Saturday, April 12, 2008

Terry Jacks ' Seasons in the Sun ' English Version of Jacques Brel's Superior 'Le Moribond '

The original lyrics of the song Le Moribond by Brel in 1961 are far darker and sarcastic and a little bitter in comparison to the Rod McKeun English 1964 translation and the version made famous by Terry Jacks " Seasons in the Sun " in 1974. Though each version has its own appeal. Brel's style is chock full of images and interpretations and social criticims popular in France and Belgium at the time.

Terry Jacks version is sad and sentimental but lacks the sarcasm and bitterness and the dark humor of the original Jacques Brel song. Jacques Brel in the original also takes potshots at the clergy and others including the institution of marriage and his wife's unfaithfulness with his best friend.

Jacques Brel- Le Moribond/ The Dying Man

Jacques Brel: Le Moribond/ Dailymotion Videos

Recorded: 15 November 2007Location: France

The Dying Man

Goodbye, Emile, you were my good friend
Goodbye, Emile, you were my good friend, you know
We sang together of the same great wines
We sang together of the same great women
We sang together of our shared sorrows
Goodbye, Emile, I'm going to die
It's difficult to die in the Spring, you know
But I'm going to the flowers with peace in my heart
Because I know that you are a good man, good as white bread
You'll take care of my wife after I'm gone

I want everyone to laugh
I want everyone to dance
I want everyone to party like a bunch of fools
I want everyone to laugh
I want everyone to dance
When they come to put me in my grave

Goodbye, Father Priest, I liked you well enough
Goodbye, Father Priest, I liked you well enough, you know
We weren't always on the same side
We didn't always take the same path
But we were both looking for Heaven just the same
Goodbye, Father Priest, I'm going to die
It's hard to die in the Spring, you know
But I'm going to the flowers with peace in my heart
Because you were her Confessor
I know you'll take care of my wife when I'm gone

Goodbye, Tony, I didn't like you too much
Goodbye, Tony, I didn't like you too much, you know
It's killing me to be dying today
While you are so vigorous and full of life
And stronger even than boredom itself
Goodbye, Tony, I'm going to die
It's hard to die in the Spring, you know
But I'm going to the flowers with peace in my heart
Because you were her Lover
I know you'll take care of my wife when I'm gone

Goodbye, my wife, I love you still
Goodbye, my wife, I love you still, you know
But I'm taking that trip to see the Good Lord today
I'm taking the trip before you do
But we all take that trip when we must
Goodbye, my wife, I'm going to die
It's hard to die in the Spring, you know
But I'm going to the flowers with my eyes closed, once more
And because I closed them so many times before
I know you'll take good care of my heart


compare Brel's version to Terry Jack's
Terry Jacks - Seasons in the sun

From Noel Megahey's review of Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris at


Mich en Scene:Songs of Jacques Brel by Micheline Van Hautem review by Michael Dwyer

Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris Soundtrack Lyrics

Check out version of " If You Go Away " by Shirley Basseyat YouTube

see you later,

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Keith Wigdor' Surrealist Website

" my abs " by Fatima Azimova
" Take Me To The City " by Fatima Azimova
" La Cabeza " by Alicia Maria De La Camp
" Hondoes Dolores" by Alicia Maria De Lacamp
"Conversacion" by Alicia Maria de la Camp
" The Demon Mother " By Carrie Ann Baad
"THE RED QUEEN "By Carrie Ann Baad
"Cupid Complaining to Venus " By Carrie Ann Baad

The above works of art were found at the fairly new Keith Wigdor Presents Surrealism Now!
The website's purpose is to showcase works of art which are Surrealist or the Fantastic and the Imaginative.

If your interested take a peak.

Other sites of interest:

Virtual Museum Of Art



Robin Urton Eyecon Art

Take care,

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Garcia Lorca :Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

Garcia Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) is considered Spain's greatest poet and dramatist of the 20th century, and the most famous victim of its civil war. Lorca was assassinated on the orders of the fascist dictator Franco . Lorca's approach to poetry combined traditional and modern forms and ideas. His struggle with his identity and the modern world permeates his work, and finds its most critically admired expression in Poet in New York.
IMAGE Posted by Picasa

Anyway I just wanted to share a few verses by the poet Garcia Lorca & a tid bit or two about his life & work & his death .

