Monthly Archives: November 2006

If you want to write a song about the moon , look tulips

red tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (camera is Pentax K10D)

red tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (camera is Pentax K10D)

About The Moon

If you want to write a song about the moon
Walk along the craters of the afternoon
When the shadows are deep
And the light is alien
And gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement
And you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
Then nah nah nah
Presto
Song about about the moon
If you want to write a song about the heart
Think about the moon before you start
Because the heart will howl
Like a dog in the moonlight
And the heart can explode
Like a pistol on a June night
So if you want to write a song about the heart
And its ever-longing for a counterpart
Write a song about the moon
The laughing boy
He laughed so hard
He fell down from his place
The laughing girl
She laughed so hard
The tears rolled down her face
Hey Songwriter
If you want to write a song about
A face
Think about a photograph
That you really can’t remember
But you can’t erase
Wash your hands in dreams and lightning
Cut off your hair
And whatever is frightening
If you want to write a song
About a face
If you want to write a song about
The human race
Write a song about the moon
If you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
THEN DO IT
Write a song about the moon

Paul Simon

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

eminonu in night


 istanbul

yellow tulips, Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.

  Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Peace

I

IN EXCELSIS

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.
One is the mountain-height,
Uplifted in the loneliness of light
Beyond the realm of shadows,–fine,
And far, and clear,–where advent of the night
Means only glorious nearness of the stars,
And dawn, unhindered, breaks above the bars
That long the lower world in twilight keep.
Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep,
For all thy cares and fears have dropped away;
The night’s fatigue, the fever-fret of day,
Are far below thee; and earth’s weary wars,
In vain expense of passion, pass
Before thy sight like visions in a glass,
Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep
Across the sea and leave no trace
Of trouble on that immemorial face,–
So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight
The wounds men give, the things for which they fight.

Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,–
A lichen clinging to the rock:
There sails a fleet upon the deep,–
A wandering flock
Of snow-winged gulls: and yonder, in the plain,
A marble palace shines,–a grain
Of mica glittering in the rain.
Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled
By voiceless winds: and far between
The rolling clouds new shores and peaks are seen,
In shimmering robes of green and gold,
And faint aerial hue
That silent fades into the silent blue.
Thou, from thy mountain-hold,
All day, in tranquil wisdom, looking down
On distant scenes of human toil and strife,
All night, with eyes aware of loftier life,
Uplooking to the sky, where stars are sown,
Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white
Unto the harvest of the sons of light,
And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime
The few strong souls that dare to climb
The slippery crags and find thee on the height.

II

DE PROFUNDIS

But in the depth thou hast another home,
For hearts less daring, or more frail.
Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
And pilgrim-souls that roam
With weary feet o’er hill and dale,
Bearing the burden and the heat
Of toilful days,
Turn from the dusty ways
To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
Here is no vision wide outspread
Before the lonely and exalted seat
Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead,
A little garden, and a sheltered nook,
With outlooks brief and sweet
Across the meadows, and along the brook,–
A little stream that little knows
Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,–
A little field that bears a little wheat
To make a portion of earth’s daily bread.
The vast cloud-armies overhead
Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
Whence the storm comes nor where it goes.

Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;
Thy daily task is done,
And though a lowly one,
Thou gavest it of thy best,
And art content to rest
In patience till its slow reward is won.
Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear;
Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;
For life is love, and love is always near.
Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
In open converse, bringing forth its best:
Here is Sweet music, melting every chain
Of lassitude and pain:
And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
The tender nurse, who lifts
The soul grown weary of the waking world,
And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,
Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,
On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.

Henry Van Dyke

yellow tulips garden in Late Spring

   Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Late Spring

I

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
Why the sweet Spring delays,
And where she hides, — the dear desire
Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
And that immortal call which fills
The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago,
It seemed that Spring was near!
But then returned the snow
With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere,
And sullen clouds drooped low
To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
Beat on the window-pane,
Through which I watched the solitary bird
That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed,
With rumpled feathers, down the wind again.
Oh, were the seeds all lost
When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?
I searched their haunts in vain
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
And trailing arbutus, the Spring’s delight,
Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
The woods were bare: and every night the frost
To all my longings spoke a silent nay,
And told me Spring was far and far away.
Even the robins were too cold to sing,
Except a broken and discouraged note, —
Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
Music has put her triple finger-print,
Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, —
“Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!”

