Favourite Poem of the Day: Homeless by Karin Boye


To lose the soul’s home and to wander far
and then be unable to find anything else,
and feel that one’s forgotten what truth is,
and fancy one is made of nought but lies,
be sickened by oneself and hate oneself –
yes, that is easy, that is very easy.
Sorrow is easy, but joy is proud and hard,
for joy, it is the simplest thing of all.

But he that seeks for himself a home
must not believe that it exists just anywhere –
he must go wandering homeless for a time;
and he that’s made of lies and would be well,
must hate himself until the day he knows
of truth what others as a gift receive.
What point is there in grieving so for it?
Wait then, my heart, and have some patience yet!



Att mista själens hem och vandra långt
och intet annat kunna hitta sen,
och finna att man glömt vad sanning är,
och tycka man är gjord av bara lögn,
och vämjas vid sig själv och hata sig —
ja det är lätt, ja det är ganska lätt.
Sorgen är lätt, men glädjen stolt och svår,
ty glädjen är det enklaste av allt.

Men den, som söker sig ett hem för sig,
får inte tro, att det finns var som helst —
han måste vandra hemlös någon tid;
och den som är av lögn och vill bli frisk,
han måste hata sig till det han kan
av sanning, som de andra få till skänks.
Vad är det värt att sörja så för det?
Vänta, mitt hjärta, och ha tålamod!


Favourite Prose of the Day: And When My Sorrow was born… by Khalil Gibran

And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the
house-top shouting, “Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for Joy
this day is born unto me.  Come and behold this gladsome thing that
laugheth in the sun.”

But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and great was
my astonishment.

And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the
house-top—and yet no one heeded me.  And my Joy and I were alone,
unsought and unvisited.

Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but mine
held its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.

Then my Joy died of isolation.

And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my dead Sorrow.
But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and
then is heard no more.

Poem of Day: Happy Ending by Fleur Adcock

After they had not made love
she pulled the sheet up over her eyes
until he was buttoning his shirt:
not shyness for their bodies- those
they had willingly displayed- but a frail
endeavour to apologise.

Later, though, drawn together by
a distaste for such ‘untidy ends’
they agreed to meet again; whereupon
they giggled, reminisced, held hands
as though what they had made was love-
and not that happier outcome- friends.

Poem of the Day: “Cines”(1921) by Lucía Sánchez Saornil

Lucía Sánchez Saornil was a poet part of the Ultraismo, an avantegarde literary movement born in Spain in 1918 that rejected conventional formats and expressions of poetry in exchange for direct and vivid imagery and experimental display that did not use flowery language or personal narrative in order to expand the nature of universality in visual words. The elimination of sentimentalism was a direct rejection of  romantic Modernist trends that were deemed too “ornamental” and lacking in substance. 


La ventana pantalla cinemática
reproduce su película inmortal
en los espejos.

La cinta se fragmenta a cada paso
y se barajan los episodios
Los actores son siempre distintos.

Tú y yo actores anónimos
un día pasaremos ante el objetivo

La calle llena el cuarto
Los espejos acuarios
fluyen sus aguas turbias.

Encendemos las baterías.
El cuarto se va por los espejos

A toda luz mis palabras-
reflectores proyectan en tus ojos
un film sentimental.

— [ENG] —


The cinematic screen
Reproduces its’ immortal movie
In reflections.

The film fragments on every take
and shuffles the episodes
The actors are always distinct.

You and I, anonymous actors
We will pass a day before the objective

The street fills the room
Aquarian mirrors
Gush their murky waters.

We switch on the batteries.
The room goes for the reflections

Towards all the light
My ignited words project in your eyes
A sentimental film.


Poema Favorito del dia: (Pequeño poema infinito) by Federíco Garcia Lorca

Little Infinite Poem (esp. version below)

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the snow
and arriving at the snow
is to graze for several centuries on the grass of cemeteries.

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the woman,
the woman who doesn’t fear the light,
the woman who kills two roosters in a second,
the light that doesn’t fear the roosters
and roosters that don’t know how to sing across the snow.

But if the snow chooses the wrong heart,
the South Wind may arrive
and as the air pays no heed to groans
we’ll have to graze again on the grass of cemeteries.

I saw two saddened, waxen ears of wheat
that buried a landscape of volcanoes
and I saw two mad boys
weeping as they pressed the pupils in a murderer’s eyes.

But two has never been a number
because it is anguish and its shadow
it’s the guitar where love is driven to despair
it’s the proof of an infinity not its own
and it’s the walls of the dead
and the punishment of the new, unending resurrection.

The dead hate the number two,
but the number two lulls women to sleep,
and as woman fears the light,
light trembles before the roosters
and as roosters know only how to fly across the snow,
we’ll have to graze on the grass of cemeteries forever.

[trans. Paul Archer]


Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.

Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz
la luz tiembla delante de los gallos
y los gallos sólo saben votar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.