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Album with the poets

by Album with the poets

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1.
Mirabeau 04:58
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Et nos amours Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne La joie venait toujours après la peine Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure Les mains dans les mains restons face à face Tandis que sous Le pont de nos bras passe Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante L'amour s'en va Comme la vie est lente Et comme l'Espérance est violente Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure Passent les jours et passent les semaines Ni temps passé Ni les amours reviennent Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure Les jours s'en vont je demeure Guillaume Apollinaire
2.
Plurabelle 05:31
What is it but a blackburry growth or the dwyergray ass them four old codgers owns. Are you meanam Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I meyne now, thank all, the four of them, and the roar of them, that draves that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher beyant, pharphar, or a fireboat coasting nyar the Kishtna or a glow I behold within a hedge or my Garry come back from the Indes? Wait till the honeying of the lune, love! Die eve, little eve, die! We see that wonder in your eye. We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset. Forgivemequick, I'm going! Bubye! And you, pluck your watch, forgetmenot. Your evenlode. So save to jurna's end! My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I sow home slowly now by own way, moy-valley way. Towy I too, rathmine. Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia, trinkettoes! And sure he was the quare old buntz too, Dear Dirty Dumpling, foostherfather of fingalls and dotthergills. Gammer and gaffer we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive him? And every dam had her seven crutches. And every crutch had its seven hues. And each hue had a differing cry. Sudds for me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Befor! Bifur! He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, like any Etrurian Catholic Heathen, in their pinky limony creamy birnies and their turkiss indienne mauves. But at milkidmass who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. Tys Elvenland ! Teems of times and happy returns. The seim anew. Ordovico or viricordo. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into oure eryan! Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord ! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daughters of. Whawk? Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffeying waters of. Ho, talk save us ! My foos won't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughtersons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night! James Joyce
3.
ვინა სთქვა, თითქო პატარა იყოს ჩემი სამშობლო, დიდების ღირსი, ქართლში ვინ ჰპოვა პატარა ციხე, ვინ მოიგონა სიმცირე მისი?! აბა, შეადგით ერთმანეთს მთები, მთები - შემკული სხივების სირმით, ააშრიალეთ არწივის ფრთები, კლდით გაიგონეთ ყვირილი ირმის. ყოველ მაღლობზე ციხე და კოშკი ნახეთ, აზომეთ ოსტატის მზერით, ან მოაგროვეთ უხსოვარ დროში, ჩვენში დაღვრილი ბუნების ფერი. გაზომეთ ქარი თუ ქარიშხალი, ჩამწყვდეული რომ ღმუოდა ხევით, წყალი მქუხარი და საშიშარი და ავარდნილი გუმბათი ზევით. წინაპრის მიერ განვლილი სივრცე, ჟამი -- ძლეული გაფრენილ ცხენით, და გორგასალის ნაბიჯი მტკიცე, მთად აღბეჭდილი ქართველის რწმენით. შეახეთ ბრძოლით გაწვრთნილი ხელი დარუბანდიდან მოტანილ კარებს, და გაიხსნება სამშობლო ჩემი, უსასრულობის შემცველი მხარე. ვინა სთქვა, თითქო პატარა იყოს ჩემი სამშობლო, დიდების ღირსი, ქართლში ვინ ჰპოვა პატარა ციხე, ვინ მოიგონა სიმცირე მისი?! სიმონ ჩიქოვანი (Simon Chikovani)
4.
El mar 04:20
Antes que el sueño (o el terror) tejiera mitologías y cosmogonías, antes que el tiempo se acuñara en días, el mar, el siempre mar, ya estaba y era. ¿Quién es el mar? ¿Quién es aquel violento y antiguo ser que roe los pilares de la tierra y es uno y muchos mares y abismo y resplandor y azar y viento? Quien lo mira lo ve por vez primera, siempre. Con el asombro que las cosas elementales dejan, las hermosas tardes, la luna, el fuego de una hoguera. ¿Quién es el mar, quién soy? Lo sabré el día ulterior que sucede a la agonía. Jorge Luis Borges
5.
Brot 03:04
…Svo lifna blómin einn ljósan dag og lóan kvakar í mónum. Og fjallið roðnar af feginleik og fikar sig upp úr snjónum. Og börnin hlæja og hoppa út með hörpudiskana sína. – Og einn á skel yfir fjörð ég fer, að finna vinstúlku mína… Jóhannes úr Kötlum
6.
Leaves 03:46
I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead, the potted plants yellow as corn; my woman was gone and the empty bottles like bled corpses surrounded me with their uselessness; the sun was still good, though, and my landlady’s note cracked in fine and undemanding yellowness; what was needed now was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd because it exists, nothing more; I shaved carefully with an old razor the man who had once been young and said to have genius; but that’s the tragedy of the leaves, the dead ferns, the dead plants; and I walked into a dark hall where the landlady stood execrating and final, sending me to hell, waving her fat, sweaty arms and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us both Charles Bukowski
7.
La casa 03:29
Io non so che cos'è una casa. Un cappotto? O è un ombrello se piove? L'ho riempita di bottiglie stracci anatre di legno tende ventagli. Sembra che non voglia uscire mai. Allora è una gabbia? Che chiude tutti quelli che passano anche un uccello come te sporco di neve. Ma la roba che ci siamo detti è così leggera che non resta chiusa qui. Tonino Guerra
8.
Утекти б од себе геть світ за-очі, у небачене, нечуте, у немовлене, де нема ані осмут, ні радощів, де ніщо не збавлене, не здолане. Жив би там — безоко і безсердо, жив би так, як опадають вниз, поріднившись із земною твердю, до якої намертво приріс поглядом і серцем і думками (хто тебе такого віднайде?). Нерухомий і крихкий, як камінь, нерухомий і крихкий, як день, що зотлів і вижарів, і знов котиться з мулькавого поранку. Ти — Адам. Журба — твоя коханка, а земне тяжіння — то любов. Василь Стус
9.
Wood 06:51
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost
10.
Watt 06:52
Watt will not abate one jot but of what of the coming to of the being at of the going from knott’s habitat of the long way of the short stay of the going back home the way he had come of the empty heart of the empty hands of the dim mind wayfaring through barren lands of a flame with dark winds hedged about going out gone out of the empty heart of the empty hands of the dark mind stumbling through barren lands that is of what Watt will not abate one jot Samuel Beckett
11.
Heated 06:45

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music for the poems of frost, kotlum, apollinaire and many others. little univers far from usual life, shined by the voices of the eternal being

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released April 27, 2017

Artwork by Olha Bakan

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