Federico Garcia Lorca Writer Poet Artist
Martyr of the Spanish Civil War
1898 - 1936

"Federico Garcia Lorca was one of the great Spanish writers and artists of the 20th Century. In his short lifetime he produced a wide variety of novels, short stories, poetry as well as paintings,drawings and even musical compositions.
He influenced such politically disparate artists as the poet Neruda and the painter Dali.
On August 19, 1936, at the age of 38, Lorca was beaten to death by Franco's falangists along with several other 'disappeared' political opponents of Franco.
While his homosexuality was known even then, his fascist assassins used this to make his assassination look like a bit of 'rough trade' gone wrong,(see Why Lorca Was Murdered) the real reason for his death was his outspoken defense of the Republic and his criticisms of monarchism, Catholicism and Fascism. "

And from MEMOIRS by Pablo Neruda ( 1904-1973 )Chilean poet & friend of Garcia Lorca :

“ Federico Garcia Lorca was not merely shot; he was assassinated. It would never have crossed anyone’s mind that they would kill him one day. He was the most loved, the most cherished, of all Spanish poets, and he was the closest to being a child, because of his marvelous happy temperament. Who could have believed there were monster on this earth, in his own Granada, capable of such an inconceivable crime? “ P. 125

Anyway here is one of Lorca's poems which I wish to share...

Federico Garcia Lorca

Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
at five in the afternoon.
The bass-string struck up
at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners
at five in the afternoon.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine
at five in the afternoon.
Death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o'clock in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is his bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
at five in the afternoon.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridescent with agony
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks!
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

2. The Spilled Blood

I will not see it!

Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.

I will not see it!

The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!

I will not see it!

The cow of the ancient world
passed had sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
I will not see it!

Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the corduroy and the leather
of a thirsty multitude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvelous strength,
and like a marble torso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!

But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
slides on frozen horns,
faltering soulless in the mist
stumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge of white lilies,
no glass can cover it with silver.
I will not see it!

3. The Laid Out Body

Stone is a forehead where dreams grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and has place on him the head of dark Minotaur.

All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What are they saying? A stenching ( stinking?) silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depth less holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
which will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

4. Absent Soul

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever

The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Nobody knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

Websites of note :

Ben Harnett,s Home Page / Garcia Lorca

Garcia Lorca

Cyberspain Spain/ Federico Garcia Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca/Martyr of the Spanish Civil War


from the Academy of American Poets

Famous Poets & Poems/ 34 Lorca’s poems in translation

Federico Garcia Lorca

see you later,

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Pablo Neruda ( 1904- 1973 ) : Poet & Activist " I'LL EXPLAIN SOME THINGS "

First a poem by Pablo Neruda :

Pablo Neruda
Ode to the Book
translated by Nathaniel Tarn

When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram
from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.

No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems--
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.

Most people in our society have lost the ability it seems to EMPATHIZE with others especially if they are different from them in some way ie. color, race, language, culture or religion . Only our group actually feels all those others are incapable of being sensitive or care about life as we do since they are all brutes mere animals in comparison to ourselves - this is racism & Xenophobia at its worst .

It is not just those who commit these acts in our name & those who give the orders & set the policies but all who stand by & do nothing are also guilty & so we all STAND ACCUSED . It is not just George Bush & his fanatical Neocons who are guilty but all those politicians, bureaucrats & organizations & individual citizens who have stood back & did nothing to stop the carnage & madness that has now engulfed Iraq & Afghanistan & Palestine & Lebanon & whatever countries are next on our " HIT LIST " -

Unfortunately too many people in our society put far too much trust in our leaders & our Secret Police & the military personnel who claim “ WE WERE JUST FOLLOWING ORDERS ”-

Pablo Neruda
From Wikipedia,
Neruda recording poems at the U.S. Library of Congress in 1966

Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was the pen name of the Chilean writer and communist politician Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto.

Having his works translated into dozens of languages, Pablo Neruda is considered one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century. Critic and biographer Alistar Reid has stated that Neruda is the most widely read poet since William Shakespeare.

Neruda was accomplished in a wide variety of styles, ranging from erotically charged love poems, surrealist poems, historical epics, and overtly political manifestos. Some of Neruda's most beloved poems are his "Odes to Common Things," collected in several volumes. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez has called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language". In 1971, Neruda was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature after several years of being overlooked for his political activism.

During his lifetime, Neruda occupied many diplomatic posts and served a stint as senator for the Chilean Communist Party. When Conservative Chilean President Videla outlawed communism in Chile, a warrant was issued for Neruda's arrest. Friends hid him for months in a basement of a home in the Chilean port of Valparaiso. Neruda then escaped into exile through a mountain pass into Argentina.

Years later, Neruda was a close collaborator to Socialist President Salvador Allende. Upon returning to Chile after his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Allende invited Neruda to read at the Chilean national soccer stadium before 70,000 people, the largest poetry reading in recorded history.

