Saint Nicolas helps three poor girls
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EGO FLOS CAMPI
By: Leo Tepper
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Sulpicius Severus, How Saint Martin cut down a sacred tree…
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Boethius, De Consolatione, book 1 poem 5: facing an unjust death penalty
By : Leo Tepper
There are, but living in a Christian culture and Christianity being explained within the concepts of Neo-Platonism , this is not surprising. Somehow I have the feeling that Boethius turned away from Christianity or maybe he was more platonic than Christian all his life and with his execution imminent, he sought consolation with his true love…
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A Lesson in Kamasutra, by Palestinian poet: Mahmoud Darwish
Mahmoud Darwish and the Trio Joubran produced this eternal piece.
Lucretius I.80-101: tantum religio potuit suadere malorum or on the crimes of religion.
The Roman poet Lucretius (99-55 BC) was a follower of the Greek philosopher Epicurus (341-270 BC). Epicurus did not believe in gods and created a cosmology in which everything had a natural explanation. The basis of this cosmology was grounded on the views of the Greek atomists Leucippus and Democritus. As the name `atomists’ already suggests, they were the first to introduce the idea of atoms: invisible small parts out of which everything is constructed, though their idea that atoms are indivisible (Greek atomoj) proved wrong. This idea was not only a revolutionary step in physics, but had also its consequences for morality and religion: if there are no gods who intervene in our lives, there is no reason to fear them.
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POTATORES EXQUISITI! YOU STUDENTS, JOIN THE PARTY AND GET DRUNK!
When looking through the book Mediaeval Latin by K.P. Harrington, published in 1950, I saw this poem, listed as Carmina Burana 179. Strange enough it does not correspond with my edition of the Carmina Burana, a bilingual Latin-German edition. However, poem 202 in this edition is very much the same, but with more strophes and some textual variations, for instance the first line `O potores exquisiti’. Strange, are there two different editions? Anyway, this song is one of the many songs sung by students and scholars going from university to university all over Europe. They were calledvagabundi `the roamers’ form Latin vago. And wherever there are students, there are parties, where sometimes a little bit more is consumed than the WHO would advise.
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Juan telling a joke
Guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crece la palma
Y antes de morir yo quiero
Echar mis versos del alma
Guantanamera…
No me pongan en lo oscuro
A morir como un traidor
Yo soy bueno y como bueno
Moriré de cara al sol
Guantanamera…
Con los pobres de la tierra
Quiero yo mi suerte echar
El arroyo de la sierra
Me complace más que el mar
Guantanamera…
Tiene el leopardo un amigo
En su monte seco y pardo
Yo tengo más que el leopardo
Porque tengo un buen amigo
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
¡Dilo Compay!
¡Ahí na’ ma’!
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera…
A lesson in drawing, by Syrian poet: Nizar Qabbani
My son places his paint box in front of me
and asks me to draw a bird for him.
Into the color gray i dip the brush
and draw a square with locks and bars.
Astonishment fills his eyes:
:… But this is a prison, father,
Dont you know, how to draw a bird?”
And I tell him : “Son, forgive me.
I’ve forgotten the shapes of birds.”
*******
My son puts the drawing book in front of me
and asks me to draw a wheatstalk.
I hold the pen
and draw a gun.
My son mocks my ignorance,
demanding,
“Dont you know, father, the difference between a wheatstalk and a gun?”
I tell him, “Son,
Once I used to know the shapes of wheatstalks
the shape of the loaf
the shape of the rose
But in this hardened time
the trees of the forst have joined
the militia men
and the roses wears dull fatigues
In this time of armed wheatstalks
armed birds
armed culture
and armed religion
you cant buy a loaf
without finding a gun inside
you can’t pluck a rose in the field
without it raising its thorns in your face
you cant buy a book,
you can’t buy a book that doesn’t explode between your fingers.”
****
My son sits at the edge of my bed
and asks me to recite a poem,
A tear falls from my eyes onto the pillow.
My son licks it, astonished, and says:
“But this is a tear, father, not a poem!”
“When you grow up, my son,
and read the diwan of Arabic poetry
You’ll discover that the word and the tear are twins
and the Arabic poem
is no more than a tear wept by writing fingers.”
****
My son lays down his pens, his crayon box
in front of me
and asks me to draw a homeland for him.
The brush trembles in my hands
and I sink, weeping.
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