Wednesday, March 19, 2025

Une annonce

 Une Annonce


Nous appartenons au tiers monde, c’est certain,  

Désunis, dépossédés, nous souffrons sans fin.  

Engagés à rendre plus riches les puissants,  

Avec notre force, notre esprit, et nos enfants.


Quand nous luttons contre eux, le chaos s’installe,  

Colère et haine, en nous, font leur bal.  

Les abus nous égarent, relégués à l’ombre,  

Esclaves d'un destin qui, sans cesse, succombe.


Dickens, Hitler, Eliot, Churchill, je l’affirme,  

Tous coupables de génocide, par leurs mots, leur clime.  

Faut-il briser leurs statues, ou créer notre image,  

Organiser notre force pour retrouver l’ouvrage ?


Ce n’est pas en noir et blanc, mais en nous se cache,  

Une lueur de racisme, sous mille attaches.  

Chercher un non-raciste dans leurs terres éloignées,  

Est vain, car pour être acceptés, nous devons jouer.


VS Naipaul brille comme auteur en anglais,  

Sa voix, dans leur langue, lui ouvre des palais.  

L’ECRI pourra lutter, mais tout reste figé,  

À moins que les peuples du tiers monde ne changent, en vérité.


Lisez les sages voix de ceux qui ont crié,  

Maya Angelou, Baraka, de lumière parés.  

La colère, la violence, ne forgeront pas notre sort,  

Évitons de sombrer dans ce qui nous rend morts.


Nous avons échangé notre paradis florissant,  

Pour céder à un jardin, d’un monde éblouissant.  

Quelle que soit notre histoire, nous l’avons méritée,  

Réécrivons-la avec amour, sans vanité.


Dickens et Eliot continueront à séduire,  

Les cœurs de lecteurs, à jamais en émoi.  

Ce poème pourrait toucher, ceux du bon côté,  

Ensemble traçons notre histoire renouvelée.


Un défi immense s’impose si l’on veut changer,  

Notre destin, notre passé, à jamais se redessiner.  

Pour cela, retour sur nos terres est primordial,  

Certes, nous avons fui pour une vie sans rival.


Il est vain de réclamer à ceux qui ne savent pas,  

Où ils ont si mal agi, le poids de leurs pas.  

Plutôt que d’emprunter les chemins de la douleur,  

Traçons une nouvelle route, pleine de splendeur.


Ce poème appelle les voix du tiers monde,  

À élever ces terres, qu’elles brillent, même vagabondes.  

L’indolence et l’ignorance n'apportent pas de bien,  

Mais l’innocence, la foi, et le travail chantain.


Imaginons une annonce de ces pays de rêve,  

Qui dans un futur proche feraient d'une trêve :  

« Nous attendons des immigrants en quête de chance,  

D’Afrique et d’Asie, pour partager l'espérance.  


C'est ouvert aux Nord-Américains, aux Européens,  

Aux Australiens, Néo-Zélandais, suivez nos refrains.  

Chacun ici sera reçu avec dignité,  

Pour enrichir nos terres, bâtissons l’unité.  


Nous savons que vous cherchez une vie meilleure,  

Faisons-en une chance, une situation gagnant-gagnant.  

Nous vous garantissons que vous serez traités en tout temps,  

Également, sans distinction, pas seulement comme Blancs,  

Chacun avec respect, dans un monde plus éclatant.


ECRI - Commission européenne contre le racisme et l'intolérance

Sunday, March 9, 2025

Waiting for God and Waiting for Godot, a comparison

Introduction

“What’s in a name?”

If I reflect on why I compared the two works—Waiting for God by Simone Weil and Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett—it could be due to their shared exploration of the futility of war or their markedly different approaches to coping with the human condition. However, it is certainly not because of the similarity of their names, Simone and Samuel, nor due to the resemblance in the titles of their works, nor even because they were contemporaries or for their French connection.

Simone Weil (1909–1943) was a French philosopher, activist, and mystic known for her radical commitment to justice and compassion. A brilliant student, she taught philosophy while actively engaging in political causes, including labour rights and anti-fascism. She briefly fought in the Spanish Civil War but had to withdraw due to health issues. During World War II, she fled France for London, working for the Free French movement. Weil practiced extreme self-denial, refusing to eat more than those suffering under Nazi occupation, which led to her early death from malnutrition and tuberculosis at age 34. Her writings on suffering, spirituality, and ethics remain influential. Her extreme asceticism reflected her deep ethical and spiritual convictions.

Samuel Beckett (1906–1989) was an Irish writer, playwright, and poet, best known for Waiting for Godot. Born in Dublin, he studied at Trinity College before moving to Paris, where he became close to James Joyce. During World War II, he joined the French Resistance, narrowly escaping Nazi capture. After the war, he wrote in French, embracing minimalism and existential themes. His works, including Endgame and Krapp’s Last Tape, explored absurdity, suffering, and the human condition. In 1969, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Beckett spent his later years in Paris, where he died in 1989.

