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Tuesday, April 26, 2011

N'Deye Mélissa-Singer& Songwriter

It is with great pleasure and pride that I would like to introduce my favorite soul singer.She is my sister!!! She is pure soul!!
N'Deye Mélissa ! 
She is my shinning  star in my moonlight...
She is making her dreams come true...
Enjoy...N'Deye Mélissa

Monday, April 25, 2011

Book of the week: Le Héros de Kavomo by d’Agnès Barasokoroza

This is a very personal testimony by d’Agnès Barayiyaka born  Barasokoroza about the 1972 mass killing in Burundi. She is a family relative. I am really proud of her book.  Her testimony is peaceful and forgiving. I deeply appreciate that someone testified about May-July 1972. That period does not define me but the consequences did shape who I am today. In 1972, my grandfather was unjustly killed and my grandmother left alive! Ironically, due to the very selective character of the killing it is not labeled as genocide or holocaust!!The labeling does not matter, however a testimony of that period is a beautiful closure. Thank you Agnès Barasokoroza  for Le Héros de Kavomo. You did inspire me to write a book about my family!!!

Short description:
The testimony of Agnes Barayiyaka, born Barasokoroza is a striking illustration of the disastrous and disturbing clashes in Burundi in 1972 and their devastating consequences. Based on her experience and her father's experience (a man of great conviction and righteousness), Agnes Barayiyaka describes situations whose origins are found in Africa, certainly, but also in ideologies and colonial practices of the Europe.
She talks about  the disconcerting aspects, unjust, cruel and deeply inhumane.There is evidence in her great sensitivity,sadness, pain and melancholy. But at the same time, no page is marked by a spirit of revenge or despair.Quite the contrary, we can feel  across a genuine hope for a better future as long as the Burundian find and restore the values ​​of their traditional culture, many of which converge with those of the Gospel.

Le témoignage d’Agnès Barayiyaka, née Barasokoroza est une illustration saisissante et troublante des funestes affrontements au Burundi en 1972 et de leurs conséquences ravageuses. A partir de son expérience et de celle de son père (un homme de conviction et de grande droiture), Agnès Barayiyaka décrit des situations dont les origines sont à chercher en Afrique, certes, mais aussi dans les idéologies et les pratiques coloniales de l’Europe.
Elle en indique les aspects déconcertants, injustes, cruels, profondément inhumains.
Il y a dans ce témoignage beaucoup de sensibilité, de tristesse, de souffrance et de lassitude. Mais, en même temps, aucune page ne porte la marque d’un esprit de vengeance ou de désespoir. Bien au contraire, on sent poindre d’un bout à l’autre une espérance authentique dans un avenir meilleur pour peu que les Barundi retrouvent et restaurent les valeurs de leur culture traditionnelle dont beaucoup convergent avec celles de l’Évangile.

To buy go on 


La miseria del hombre by Gonzalo Rojas

Gonzalo Rojas was a Chilean poet.May he rest in peace!
Here his poem...just beautiful!!
Just in Spanish if I find good translations I will post them!!!

La miseria del hombre
El sol y la muerte
La eternidad
La poesía es mi lengua
El caos
La libertad
Retrato de la niebla
Himno a la noche
La cordillera está viva
La materia es mi madre
Salmo real
Coro de los ahorcados
El principio y el fin
Naturaleza del fastidio
El abismo llama al abismo
Rotación y traslación
El condenado
La fosa común
El sol es la única semilla           

Descenso a los infiernos
Revelación del pensamiento
El fuego eterno
La nube
Crecimiento de Rodrigo Tomás
El poeta maldice a su cadáver
Perdí mi juventud
A quien vela, todo se le revela
La salvación
Carta del suicida
La vuelta al mundo
Pompas fúnebres
A una perdida
El polvo del deseo
El dinero
Los cobardes
La sangre
La lepra
Fábula moderna
Drama pasional
Las mujeres vacías
Fundación de Valparaíso
 by Gonzalo Rojas

Source: Universidad de Chile

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Feu de brousse-Brush Fire by Tchicaya U Tam’si

I would like to share a poem of Tchicaya U Tam’Si from the Mc Graw Hill Book of poetry. I purchased this for one dollar when I was in college at a library sale. I needed something  relaxing. As a biology major, philosophy and poetry were my favorite escapes to scientific stuff. Tchicaya U Tam'si is a Congolese poet. I did like it, so I did google for some more. He is a famous poet but his work seems underground.  According to critics, his style was disturbing the negritude movement. So his work remained underground or unknown. His style is described as anecdotal and dry. It is a style, I like because it is a style I grew up around with my parents.  A certain distance is maintain to be able to have an open heart conversation. It is peculiar and very African to me. However, he is also called the Black Rimbaud. 


