Category Archives: Curl My Toes (who said that?)

The Death of a Swan / Mehdi Hamidi Shirazi

This was a present to me on my birthday from someone I love, and now I am thrilled to share it with you… The Death of a Swan / Mehdi Hamidi Shirazi They say death of a swan, this beautiful

The Death of a Swan / Mehdi Hamidi Shirazi

This was a present to me on my birthday from someone I love, and now I am thrilled to share it with you… The Death of a Swan / Mehdi Hamidi Shirazi They say death of a swan, this beautiful

My love has sent no letter

I am heart-sick, because… My love has sent no letter for a long time now…I´ve heard no salutations from him, no inquiries, not one word… I´ve written him a hundred times, But that hard’riding King Has sent no emissary back,

My love has sent no letter

I am heart-sick, because… My love has sent no letter for a long time now…I´ve heard no salutations from him, no inquiries, not one word… I´ve written him a hundred times, But that hard’riding King Has sent no emissary back,

Pablo Neruda’s Eleventh: I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

Someone I love sent this to me earlier this week. And then I sent it to someone I love. And now, I give it to you: Love Sonnet XI / Pablo Neruda I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Pablo Neruda’s Eleventh: I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

Someone I love sent this to me earlier this week. And then I sent it to someone I love. And now, I give it to you: Love Sonnet XI / Pablo Neruda I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Rabindranath Tagore on what #memoir really is

“I do not know who has painted the pictures of my life imprinted on my memory. But whoever he is, he is an artist. He does not take up his brush simply to copy everything that happens; he retains or

Rabindranath Tagore on what #memoir really is

“I do not know who has painted the pictures of my life imprinted on my memory. But whoever he is, he is an artist. He does not take up his brush simply to copy everything that happens; he retains or

Soneto XVII by Pablo Neruda

porque te amo mas que amo mi vida… Soneto XVII / Pablo Neruda No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente,

Soneto XVII by Pablo Neruda

porque te amo mas que amo mi vida… Soneto XVII / Pablo Neruda No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente,

I’d like to introduce you to Forough Farrokhzad

I’ve “met” a new Iranian poet. Her name is Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967). Listen: Find out more about here: Forough Farrokhzad & yes, she’s available in translation. I’m reading this one: Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Sholeh Wolpe. Favourite part from

I’d like to introduce you to Forough Farrokhzad

I’ve “met” a new Iranian poet. Her name is Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967). Listen: Find out more about here: Forough Farrokhzad & yes, she’s available in translation. I’m reading this one: Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Sholeh Wolpe. Favourite part from

Simone Weil on how to make use of pain and suffering

  The way to make use of physical pain. When suffering no matter what degree of pain, when almost the entire soul is inwardly crying “Make it stop, I can bear no more,” a part of the soul, even though

Simone Weil on how to make use of pain and suffering

  The way to make use of physical pain. When suffering no matter what degree of pain, when almost the entire soul is inwardly crying “Make it stop, I can bear no more,” a part of the soul, even though

Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XII: Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon

Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light, what obscure brilliance opens between your columns? What ancient night does a man touch with his senses? Loving is a journey with water and with stars,

Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XII: Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon

Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light, what obscure brilliance opens between your columns? What ancient night does a man touch with his senses? Loving is a journey with water and with stars,

Sa’adi: “Let me cry, like the clouds in spring”

This is an off-the-cuff translation, but I think we did a pretty good job:   Sa’adi. The “impossible” poet… Let me cry, like the clouds in spring, since even rocks cry on the night of separation Anyone who has sipped

Sa’adi: “Let me cry, like the clouds in spring”

This is an off-the-cuff translation, but I think we did a pretty good job:   Sa’adi. The “impossible” poet… Let me cry, like the clouds in spring, since even rocks cry on the night of separation Anyone who has sipped

Air and light and time and space by Charles Bukowski

This, right? Just this: “– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something has always been in the way but now I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this place, a large studio, you should see the space and the light. for

Air and light and time and space by Charles Bukowski

This, right? Just this: “– you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something has always been in the way but now I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this place, a large studio, you should see the space and the light. for

