circumstantial nomad
automaton in the desert
while there is breath of wind
I tend to aim for a balance between literal translations and formal equivalence. In this case I can only say that both the original and its English version have cool distinctive free rhythms.
The original, in case you wonder:
Autômato
nômade circunstancial
autômato no deserto
enquanto há fôlego de vento
“I wish you couldn’t read my mind like this”
Writing stuff this often isn’t helping
S k y d i v i n g
I’m so ecstatic I could die
But damned it be this parachute
if it fails to deploy
past this minute of free fall
No moment is too good
to be lived so fatally
id est
like the real last
Yet adrenaline…
Which activities make you lose track of time?
Writing, of course. And related activities (to writing and the creative exercise), since the question asks for more than one activity.
I’m writing this at my lunch time, while the cooktop’s fire cooks my rice (and heats the beans). It won’t burn, I promise (eyes wide open, always). I’ll fry eggs in a moment.
I wrote something earlier, that it’ll be fun to share with you. Additionally, I take advantage of the fact that these prompts are popular and get more views than our regular posts — and they receive all the love you have to share.
Life as a jester, surrealism. Bing.com/create
Reveller Life
Aha! How life is.
There it goes at night to get some fun; here it comes in the morning, listing from side to side like a drunk.
It has the skill to walk a tightrope; on eggshells, on hot coals — yet is not afraid of the walk of shame.
It’s living itself to the fullest. Life, don’t you think you’re the coolest? Respond to it like the jester you are.
“Ehe, how you are. That’s so you to think up those lines.”
I love writing — I might start doing it more for a living.
Ah, lunch’s ready. Let’s enjoy lunch time.
Souls which have fallen
from grace
into life
for other souls.
Anyone seeing them standing steady
would highly doubt that they could fall.
They could fall for you, you know?
They could have fallen many times before.
You may not know whether those are old souls.
They stood up, that’s it, so they could fall again.
Free fall.
Rain down the reign
Wash away royal blood
The old king’s dead
Long live, new king
Provided the kingdom remains
Gold rule, dark days,
Poet lies, folk sway.
Word wars, fake lore,
King dead, none lead.
See, these four-word verses
Like the four-letter words
Picture a wicked world;
Curse all the kings
For the poet’s takeover.
[The poet takes over.]
T!el Fajardo
Feb. 10, 2024
They saw the end of the world;
They weren’t supposed to be there,
let alone at that time.
More terrifying: they saw the beginning
(after the end).
They weren’t supposed to be there,
let alone at that time.
Repetition had scared them,
once they got used to the cycle.
Yet they started enjoying the song.
They never could get enough of it;
they could not afford to die.
They would rather be a maestro,
yet they were the audience.
T!el Fajardo
Apr. 07, 2024
My imaginary friend,
How have you been?
Long time no see
O, long-forgotten
…
Time to let go
Time always went
Reality check…
“Well, check that again”
Don’t worry about me,
Trust me, never better
My real friends…
Who would have imagined them?
T!el Fajardo
Jun. 24, 2024
Mondays are just fine…
It is I that feel depressed.
Sun days are nice
(spiritualized);
Moon days are nights;
Saturn days are the trickiest.
But my soul is a naysayer
—as we all live in denial—
(“No, we don’t!”).
Well, if that’s a crime
—and this an alibi—,
my spirit was with it the whole time.
T!el Fajardo
Mar. 1, 2024
What’s with the poet’s vision?
What’s with the reader’s bias?
What’s with this line of reasoning?
I can’t see where this comes from.
What’s with the building blocks,
Those in favor of the writer?
They are words, the writer’s blocks.
They are words, you know, so what?
What’s with the writer’s block?
Reveries That I Call Poetry 