"Brush-fire" by  Tchicaya U Tam'si
The fire the river that's to say
the sea to drink following the sand
the feet the hands
within the heart to love
this river that lives in me repeoples me
only to you I said around the fire
my race
it flows here and there a river
the flames are the looks
of those who brood upon it
I said to you
my race
the taste of bronze drunk hot

 Feu de Brouse de Tchicaya U Tam’si  
Le long du fleuve Seule une montagne
Après la dernière étoile éteinte   Veille
Peine perdue 
Il y a le saut à la mer
A sac la mer

J’ai fait ce rêve  Avec l’arc-en-ciel
Dans l’autre sens du fleuve Couché
C’était le cercle magique
Des veillées lentes 
Les morts avec nous
Mais non  Avant la mer
Monte l’écume A la gorge
Du fleuve   Ecoutez le tocsin
Son milieu était une herbe juste
Parmi les ronces
Son ciel était son regard
Pour ceux qui vivaient
Ils vivaient nombreux
Les lianes liant leurs cœurs
Puis une chanson s’est levée
Rehaussons la haine
A sa hauteur de sentiment humain
Brûlez vos réserves de sèves sanguines
La plante mûrit ainsi la fleur
Vivre parmi les ronces c’est mourir
Nulle part la joie
C’est le choc des crépuscules

Ils vivaient nombreux
Son milieu était une herbe juste
Mais où a-t-on égaré mes pagayeurs

L'Albatros-The albatross- El albatros by Charles Baudelaire

This is a poem, I did learn in elementary school. This sad poem about a bullied albatros, put in words how I felt as a foreigner in a new country.Well, I was a talented  mini-griot so I have never been bullied!Baudelaire symbolism captivated me. My teacher used the term of artistic exile. It was exactly how I felt. I was in exile and my qualities became disabilities in a new land. What was graceful  to me, was ridiculed by my classmates.  However, Baudelaire and his pitiful albatross gave me hope. If he felt awkward and disabled in his own country. It meant that I would be fine!!
 Thanks to all the awesome teachers that introduced me to poetry !!!
Enjoy ...
L'ALBATROS from Les Fleurs du Mal
Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîer à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poëte est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

THE ALBATROSS from The Flowers of Evil
Often, for pastime, mariners will ensnare
The albatross, that vast sea-bird who sweeps
On high companionable pinion where
Their vessel glides upon the bitter deeps.

Torn from his native space, this captive king
Flounders upon the deck in stricken pride,
And pitiably lets his great white wing
Drag like a heavy paddle at his side.

This rider of winds, how awkward he is, and weak!
How droll he seems, who lately was all grace!
A sailor pokes a pipestem into his beak;
Another, hobbling, mocks his trammeled pace.

The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds,
Familiar of storms, of stars, and of all high things;
Exiled on earth amidst its hooting crowds,
He cannot walk, borne down by his giant wings.
                                       — translated by Richard Wilbur
  From here 

El albatros

Por distraerse, a veces, suelen los marineros
Dar caza a los albatros, grandes aves del mar,
Que siguen, indolentes compañeros de viaje,
Al navío surcando los amargos abismos.

Apenas los arrojan sobre las tablas húmedas,
Estos reyes celestes, torpes y avergonzados,
Dejan penosamente arrastrando las alas,
Sus grandes alas blancas semejantes a remos.

Este alado viajero, ¡qué inútil y qué débil!
Él, otrora tan bello, ¡qué feo y qué grotesco!
¡Éste quema su pico, sádico, con la pipa,
Aquél, mima cojeando al planeador inválido!

El Poeta es igual a este señor del nublo,
Que habita la tormenta y ríe del ballestero.
Exiliado en la tierra, sufriendo el griterío,
Sus alas de gigante le impiden caminar.