Thomas Wolfe on life, life, life

At the moment, these lines really speak to me, because…      “…God is not always in his Heaven, all is not always right with the world. It is not all bad, but it is not all good, it is not all ugly, but

Thomas Wolfe on life, life, life

At the moment, these lines really speak to me, because…      “…God is not always in his Heaven, all is not always right with the world. It is not all bad, but it is not all good, it is not all ugly, but

Sylvia Plath on death and desire

I’m sunk in Sylvia Plath right now. It’s dangerous. Look:   These lines, here:   Something else Hauls me through air— Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands, dead stringencies.   make me come apart,

Sylvia Plath on death and desire

I’m sunk in Sylvia Plath right now. It’s dangerous. Look:   These lines, here:   Something else Hauls me through air— Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands, dead stringencies.   make me come apart,

Expulsion from Paradise: riffing off Hamid Mosaddegh

You: Translating poetry is a sin, an unforgivable violation of the original poet’s soul, intent, creation. Me: I know. I’m sorry. But let’s sin a little, ok? Listen… * * *   You laughed at me and didn’t know with

Expulsion from Paradise: riffing off Hamid Mosaddegh

You: Translating poetry is a sin, an unforgivable violation of the original poet’s soul, intent, creation. Me: I know. I’m sorry. But let’s sin a little, ok? Listen… * * *   You laughed at me and didn’t know with

Erica Jong on the writer’s “fuck you” impulse

There is in writing—or any creative work—a kind of fuck-you impulse. Part of the energy comes from sheer rebelliousness. I’ll show you! a writer says. I am not who you think I am. Erica Jong Seducing the Demon You: Hey,

Erica Jong on the writer’s “fuck you” impulse

There is in writing—or any creative work—a kind of fuck-you impulse. Part of the energy comes from sheer rebelliousness. I’ll show you! a writer says. I am not who you think I am. Erica Jong Seducing the Demon You: Hey,

Steve Jobs on being naked… and dead

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything—all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—those things just fall away

Steve Jobs on being naked… and dead

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything—all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—those things just fall away

Talking To My Body / Anna Swir

TALKING TO MY BODY / Anna Swir My body, you are an animal whose appropriate behavior is concentration and discipline. An effort of an athlete, of a saint and of a yogi. Well trained, you may become for me a

Talking To My Body / Anna Swir

TALKING TO MY BODY / Anna Swir My body, you are an animal whose appropriate behavior is concentration and discipline. An effort of an athlete, of a saint and of a yogi. Well trained, you may become for me a

Anaïs Nin on writing and tasting life

“We write to taste life twice: in the moment, and in retrospect.” Anaïs Nin HIM: Anaïs Nin. Again. ME: Yes. The diaries, this time. HIM: Obsess much? ME: A little. No orders this week. Too busy with Anaïs. mjc

Anaïs Nin on writing and tasting life

“We write to taste life twice: in the moment, and in retrospect.” Anaïs Nin HIM: Anaïs Nin. Again. ME: Yes. The diaries, this time. HIM: Obsess much? ME: A little. No orders this week. Too busy with Anaïs. mjc

Chain you to my body / Hafiz

CHAIN YOU TO MY BODY All These words Are just a front. What I would really like to do is Chain you to my body, Then sing for days And days and Days­ About God. Translation is always dangerous, and

Chain you to my body / Hafiz

CHAIN YOU TO MY BODY All These words Are just a front. What I would really like to do is Chain you to my body, Then sing for days And days and Days­ About God. Translation is always dangerous, and

Umberto Eco on readers, writers and idiots

“If we think that our reader is an idiot, we should not use rhetorical figures, but if we use them and feel the need to explain them, we are essentially calling the reader an idiot. In turn, he will take

Umberto Eco on readers, writers and idiots

“If we think that our reader is an idiot, we should not use rhetorical figures, but if we use them and feel the need to explain them, we are essentially calling the reader an idiot. In turn, he will take

Colette on the abyss of voluptuaries

Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss. “It’s four o’clock…  At

Colette on the abyss of voluptuaries

Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss. “It’s four o’clock…  At