Waiting for God by Simone Weil and Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett are two significant works that explore themes of waiting, existence, and the human condition, but they approach these topics in markedly different ways.

There’s a lot to unpack. Let’s plunge.


 

Here’s a comparative analysis of the two:

Waiting for God: Written by Simone Weil, this philosophical essay reflects her spiritual beliefs and contemplations on the nature of God and human existence. Weil, a French philosopher and mystic, delves into the concept of waiting as an essential element of spiritual life, emphasizing the necessity of attention and the relationship between human suffering and divine presence.

Waiting for Godot: This famous play by Samuel Beckett, written in the late 1940s and first performed in 1953, is a hallmark of absurdist theatre. It centres on two characters, Vladimir and Estragon, who wait for someone named Godot, who never arrives. The play is rich in existential themes, exploring the absurdity of life, the passage of time, and the futility of human endeavours.

Themes

1. The Nature of Waiting

For Weil, the act of waiting is almost religious. It represents spiritual yearning and the hope for divine grace. Waiting is a preparation of the soul, an anticipation of engagement with the divine. Weil posits that true waiting involves suffering and humility.

In contrast, Beckett’s characters embody a more disillusioned form of waiting. Their hope is almost absurd, manifesting the human condition as one of perpetual uncertainty and anxiety. The act of waiting becomes a commentary on the absurdity of existence rather than a prelude to something divine.

2. Existential Reflections

   Simon’s focus is on the moral and ethical implications of waiting, interwoven with her Christian beliefs, suggesting that human suffering can lead to a deeper understanding of God and oneself.

Samuel’s existential reflections in "Waiting for Godot" highlight the randomness and chaos of life. The characters’ conversations and actions often escalate to comical yet poignant realizations about the lack of inherent meaning in existence.


 

3. Human Suffering

Weil’s suffering is central to her philosophy; it is both a reality of life and a pathway to understanding the divine. She encourages readers to embrace suffering as a vital aspect of the human experience that can lead to spiritual growth.

Beckett views suffering primarily through a lens of absurdity. The characters experience physical discomfort, emotional pain, and existential dread, yet they engage in trivial banter, illustrating the absurdity of trying to find meaning in such suffering.

4. Characters

Waiting for God is not character-driven in a traditional sense; rather, it is a philosophical discourse, inviting readers to engage with abstract ideas about humanity and divinity.

The principal characters for Waiting for Godot, Vladimir and Estragon, are richly drawn and interact with each other in a manner that reflects their desperation, humour, and philosophical musings. They embody various aspects of humanity, from hope to despair, and serve as vessels for Beckett’s exploration of existential themes.

5. Style and Structure

The writing in "Waiting for God" is contemplative and philosophical. Weil uses a more abstract style, filled with rich metaphors and spiritual insights, encouraging deep reflection.

Beckett’s Waiting for Godot employs a minimalist style, with sparse dialogue and a repetitive structure. The absurdist elements create a disjointed yet compelling rhythm, reflecting the characters' struggles and the overarching themes of circularity and stagnation.

Conclusion

War had a profound influence on both Simone Weil and Samuel Beckett, but it seems there is a mix-up between "Waiting for God" and "Waiting for Godot." Waiting for God is not a work by Simone Weil in the same way that Waiting for Godot is by Beckett. However, Weil did write Waiting for God (1951), a collection of letters and essays on spirituality and religious commitment.

 

If you are referring to how war influenced Beckett and Weil in their respective works, here are some key points:

Samuel Beckett and War in Waiting for Godot

Beckett was deeply affected by World War II, particularly his experience in the French Resistance. During the Nazi occupation, he assisted underground networks and had to flee Paris when his group was infiltrated. He lived in hiding under harsh conditions.

These experiences shaped Waiting for Godot (1953), in which two characters, Vladimir and Estragon, wait endlessly for someone named Godot in a desolate, absurd world. The war’s impact is visible in:

The endless waiting: It mirrors the anxiety of prisoners, resistance fighters, or refugees waiting for news, help, or an end to suffering.

The barren landscape: The minimalist setting evokes the destruction of Europe during and after the war.

The absurdity and suffering: After witnessing the horrors of war, language and logic seem inadequate to explain human existence.

Simone Weil and War in Waiting for God

While Waiting for God is not a play like Beckett’s, it expresses another form of waiting—one that is spiritual and existential. Weil, a mystical and socially engaged philosopher, experienced war firsthand:

She volunteered in the Republican brigades during the Spanish Civil War.

During World War II, though exiled in London, she was eager to contribute actively to the Resistance.

