
“How do you rate your chances of success?”
“Great. If we call a meeting, chances are no one will come. And that will mean the meeting is successful.”
“What’s your potential membership?”
“Already, I think 10 per cent of the American people are members. Maybe, it’s 100 per cent.”
“Just one more question. As you see it, what must I do to be saved?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“I see. Well, keep the faith, friend.”
“Thank you. And may the god of emptiness be with you.”

*This article was taken verbatim from “The Southeast Missourian”, January 30th, 1976. See here.

**Painting by Zdislav Beksinski