"Beware the Ides of March." -William Shakespeare

 

"Death of Zuckerbaecker" @fflepp

In William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, a soothsayer warns the title character to "Beware the Ides of March," a phrase that has become synonymous with impending doom. The Ides, in ancient Roman times, referred to the middle of the month, specifically the day of the full moon. The connection between the Ides and the full moon is key to understanding the warning given to Caesar, which he ignored to his peril. This superstition, though seemingly innocuous, ultimately foreshadowed his assassination.

In the Roman calendar, which was based on lunar cycles, the "Ides" marked the halfway point of each month. The Ides coincided with the full moon, which may explain why it was considered a time of heightened tension. 

Despite the ominous undertones given to the Ides of March in Shakespeare’s play, its original meaning was not threatening. In fact, the Ides marked a time of celebration, as it once signified the start of the new year in Rome. The Ides, along with the Kalends and Nones, were markers used to refer to specific dates in relation to the lunar phases. As the Roman calendar was based on the moon's cycles, the full moon generally fell between the 13th and 15th of the month. Over time, however, the calendar became out of sync, and the Ides of March took on a more negative connotation.

Today, the Ides of March is often depicted in popular culture as a symbol of impending disaster. Numerous television shows and films have episodes titled "The Ides of March," where it is almost always linked to bad news. While the original meaning of the Ides was not sinister, it’s clear that the phrase has evolved into a powerful symbol of forewarning, thanks in large part to its association with one of history's most infamous betrayals.

for the script: https://folger-main-site-assets.s3.amazonaws.com/uploads/2022/11/julius-caesar_PDF_FolgerShakespeare.pdf

"Peer at the pupil of a flame." - Hang Kang

 

Winter through a Mirror

          Hang Kang, translated by Sophie Bowman

 

1.

Peer at the pupil of a flame.

Bluish

heart

shaped eye

the hottest brightest thing

that which surrounds it

orange inner flame

the thing which flickers most

that which surrounds again

half-transparent outer flame

tomorrow morning, the morning I

depart for the furthest city

this morning

the bluish eye of a flame

peers beyond my eyes.

2.

Now my city is spring morning, if you pass through the core of the earth, bore straight through the middle without wavering, that city appears, the time difference there exactly twelve hours behind, the season exactly half a year behind so that city is now an autumn evening, as though silently following someone that city follows behind mine, to cross over the night to cross over winter I wait silently, while my city outruns that one like somebody silently overtaking

3.

Inside the mirror winter is waiting

A cold place

An utterly cold place

It’s too cold

objects cannot tremble

your (once frozen) face

cannot shatter

I don’t reach out my hand

you also

don’t want to reach out your hand

A cold place

A place that stays cold

It’s too cold

pupils cannot waver

eyelids

do not know how to close (together)

Inside the mirror

winter waits and

Inside the mirror

I cannot avoid your eyes and

You don’t want to reach out your hand

4.

They said we would fly for an entire day.

Tightly fold twenty-four hours pop it in your mouth and

go into the mirror they said.

Once I unpack in a room in that city

I should take time to wash my face.

If the suffering of this city silently overtakes

I will silently lag behind and

when you are not peering at it for a moment

lean against the frosty back of the mirror

and hum carelessly.

Until, having tightly folded twenty-four hours

and spat it out nudged with your hot tongue

you return and peer at me

5.

My eyes are two candle stubs sliding drips of wax as they consume the wick, it is not searing nor painful, they say that the quivering of the bluish flame core is the coming of souls, souls sit on my eyes and quiver, they hum, the outer flame swaying in the distance sways to get further off, tomorrow you leave for the furthest city, here I am ablaze, now you put your hands into the tomb of the void and wait, memory bites your fingers like a snake, you are not seared nor in pain, your unflinching face does not burn or shatter

for more pls visit:https://modernpoetryintranslation.com/poem/two-poems-by-han-kang/ 

Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!

 

pic: Cathédrale Notre-Dame

September, 1819

By William Wordsworth

Departing summer hath assumed

An aspect tenderly illumed,

The gentlest look of spring;

That calls from yonder leafy shade

Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,

A timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,

Such tribute as to winter chill

The lonely redbreast pays!

Clear, loud, and lively is the din,

From social warblers gathering in

Their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer

Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,

And yellow on the bough:—

Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!

Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed

Around a younger brow!

Yet will I temperately rejoice;

Wide is the range, and free the choice

Of undiscordant themes;

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize

Not less than vernal ecstasies,

And passion's feverish dreams.

For deathless powers to verse belong,

And they like Demi-gods are strong

On whom the Muses smile;

But some their function have disclaimed,

Best pleased with what is aptliest framed

To enervate and defile.

Not such the initiatory strains

Committed to the silent plains

In Britain's earliest dawn:

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,

While all-too-daringly the veil

Of nature was withdrawn!

Nor such the spirit-stirring note

When the live chords Alcæus smote,

Inflamed by sense of wrong;

Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre

Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire

Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallowed was the page

By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage

The pangs of vain pursuit;

Love listening while the Lesbian Maid

With finest touch of passion swayed

Her own Æolian lute.

O ye, who patiently explore

The wreck of Herculanean lore,

What rapture! could ye seize

Some Theban fragment, or unroll

One precious, tender-hearted scroll

Of pure Simonides.

That were, indeed, a genuine birth

Of poesy; a bursting forth

Of genius from the dust:

What Horace gloried to behold,

What Maro loved, shall we enfold?

Can haughty Time be just!

"La poesia appartiene a chi ne ha bisogno, non a chi la scrive." - Il Postino (1994) #worldpoetryday

 

Ode to the sea

Here surrounding the island,

There΄s sea.

But what sea?

It΄s always overflowing.

Says yes,

Then no,

Then no again,

And no,

Says yes

In blue

In sea spray

Raging,

Says no

And no again.

It can΄t be still.

It stammers

My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks

And when they aren΄t convinced,

Strokes them

And soaks them

And smothers them with kisses.

With seven green tongues

Of seven green dogs

Or seven green tigers

Or seven green seas,

Beating its chest,

Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,

This is your name.

Oh comrade ocean,

Don΄t waste time

Or water

Getting so upset

Help us instead.

We are meager fishermen,

Men from the shore

Who are hungry and cold

And you΄re our foe.

Don΄t beat so hard,

Don΄t shout so loud,

Open your green coffers,

Place gifts of silver in our hands.

Give us this day our daily fish.