Her reflections on suffering, waiting, and divine grace in Waiting for God are deeply shaped by war and destruction.

In short, war influenced both authors’ concept of waiting: for Beckett, it is absurd and meaningless; for Weil, it is spiritual and transcendent.

“That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

While both "Waiting for God" and Waiting for Godot explore the concept of waiting, they do so from vastly different perspectives. Weil presents waiting as a form of spiritual preparation, imbued with hope and meaning, while Beckett depicts it as a profound reflection of the absurdity of life, characterized by futility and existential dread and of course with less or loss of hope. Both works invite readers to reflect on the nature of existence, yet they do so through contrasting lenses that speak to the complexities of the human condition.

Both Waiting for God by Simone Weil and Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, despite their differences, carry the same essence—like a rose emitting the same fragrance from different petals. They both grapple with the human condition, suffering, and the longing for meaning in a seemingly indifferent world. Weil’s work breathes a spiritual yearning, where waiting is an act of faith and self-sacrifice, while Beckett’s portrays waiting as an absurd, endless cycle devoid of resolution. Yet, in both, there is an unshaken endurance—an acceptance of waiting itself as a defining human experience, making them resonate with the same existential scent.

Monday, March 3, 2025

Meaningless

Fault-finding a weed—
a fleeting high,
it drops to the earth,
a silent sound
deafening the mind,
plunging deep into the abyss.

Cannabis in the guise of wanderers,
the wannabes, disobedient wind,
grass once green
fades to brown,
withered, dull, insipid.

A stubborn trend—
spinning, endless,
circling from edge to edge,
never breaking,
never dawning anew.

One steps back
looks at its importance
finding faults in others
takes us off the track
it’s meaningless
it’s meaningless.

The dead time and space

The past holds nothing but regret,
the future hides behind a veil.
we long for days we can’t forget,
yet fear the ones that lie in tale.

Beyond the walls, in shadowed halls,
they taught us truths that were untrue.
we grasp at lies as reason falls,
denying all we truly knew.

The place to be is here, not there,
the time to live is now, not when
or then; no yesterday nor fate elsewhere—
just this one breath, regaining again.

Too much hide and seek with now and here
kills us in time and space
we find and search ourselves nowhere
we live like the dead without mercy and grace.

Saturday, March 1, 2025

Loss of focus

Attractions 

Repulsions

Appreciations

Humiliations 

All distractions

From the attention 

To God realisation.

Tuesday, February 25, 2025

Let it stay, let it flow

Let it stay, let it flow

Let it come, an unfolding breeze,
whispering secrets of the day,
the laughter of sunlight on rippling water,
shadows dancing with the dusk.

Each moment, both fleeting and infinite,
a river of sensations,
flowing through the heart,
glistening with joy,
adorned in sorrow's heavy cloak.

Let it be, this gentle embrace,
the warmth of a stranger's smile,
mistakes that carve wisdom into flesh,
and the quiet ache of unfulfilled dreams—

All invited, all welcomed,
nestled in the corners of the soul,
where understanding blooms like
wildflowers
in a field untouched,
where each petal softens the
edges of truth.

Let it go, the weight that binds,
release the parchment of memory,
the joy that once painted the skies,
and the grief that whispered in echoes—

A formless transition,
the sigh of a leaf on autumn winds,
fleeting yet profound,
forever etched in the tapestry of time,
freeing the spirit,
to dance in the twilight of duality.

Be established in soul consciousness,
rooted like ancient trees that bend,
yet do not break, nor brake,
cradling both storm and stillness,
embracing the transient nature of being,
where love and loss intertwine,
like the threads of a loom,
weaving existence into the fabric
of something greater,
a vast expanse of light and shadow,
where all things come,
all things are,
and all things, eventually,
let go.


Qu'il demeure, qu'il s'écoule.

Qu’il vienne, ce souffle éclos,

murmure de secrets au fil du jour,
rire du soleil sur l’eau frémissante,
ombres dansant avec le crépuscule.

Chaque instant, à la fois fugace et éternel,
rivière de sensations,
coulant au creux du cœur,
miroitant de joie,
paré du lourd manteau du chagrin.

Qu’il soit, cet doux embras,
la chaleur d’un sourire inconnu,
les fautes gravant la sagesse dans la chair,
et la sourde douleur des rêves inachevés—

Tous conviés, tous accueillis,
blottis aux recoins de l’âme,
où l’entendement s’épanouit
telle une fleur sauvage
dans un champ inviolé,
où chaque pétale adoucit
les contours acérés de la vérité.

Laisse s’en aller le poids qui enchaîne,
libère le parchemin des souvenirs,
la joie qui peignait jadis le ciel,
et le deuil murmurant en écho—

Transition sans forme,
soupir d’une feuille aux vents d’automne,
éphémère et pourtant profond,
gravé à jamais dans la trame du temps,
libérant l’âme,
pour qu’elle danse au crépuscule des contraires.