From here 

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Nuit de Siné-Night of Sine-Noche de Siné by Léopold Sédar Senghor

As a kid, the only African poet I knew about was my father. He was writing beautiful short poems in French. I was always impressed by the intensity of his voice when he was reading them to me. In the other hand, my mother was a poetess but her poetry was exclusively oral. She would use Kirundi or French to teach us, values and morals through proverbs.
In middle school, my mother purchased a large collection of encyclopedia, so I finally learn more about African poetry. I did learn about Léopold Sédar Senghor. It was my first introduction to published African poetry. I always associate his poem “Night of Sine” as an ode to the African Negress. I like the imageries and metaphors, however he was too conservative. Yes, I said it! For the revolutionary teenager, I was, his poetry was limiting the Negress in me. I always joked that the negritude movement forgot about the Negresses. Of course, the African poetry did sublimated black women and their roles.  Nevertheless, traditions and cultures create a certain stratification on which women roles were/are some what restricted. Well Senghor is Senghor.  Respect! Here is “Night of Sine”

Night of Sine
Woman, put on my forehead your balsam hands, 
your hands softer than fur.Up there, the tall palm trees swinging
in the night breeze rustle hardly.
Not even the nurse’s song. Let the rhythmic silence rock us.
Let’s listen to its song, 
let’s listen to the beating of our dark blood, let’s listen
To the beating-of the dark pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages.
Look how the tired moon sinks towards its bed of slack water,
Look how the burst of laughter doze off, 
and even the bards themselves
Dandle their heads like children on the backs of their mother.
Look how the feet of the dancers grow heavy, 
as well as the tongue of the alternating chorus.
This is the hour of the stars and of the Night that dreams
Reclining on that range of clouds, draped in its long gown of milk.
The roofs of the huts gleam gently. 
What are they so confidently telling to the stars?
Inside, the hearth extinguishes in the intimacy of bitter and sweet scents.
Woman, light the lamp of butterclear oil, 
let the Ancesters,like their parents, talk the children in bed.
Let’s listen to the voice of the Ancients of Elissa. Exiled as we are
They did not want to die, their seminal flood is lost in the sand.
Let me hear, in the smoky which I visit, 
a reflection of propitious souls
Let my head on your breast,
warm as a dang taken from the fire and smoking
Let me inhale the smell of our Dead, 
let me collect and repeat their living voice, let me learn
To live before I sink, deeper than the diver, into the lofty depth of sleep.
Léopold Sédar Senghor
Tr. Germain Droogenbroodt
From: Chants d’ombre (1945) , © Editions du Seuil, Paris

Nuit de Siné  
Femme, pose sur mon front tes mains balsamiques, 
tes mains douces plus que fourrure.
Là-haut les palmes balancées 
qui bruissent dans la haute brise nocturne
À peine. Pas même la chanson de nourrice. 
Qu'il nous berce, le silence rythmé.
Écoutons son chant, écoutons battre notre sang sombre,

écoutons Battre le pouls profond de l'Afrique 
dans la brume des villages perdus.
Voici que décline la lune lasse vers son lit de mer étale
Voici que s'assoupissent les éclats de rire,

que les conteurs eux-mêmes  
Dodelinent de la tête comme l'enfant sur le dos de sa mère
Voici que les pieds des danseurs s'alourdissent, 

que s'alourdit la langue des choeurs alternés.
C'est l'heure des étoiles et de la Nuit qui songe
S'accoude à cette colline de nuages, 

drapée dans son long pagne de lait.
Les toits des cases luisent tendrement. 

Que disent-ils, si confidentiels, aux étoiles ?
Dedans, le foyer s'éteint 

dans l'intimité d'odeurs âcres et douces.
Femme, allume la lampe au beurre clair, 
que causent autour les Ancêtres comme les parents,
les enfants au lit.
Écoutons la voix des Anciens d'Elissa. 

Comme nous exilés Ils n'ont pas voulu mourir, 
que se perdît par les sables leur torrent séminal.
Que j'écoute, dans la case enfumée 

que visite un reflet d'âmes propices
Ma tête sur ton sein chaud comme un dang 

au sortir du feu et fumant
Que je respire l'odeur de nos Morts, 

que je recueille et redise leur voix vivante, 
que j'apprenne à Vivre avant de descendre, 
au-delà du plongeur,
dans les hautes profondeurs du sommeil.
Léopold Sédar Senghor
De: Chants d’ombre (1945) , © Editions du Seuil, Paris

Noche de Siné (1)
Mujer, pon sobre mi frente tus manos balsámicas,
tus manos más suaves que armiñoAllá arriba
las palmas balanceadas 
que susurran en la alta brisa nocturna
Apenas. Ni la canción de nodriza. 

