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lundi 13 février 2012


It is coming up to 11 Am in Paris, close to 5 Am in Havana but I am sitting looking at the fading lights of the day over Mount Sandibong, now covered with the mists of the dissipating monsoon.
with a difference.. curry puffs and a glass of sauvignon blanc from France.
The ever attentive Rashid comes over promising more discussions on the Iban healing methods and promising me protections from the ghosts...explains the dishes .. like little tapas and leaves me alone to enjoy the ambience..
before leaving he poses a question.
Do you practice Yoga, Sir?
Why I wonder, does my asiatique appearance give off a faint odour of curry?
No sir, your countenance belies your estimated age,in my opinon.. I am not one for Asana and Yoga practice such as that, but certainly an ardent believer in the breathing techniques (kapalabakti, and also relaxing breathing during Shavasana)..
I secretly thanked my Chinese sister in Seri Kembangan who taught the basics of Breathing ...
Earlier in the day I had received an email from Kuala Lumpur about Fernando Pessoa, asserting the yogic nature of his poems. While most of his countrymen are in awe of his poetic prowess, it is so good to now that there are people in distant Kuala Lumpur reciting his poems to heart as the Iranians do Hafez and his poems. I am grateful for Kuala Lumpur, now my love for Malaysia exacerbated by this experience in Kuching and I am grateful for Iran and the poetry of Hafez..
Here is one stanza of the 35 sonnets of Pessoa followed by an snippet of his poem in Portugese..a language I have always loved since I watched the movie Orfeo Negro back in the distant days of adolescence in Brighton,Melbourne.

From 35 Sonnets

As to a child, I talked my heart asleep
With empty promise of the coming day,
And it slept rather for my words made sleep
Than from a thought of what their sense did say.
For did it care for sense, would it not wake
And question closer to the morrow's pleasure?
Would it not edge nearer my words, to take
The promise in the meting of its measure?
So, if it slept, 'twas that it cared but for
The present sleepy use of promised joy,
Thanking the fruit but for the forecome flower
Which the less active senses best enjoy.
 Thus with deceit do I detain the heart
 Of which deceit's self knows itself a part.


Não sou nada.
Nunca serei nada.
Não posso querer ser nada.
À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo.

Janelas do meu quarto,
Do meu quarto de um dos milhões do mundo que ninguém sabe quem é

(E se soubessem quem é, o que saberiam?),
Dais para o mistério de uma rua cruzada constantemente por gente,
Para uma rua inacessível a todos os pensamentos,
Real, impossivelmente real, certa, desconhecidamente certa,
Com o mistério das coisas por baixo das pedras e dos seres,
Com a morte a pôr humidade nas paredes e cabelos brancos nos homens,
Com o Destino a conduzir a carroça de tudo pela estrada de nada.

Estou hoje vencido, como se soubesse a verdade.
Estou hoje lúcido, como se estivesse para morrer,
E não tivesse mais irmandade com as coisas
Senão uma despedida, tornando-se esta casa e este lado da rua

So I raise this Curry Puff to my mouth and the ceviche of the local fish and the glass of sauvignon blanc from France  (from Douglas Green in South Africa is also on offer )
and salute my friends from Kuala Lumpur and Teheran
as well as lovers from Paris, La Habana and Baracoa..