Sois ancré dans la conscience de l’âme,
enraciné tel l’arbre antique qui ploie
sans se rompre, ni se freiner,
berçant l’orage et l’accalmie,
épousant la fugacité de l’être,
où l’amour et la perte s’entrelacent,
comme les fils d’un métier à tisser,
tressant l’existence à la trame
d’un dessein plus vaste,
une immensité de lumière et d’ombre,
où tout advient,
où tout est,
et où tout, enfin,
s’efface.

The recipe for sadness


I stand among my goods,
guarding them, shielding them.
Yet, I feel empty,
poor and inadequate,
like a beggar with an outstretched bowl.

Surrounded by well-wishers,
lost in the midst of company,
I waver with uncertainty,
as fragile as my lonely neighbor,
adrift without a place to stand.

How strange it is—
that wealth holds no warmth,
that possessions bring no peace.
Among the crowd,
I am nothing but an island.

But I asked, I searched,
and at last, I found my answer:

It is the insatiable greed for things,
the endless hunger to hoard,
the desperate longing to belong—
without learning to hold,
without knowing how to cherish—
that has turned warmth into cold,
and left my soul barren.

 

La recette de la tristesse

Je veille sur mes biens,
les protège, les garde.
Et pourtant, je me sens vide,
misérable et démuni,
comme un mendiant tendant son bol.

Entouré de visages aimables,
perdu au cœur des bienveillants,
je vacille d’incertitude,
aussi fragile que mon voisin solitaire
sans repère, sans refuge.

Quelle ironie:
accumuler n’apporte aucun bien,
posséder n’offre aucun port.
Au milieu de la foule,
je ne suis qu’une île.

Heureusement, j’ai cherché,
questionné ce gouffre en moi.
Et j’ai compris:
c’est la soif insatiable d’avoir,
le désir d’entasser,
l’obsession d’appartenir
sans apprendre à chérir,
qui a rendu mes biens glacés,
et mon cœur, désert.


 

Monday, February 24, 2025

Beyond words through words

In a world wrapped in echoes, where the chatter leads the way,
I’m lost in the cheating, where the truth seems to sway.
Words flung like shadows; they dance in deadly flight
Hidden in the quiet, a spark that genuinely feels right.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

Through the haze of conversations, like whispers in the dark,
I search for the unspoken, the unpolished, the stark
A glance can tell a story; a breath can break the scheme
In the pauses and the spaces, I can touch your dream.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

In the quiet, our souls collide,
No need for frayed expressions to confide.
In a moment of wordlessness, understanding blooms,
In the silence, the light shines like a silver white moon.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

Let’s weave our stories with the threads of the unseen
In the hush between our hearts, we’ll find what we mean
For in silence, sweet quietness, live emotions flow free
That’s where I’ll understand you, that’s where we’ll be.  

Sunday, February 16, 2025

the euphoria

We chase the sky,
hoping to find a high that
matches the hunger within
us, we inject ourselves with
the next dose of desire,
a bitter, fleeting rush
that never fills the hollow 

the mask of satisfaction—
a seconf skin but beneath it,
emptiness fills
sifting through the hours
with greedy sense,
pounding for more
in the distorted reflection
of mirrors, the masters

cupidity
a fire that burns,
consumes,
and leaves behind nothing
but ashes
anger stirs, greed spreads like
wildfire, chokes our chests with
smoke and still,
we press forward,
filling the void
with plastic wings we
never needed

what if we stopped
what if we turned inward,
and sought a high that
does not fade
a permanent peace, 
unbroken by time’s passing
or the noise of the world

if we knew the Self,
beyond the ego’s lies,
beyond the stories of 
chasing we tell ourselves—
what would we find
that it never ever absent
from us, it was there like
a stillness that doesn’t burn,
a light that never dims
a fulfillment that is whole,
a love that is pure,
for good, and in that,
perhaps, we would finally
understand that the euphoria
we’ve been seeking
was always present within

Stillness

The sky spills its colours,
shifting from soft lavender
to a bold, burning orange
breezes weave through trees,
leaving behind whispers of stories
once told, untold, remembered, lost
tales of forgotten mornings,
and dreams that never quite took root

the ground beneath me hums—
not with noise, but with an ancient
pulse,
dip dip beep

a rhythm older than my thoughts,
pushing up through the soles of my
shoes,
reminding me of that stillness,
of the failures successes as illusion


I let my feet follow the path,
though it’s less a way than a question,
the earth offering no answers,
only the quiet inimitable hum
of its knowing


the world spins as I hold my breath,
waiting for something to break the silence,
but all that comes is the rustle of leaves,
a reminder that everything is already in motion,
from the brand new hue to the old bland view
even when we know we stand still