Que nos mezca el silencio ritmado.
Escuchemos su canto, escuchemos latir nuestra sangre oscura, 

escuchemos  Latir el pulso profundo de África 
en la bruma de los pueblos perdidos.
Mira como declina la luna cansada 
sobre su lecho de marea muerta.
Mira como se adormecen las carcajadas,

que los propios cuentacuentos
Cabecean como el niño en la espalda de su madre
Mira como se aploman los pies de los danzantes, 
como se aploma la lengua de los coros que se alternan.
Es la hora de las estrellas y de la Noche que sueña
Acodándose en esta colina de nubes, 

envuelta en su largo taparrabo.
Los tejados de las chozas lucen tiernamente. 
¿Qué les dicen, confiden­cialmente, a las estrellas?
Adentro, fuego se extingue

en la intimidad de olores acres y suaves.
Mujer, enciende la lámpara de mantequilla clara,
para que las Ancestros
charlen a su alrededor como los padres, los niños a la cama.
Escuchemos la voz de los Patriarcas de Elissa (2).

Exiliados como nosotros No han querido morir, que se ha perdido \
por las arenas su torrente seminal.
Que escuche, en la choza ahumada

que visita un reflejo de almas propicias
Mi cabeza en tu cálido sena como un dang{3) 

saliendo humeante del fuego
Que respire el olor de nuestros Muertos,

que recoja y repita su voz viviente,
que aprenda a Vivir antas de descender,

más allá del buceador, en las altas profundidades del sueño.
Léopold Sédar Senghor

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Nuit d’Août-August Night by Alfred de Musset

April is National poetry month!!! I will share few of my favorite poems.Today, it will be about Alfred de Musset. He has a particular elegance in his prose, a sensibility that glorifies his conflicted personality.  His capricious and passionate approach to love is tormenting.  It is like; he does everything we should not do just for us to know that: On ne badine pas avec l'amour /Don't Trifle with Love!!
In my opinion, his message is that libertine pleasures offer illusion of happiness but indulging in earthly pleasure of living might equate with a loveless life.  I like the dramatic romance between Musset and his mistress George Sand. It is intense, sad and real.   
I think that  you must love yourself, to love someone else because the bliss of love is full of struggle, tribulations and torments! To conclude here a quote from George Sand aka Amandine Lucile Aurore Dupin: “One is happy as a result of one's own efforts once one knows the necessary ingredients of happiness simple tastes, a certain degree of courage, self denial to a point, love of work, and above all, a clear conscience.”

August Night
O Muse! What does it matter, life or death?
I love, and want pallor, I love and want the pain;
I love, my genius for a kiss I won’t disdain;
I love, and want to feel on my cheek wan
That stream from endless spring forever drawn.

I love, and want to sing of joy and laziness
Of my crazed life and cares of just one day.
I want to tell and say forever and ceaseless
That once vowing to live without mistress,
Only of love I vow to live and die.

Renounce to all your pride that’s killing you
The bitter-filled heart that you thought was closed.
Love and revive; to blossom be a flower.
Having suffered, even more you must suffer,
And keep loving, after having so loved.

Translated by Thomas D. Le
19 November 2004

Nuit d’Août -Alfred de Musset (1810-1857)
O Muse! que m’importe ou la mort ou la vie ?
J’aime, et je veux pâlir; j’aime et je veux souffrir ;
J’aime, et pour un baiser je donne mon génie ;
J’aime, et je veux sentir sur ma joue amaigrie
Ruisseler une source impossible à tarir.

J’aime, et je veux chanter la joie et la paresse,
Ma folle experience et mes soucis d’un jour,
Et je veux raconter et répéter sans cesse
Qu’après avoir juré de vivre sans maîtresse,
J’ai fait serment de vivre et de mourir d’amour.

Dépouille devant tous l’orgueil qui te dévore,
Coeur gonflé d’amertume et qui t’es cru fermé.
Aime, et tu renaîtras; fais-toi fleur pour éclore.
Après avoir souffert, il faut souffrir encore ;
Il faut aimer sans cesse, après avoir aimé.


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