a little exchange by two heads

Icche dana melte mana
Ichche dana bhabte mana
Ichche dana sunno kone

Ichche danar sunne ora....

Ichye holei jabe ure,
Shob periye onek dure,
Bishyotake obak kore...

Mitmitiye dekhbi tora!

(This poem was a late night endeavor by two friends.)

Comte de Lautréamont -'maldoror'-surreal poetry translation

Stanza 1: The Reader Forewarned
God grant that the reader, emboldened and having become at present as fierce as what he is reading, find, without loss of bearings, his way, his wild and treacherous passage through the desolate swamps of these sombre, poison-soaked pages; for, unless he should bring to his reading a rigorous logic and a sustained mental effort at least as strong as his distrust, the lethal fumes of this book shall dissolve his soul as water does sugar. It is not right that everyone read the pages that follow: a sole few will savour this bitter fruit without danger. As a result, wavering soul, before penetrating further into such uncharted barrens, draw back, step no deeper. Mark my words: draw back, step no deeper, like the eyes of a son respectfully flinching away from his mother's august contemplation, or rather, like an acute angle formation of cold-sensitive cranes stretching beyond the eye can reach, soaring through the winter silence in deep meditation, under tight sail towards a focal point on the horizon, from where there suddenly rises a peculiar gust of wind, omen of a storm. The oldest crane, alone at the forefront, on seeing this, shakes his head like a rational person and consequently his beak too, which he clicks, as he is uneasy (and so would I be, in his shoes); whilst his old, feather-stripped neck, contemporary of three generations of cranes, sways in irritated undulations that foreshadow the oncoming thunderstorm. After looking with composure several times in every direction with eyes that bespeak experience, the first crane (for he is the privileged one to show his tail feathers to the other, intellectually inferior cranes) vigilantly cries out like a melancholy sentinel driving back the common enemy, and then carefully steers the nose of the geometric figure (it would be a triangle, but the third side, formed in space by these curious avian wayfarers, is invisible), be it to port, or to starboard, like a skilful captain; and, manoeuvring with wings that seem no larger than those of a sparrow, he thus adopts, since he is no dumb creature, a different and safer philosophical course.

Selected Poems from


by Lautréamont (1868)

Translated by Sonja Elen Kisa (1998)
Illustrated by François Aubéron

surreal poems:courtesy-www.demonrobber.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk

Masked Angels

The angels with masks
Have been taken to task
They have something to hide
The Devil is by their side
In a surreal landscape
They plan their escape
To another kingdom
In search of freedom
Tired of doing good
Their deeds are misunderstood
A black silhouette
Performs a deadly pirouette
They dance in time
To the beat of the chime
They are in search of survival
The chimes announce their arrival
In the Kingdom of The Beast
He has laid on a handsome feast
Their black spirits fester
As they meet the evil jester
In heaven innocent souls moan
As the Devil sits proudly on his throne