Pablo Neruda, hospitalized with cancer at the time of the Chilean coup d'état led by Augusto Pinochet, died of heart failure twelve days later. Already a legend in life, Neruda's death became charged with an intense symbolism that reverberated around the world. Pinochet had denied permission to transform Neruda's funeral into a public event, but thousands of grieving Chileans disobeyed the curfew, flooding the streets in tribute. Neruda's funeral became the first public protest against the Chilean military dictatorship.

And from website:
Blues For Peace
And they shall beat their swords into Guitars...

“ In 1933, Neruda published Residence on Earth which was a literary breakthrough. The two parts of Residence on Earth contain his poetry from 1925 to 1935. They show Neruda at his most surrealistic. Neruda used obscure and violent imagery to convey a sense of universal chaos.

The murder of Garcia Lorca, who Neruda knew, effected him strongly and he joined the republican movement in Spain. Because of his political views, and the danger of civil-war torn Spain, he left in 1937 to return to Chile. In 1939, he was appointed consul of Spanish emigration and moved to Paris and then Mexico. During this time he wrote Canto de Chile and Canto General which was an epic about the South American continent. It was published in Mexico and underground in Chile. It was hard living abroad and by 1943 he returned to Chile. In 1945 he was elected senator and joined the communist party. He protested President Gonzales Videla’s oppressive policy against the striking miner’s union and had to live underground for two years until he was able to leave in 1949. Returning to Europe he was only able to return in 1952. Because of these experiences, he honed his message and published work closely related to his experiences. During this time he also won the Stalin prize and Lenin Peace Prize. ”

IMAGE Posted by Picasa

“ Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.

Arsonists, warmongers, wolves hunt down the poet to burn, kill, sink their teeth into him. A swordsman left Pushkin mortally wounded under the trees in a dark and gloomy park. The fiery horse of war charged over Petofi’s lifeless body. Byron died in Greece , fighting against war. The Spanish Fascists started off the war in Spain by assassinating its greatest poet. ( Garcia Lorca )

But poetry has not died, it has a cat’s nine lives. They harass it, they drag it through the streets, they spit on it and make it the butt of their jokes, they try to strangle it, drive it into exile, throw it into prison, pump lead into it, and it survives every attempt with a clear face and a smile as bright as grains of rice. ”

PABLO NERUDA ( 1904-1973 )
Translator Hardie St. Martin pub. 1977


I'll Explain some Things

You’ll ask, Where are the lilacs?
And the philosophy dreamy with poppies?
And the rain which kept beating out
Your words, filling them
With water-specks and birds?

I’m going to tell you everything that happened to me.
I lived in a neighborhood
In Madrid with church bells
And clock towers and trees.

From there you could see
The dry face of Castille
Like a sea of leather
My house was called
“The house with the flowers” because around it
Geraniums exploded. It was
A beautiful house
With dogs and kids.

Raúl, do you remember?
Federico, do you still remember
Under the ground?
Do you remember my house with the balconies
Where the June light soaked your mouth with
The taste of flowers?
Brother! Brother!
The market place of Arguelles, my neighborhood
With its statue like a pale inkwell among
The fish stalls.
It was all
Loud voices, salty commerce,
A deep rumble
Of feet and hands filled the streets,
Meters and liters,
The sharp essence of life,
Fish stacked up,
The texture of roofs in the cold sun in which
The weather-vane grows tired.
Fine, crazily carved ivory of potatoes
Lines of tomatoes to the sea.

Then one morning flames
Came out of the ground
Devouring human beings.
From then on fire,
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moorish troops
Bandits with gold rings and duchesses
Bandits with black monks giving their blessing
Came across the sky to kill children
And through the streets, the blood of children
Ran simply, like children’s blood does.

Jackals that a jackal would reject
Stones that a dry thistle would bite and spit out
Vipers that vipers would hate!

I have seen the blood
Of Spain rise up against you
To drown you in a single wave
Of pride and knives!

Look at my dead home
Look at broken Spain –
But from each dead house
Burning metal shoots out
Instead of flowers.
From every shell-hole in Spain
Spain will rise.
From every dead child a rifle with
Eyes will rise.
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place
In your hearts.

You ask “Why doesn’t your poetry
Speak to us of dreams and leaves
Of the great volcanoes of your native land?”
See the blood along the streets
Come see
The blood along the streets
Come see the blood
Along the Streets!

Here are some websites to check out for more on Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda at Culture Cafe: Lone Star Internet

Poet Seers

Pablo Neruda Nobel Prize in Literature 1971 Bio

Pablo Neruda Wikipedia

Pablo Neruda at

Pablo Neruda Page

so see you later,