Excerpts from the Lost Journal of a Multi-Lingual Sojourner

The following excerpts have recently been found.  They notate several villages throughout Europe and the unearthly infestation of demonic creatures that had threatened their very existence at some point in history.

These excerpts are all taken from the lost journal of a multi-lingual nomadic traveller, a sojourner, who was known to pass through Europe, never staying too long in any one village or town.  Yet despite his limited acquaintances with the villagers, legend tells of this journeyman.  He is spoken of in many of the lost myths and was said to wield extraordinary levels of respect in every place he settled in.

Throughout these journeys, this sojourner, chronicles were said to have been taken, documenting the widespread terror these demonic creatures had brought upon each village.  The chronicles were also cited as holding the key to how these beasts were vanquished back to hell.  

The dates are blurred and the pages have broken loose from their binding.  Therefore, there is no possible way to determine how each of these entries would fit chronologically:

Page 1:  Visitation to Small Swedish Village

Dessa utlänningar var ingenting annat än utomstående själva. De var utstötta av en anledning, aldrig jagar på desperation i luften. Ändå är direkt ses som frälsare, lovar att vara redskap för förändring. De hänvisar till de gamla texterna, syftade till att tiden för profetian är nära. Men varje bevisade att de var något annat än välklädda charlataner.

Rough Translation:

These foreigners were nothing more than outsiders themselves.  They were outcasts for a reason, ever preying upon the desperation in the air. Yet they’re instantly viewed as saviors, promising to be instruments of change. They refer to the ancient texts, alluding that the time of the prophecy is near.  But each proved that they were nothing more than well-dressed charlatans.

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Page 2: Visitation to Small German Village

Sie polarisieren die Menschen mit Ihren Rhythmus und Anmeldeinformationen. Ich wünschte, ich könnte glauben. Ich weiß wirklich, aber ich habe gesehen, zu viele Magier Flanieren durch diese Straßen vor. Jeder bot ein Versprechen der Hoffnung. Jeder hatte seine Zauber vorbereitet. Sie alle eingegebenen in großen Prozession. Doch sobald sie realisiert, dass die Bedrohung real war, jeder zog sich so schnell wie sie erschienen. Ich bete Sie beweisen, sich selbst von denen, die vor gekommen bin und ewig wird eine Zeit der Anbetung sein.

Rough Translation: 

You polarize the people with your cadence and credentials. I wish I could believe.  I really do, but I’ve seen too many magicians stroll through these streets before.  Each one offered a promise of hope. Each had his spells prepared.  They all entered in grand procession.  Yet once they realized that the threat was real, each retreated as quickly as they appeared. I pray you prove yourself different from those who’ve come before and forever shall be a time of adoration.

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Page 3: Visitation to Small French Village

Les bêtes sont habituels. Nous avons appris à vivre notre vie en conséquence. Ils ne se lèvent avant le coucher du soleil. Par conséquent, les jours sont les nôtres. Puis un jour près le repas du soir, leur surface cris, l'émission d'avertissement juste de chacun et de tous. Ils n'ont jamais pénétré dans nos logements. Nous ne savons pas si ce n'est par un code ou quelque chose qu'ils ont tout simplement jamais essayé avant. C'est pourquoi nous blottir près, en s'assurant de garder les feux arrosés.

Rough Translation:

The beasts are habitual.  We have learned to live our lives accordingly.  They never rise before sunset. Therefore the days are our own.  Then sometime near the evening meal, their screams surface, issuing fair warning to each and all.  They have never entered our dwellings.  We are unsure if this is by code or something they’ve simply never tried before.  Hence we huddle close, making sure to keep the fires doused. 

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Page 4: Visitation to Small Portuguese Village

Então, o mágico, eu rezo para que você é o único predisse a profecia. No entanto, me perdoe se eu vacilar. Você não fez nada para ganhar minha confiança. Mas peço-vos que a varinha de onda forte e rápido, como estamos em suas mãos esta noite e além. Se você é capaz de prevalecer, então talvez se alegrar vai encontrar o seu caminho de casa.

Rough Translation:

So, magician, I pray you are the one foretold of in the prophecy. Yet forgive me if I waver.  You have not done anything to win my trust.  But I pray you wave that wand strong and quick, as we are in your hands tonight and beyond.  If you are able to prevail, then perhaps rejoice will find its way home.

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These chronicles are also cited in several antiquated collections of myths, as bearing the key as to how these beasts were vanquished back to hell.  These pages were said to be the most important documents ever crafted and would be shared amongst all towns and villages throughout all the land.  Should the demons return, with these pages, the villagers will be prepared and equipped to vanquish the beasts once more.

Unfortunately, this four entries were all that remained.  It is said, in the staid of those key pages, each village turned to their individual religions and found belief through prayer. 