II

But now, Carina, what divine amends
For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,
What wine of joy that blends
A hundred flavours in a single cup,
Is poured into this perfect day!
For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers,
That lingered on their way,
Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,
And mingled with the bloom of later hours, —
Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue
And white, and iris richly gleaming through
The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
Filling the air with praise,
As if a silver chime of bells had pealed!
The frozen songs within the breast
Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
Melt into rippling floods
Of gladness unrepressed.
Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark,
Warbler and wren and vireo,
Confuse their music; for the living spark
Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
It seems as if the land
Were breathing deep beneath the sun’s caress,
Trembling with tenderness,
While all the woods expand,
In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
To veil the joys too sacred to be seen.

III

Come, put your hand in mine,
True love, long sought and found at last,
And lead me deep into the Spring divine
That makes amends for all the wintry past.
For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
Arrive with you;
And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
My dreams come true;
And in the promise of your generous eyes
I read the mystic sign
Of joy more perfect made
Because so long delayed,
And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait:
Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,
You’re doubly dear because you come so late.

Henry Van Dyke

tulips : this is love, Heart, congratulations on entering the circle of lovers

    White tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

White tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

This is Love

This is love: to fly to heaven, every moment to rend a hundred veils;
At first instance, to break away from breath — first step, to renounce feet;
To disregard this world, to see only that which you yourself have seen6 to see only that which you yourself have seen”

— Nicholson’s version is “(not to see your own eye) whence all objects derive their unreal existence..

I said, “Heart, congratulations on entering the circle of lovers,
“On gazing beyond the range of the eye, on running into the alley of the breasts.”
Whence came this breath, O heart? Whence came this throbbing, O heart?
Bird, speak the tongue of birds: I can heed your cipher!
The heart said, “I was in the factory whilst the home of water and clay was abaking.
“I was flying from the workshop whilst the workshop was being created.
“When I could no more resist, they dragged me; how shall I
tell the manner of that dragging?”

Mevlana


“Mystical Poems of Rumi 1”, A.J. Arberry
The University of Chicago Press, 1968

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Look at all the pretty flowers that are here

White flowers from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

White flowers from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

Spring Flowers

Spring is here, Spring is here
Look at all the pretty flowers that are here.
Roses are red,
violets are blue
and dandelion are yellow too.
Smell all the pretty smells to be smelled.
From the red rose to the red tulip
See all the pretty colors to be seen.
Red white and blue and purple too.
I’m ready for spring how about you?

Chancey

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Local heros

Red Bulls Local Heros event, Sirkeci Railway Station, Istanbul, Pentax  K10D

Red Bull's Local Heros event, Sirkeci Railway Station, Istanbul, Pentax K10D

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

Yeni Cami (New Mosque) in night


 istanbul

I mean you must take living so seriously

  Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

Yellow tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

“I mean you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you will plant olives –
and not so they’ll be left for your children either,
but because even though you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.”

(from ‘On Living’)

Nazim Hikmet

taken by Pentax K10D, at Istanbul

yellow-red tulips, I followed the angler’s winding path or waded the stream at will

Yellow-red tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

Yellow-red tulips from Istanbul Tulip Festival (Istanbul, Pentax K10D)

The Red Flower

In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
By the little river Kyll,
I followed the angler’s winding path
Or waded the stream at will,
And the friendly fertile German land
Lay round me green and still.

But all day long on the eastern bank
Of the river cool and clear,
Where the curving track of the double rails
Was hardly seen though near,
The endless trains of German troops
Went rolling down to Trier.

They packed the windows with bullet heads
And caps of hodden gray;
They laughed and sang and shouted loud
When the trains were brought to a stay;
They waved their hands and sang again
As they went on their iron way.

No shadow fell on the smiling land,
No cloud arose in the sky;
I could hear the river’s quiet tune
When the trains had rattled by;
But my heart sank low with a heavy sense
Of trouble,–I knew not why.

Then came I into a certain field
Where the devil’s paint-brush spread
‘Mid the gray and green of the rolling hills
A flaring splotch of red,–
An evil omen, a bloody sign,
And a token of many dead.

I saw in a vision the field-gray horde
Break forth at the devil’s hour,
And trample the earth into crimson mud
In the rage of the Will to Power,–
All this I dreamed in the valley of Kyll,
At the sign of the blood-red flower.

Henry Van Dyke