This piece was inspired after reading all the wonderful responses to my article regarding Poetry and Foreign Languages, present to D'Verse for the 1/20/13 Poetics.

Affranto In Tempi Solitari (Distraught In Lonely Times)

Troppo spesso si dimentica piano.

Come scalare i picchi della vita e dirupi,

Senza un senso di piacere,

Sogni semplicemente scadere

Con ogni impronta spesi.

I nostri sogni e le speranze,

Diventa ossessionato, come tesori

Consumato da una inestinguibile fiamma di un incendio

Passione sempre abbassamenti-

Corda sfilacciata tempo mai bruciante di

Ogni passo diventa un cappio-ready made,

Spietato e privo di desiderio

Per cui le onde dimissioni la sua bandiera.

Bianco si specchia negli occhi del reciso,

Per sempre cosparso da pensieri tradito

Come la diga esplode

L'inondazione inizia, in primo luogo a scatti, poi in Jaguar,

Smorzamento tutto: tutte le misure

Per una volta che abbiamo cospirato- Lasciando noi galleggiante, nudo ed esposto

Translation:

Too often footing is forgotten

As we scale life’s peaks and crags,

Without a sense of pleasure,

Dreams simply expire

With each imprint spent.

Our dreams and hopes

Become obsessed, like treasures

Consumed by an unquenchable flame—a fire

Passion invariably sags—

Ever searing time’s frayed rope

Each step becomes a noose—ready made,

Unforgiving and void of desire—

To which resignation waves it’s flag.

White is mirrored in the eyes of the severed,

Forever doused by thoughts betrayed

As the dam explodes

The flooding starts, first in spurts, then in jags,

Dampening everything—all the measures

To which we once conspired—

Leaving us floating naked and exposed

Join me today at D'Verse.  I'll be hosting Poetics and thought we'd explore poetry through the use of foreign language.  For my piece, I decided to use the Italian language, as it's one of my favorite to read. Everything in Italian just sounds perfect, even when the words are but words you cannot define.  

Also, I was busy the other night and never got around to posting to the Form-For-All post Gay presented to us on Karousel's and Weaves.  I chose to use the Karousel, but unfortunately the rhyme scheme didn't translate into Italian, so the Karousel is seen in the Translation here.  

A Love Like This

listen to ‘A Love Like This (Poetry)’ on Audioboo

Under deepest pretense I watch the rippling tears, of opaque denial smiling askew, their echoes unleash lost memories and frayed forgiveness’s to which I’ve ever clutched to tight, yet release they do now as my heart’s seen, submerged in the tidal pools that stream forth from the spillage cast from rivers in your eyes

So long’s been the search, and to culminate in such a fashion I must default to the pathetic state, where arrangements of aperture-stops obliquely serrate the futures light, stinging subtly the stylus song in the familiar chords of doubt and dread

Hysteria you’ve bred in me, a sacristy, where unlike the cruelty found in the offerings of others, I find it impossible to dissect, difficult to release, myself, my being and all the reflections compartmentalized deep inside

I hesitate, second-guessing the sweetness you’ve showered unto me— for without castration, and lacking all traces of a scarring probability, I must cling upon caution’s wings, to protect and defend from the pain the usual cruelty brings

Where the all well too known poignant daubing drapes across this tattered stretch of canvassed flesh, where the only proof, the only residue to exist, is the signature of the artist, scratching deep below the chest, invisible yet it’s deadly ink persists

Scintillating moments, two irons, pressing heat upon heat, ready to combust at first peak, yet holding out, simply to maximize the extent of steam and scent.  I’m embarrassed to admit that this is all unusual to my repertoire, I’m having difficulty grasping hold of what might come next, and this, alone, paints me vulnerable, when alone with you

Expurgated are the demon’s and their kin evicted from my soul, and chastised, severely, for the roles they’ve played in keeping me so far from your side. And exiled are the damaged songs, each replaced by the savage innocence personified by you

Under deepest pretense, I surrender wholly unto you.  I pray you will be all my imagination makes you out to be, where love is but a word, a term to give definition to, the combinatory blending of souls, alive, adrift upon a deeply profound and bountiful sea.

In French:

Sous le plus profond prétexte, je regarde les larmes ondoyantes de déni opaque, sourire de travers, leurs échos libérer souvenirs perdus et le pardon effiloché, à laquelle je n'ai jamais embrayé sur serré, encore libérer ils le font maintenant, que mon cœur a vu, submergée, dans le les bassins de marée qui afflue du déversement jette-le loin des rivières dans tes yeux

Donc, est depuis longtemps la recherche, et d'aboutir à un tel mode, je dois par défaut à l'état pathétique, où des dispositions de l'ouverture-arrêt oblique dentelées la lumière à terme, de picotement subtilement la chanson stylet, dans les accords familiers de doute et de crainte

Hysteria vous avez élevés en moi, une sacristie, où la différence de la cruauté dans les offres des autres, il m'est impossible de disséquer, difficile de dégager, moi, mon être et toutes les réflexions cloisonnées profondément à l'intérieur

J'hésite, deuxième deviner la douceur que vous avez comblé à moi, car sans la castration et manquant toutes les traces d'une probabilité de cicatrices, je dois raccrocher sur les ailes de prudence, afin de protéger et de défendre de la douleur à la cruauté habituelle apporte

Lorsque le bien du tout connus poignantes rideaux barbouiller à travers ce tronçon lambeaux de chair sollicité, où la seule preuve, le seul résidu d'exister, est la signature de l'artiste, en se grattant profondément au-dessous de la poitrine, invisible et pourtant c'est l'encre mortelle persiste

Moments scintillantes, deux fers à repasser, en appuyant sur la chaleur sur la chaleur, prêt à brûler, à premier pic, mais la tenue, il vous suffit de maximiser la mesure de la vapeur et l'odeur. Je suis gêné d'admettre, que tout cela est inhabituel de mon répertoire, je vais avoir des difficultés à saisir la main sur ce qui pourrait venir après, et ce, seul, peint moi vulnérables, quand il est seul avec vous

Expurgée sont de démon et leurs parents, expulsés de mon âme, et châtié, sévèrement, pour les rôles qu'ils ont joués, me gardant bien loin de votre côté. Et en exil sont les chansons endommagés, chacun remplacés par l'innocence sauvage incarné par vous

Sous prétexte le plus profond, je me rends entièrement à vous. Je prie pour vous serez tout mon imagination vous fait avéré, où l'amour n'est qu'un mot, un terme de donner une définition à la combinatoire de mélange des âmes, vivant, à la dérive sur une mer profonde et généreuse profondément

Kind of been out of it the past few weeks, if you all couldn't tell, but  even though I missed out on the party, I still wanted to contribute to yesterday's Poetics over at D'Verse, who thought it more than appropriate to dine on some French Poetic Cuisine.  Led by the wonderful Manic Daily, who, if you do nothing else, please stop on by and read her amazing write up, but why stop there, see what the poets composed, and perhaps keep that old French dictionary handy :)   

The Lost Lament: An Epistle to the Gods

Well, Tuesday's come around once again.  Seems like it does this every week doesn't it?  Ha.

But, with Tuesday comes the best day for poetry.  Head on over to D'Verse for some great poems and a place where you can share one of your own.  Open Link Night is upon us, and the doors open up at 3pm, but you can head over anytime, to read the many previous weeks & nights of shared work in addition to the many great articles written by the wonderful D'Verse Staff.

For this week I thought I'd try to get back into a Mythological state of mind.  I've always loved myth and at one time almost all of my poetry was steeped in Mythology to some degree.  Well, I happened to notice I had somehow moved away from that, completely by accident I must say, and this, despite the fact, I dip back into the ancient texts on almost a daily basis.

So, with that said, I thought I'd try and come up with something that mirrors, to some extent, the Celtic myths, namely the Mabinogion, which is a great collection of tales for anyone interested, well worth checking out.

In this particular piece I included some lines in Welsh translation, don't worry though the English is right alongside it.  But with any translation, for languages I'm not fluent in, I am at the mercy of the interpreting software.  In this case I happened to use Googles-which isn't really the best, but in any case you're never going to get an exact word for word translation, but the ideas carry over and that's the main point anyway.

Hope you all enjoy.

Y Galarnad Coll: Mae Epistol at y Duwiau

The Lost Lament: An Epistle to the Gods

Elegant chartreuse grayling’s fowl

O’er the ridge of mounded sorrow,

Alone as it never is

Sky rims an ambered haze

Above the land where plovers seed

Delicate as it ever ought to be

Macabre, dance till

All ghosts and demons be still

Let fair warning approach these clans

Allotting time, for martyrs to save kin

Mellow does the wind blush glow

Eeried chill caresses slow

Each the herniation’s unsettled growth,

Yet still, in such of times,

Even broken promises find paths home

Will the trials never end?

A fydd y treialon dlwedd erioed?

Will the danger never die?

A fydd byth yn marw perygl?

Open the mouth of the dragon—

Agored yw ceg y ddraig!

And with the spirits of the Celts near us, then

A chryda ysbrydion y Celtiaid wrth ymyl ni, yna

Let’s tear the fire from within

Gadewch I ni rwygo y tan allan o’r tu mewn

Sealed in blood,

Past the curtain of the father,

The shine’s waiting

Selio yn y gwaed, y llen y gorffennol dad, yn disgleirio aros

If but only

Ignorant to sermons we were not

Os ond dim ond, anwybodus I bregethau nad oeddem yn

If but only

Appreciative to myth we had chosen to live by

Os ond dim ond, werthfawrogol I chwedl ein bod wedi dewis byw