Hide & Seek | قایم باشک

Hide & Seek | قایم باشک

By Ali Alizade HaqiqiSociety & CultureRelationships
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Hide & Seek | قایم باشک episodes

  • Hello
    Hello
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    1 min
  • B1E30. Los versos de la madera [SPANISH]

    Cuando escuchaba la canción

    de bellas palabras pretéritas,
    se hacían bautizar en la fogata
    los versos de la madera.

    Un faro cálido envió su señal

    a un barco solitario
    y le orientó
    en los contornos tropicales,
    en el seno generoso
    de la Caribeña.

    Pero escuchaba la canción,

    y en el humo de la fogata
    restallaban
    los versos de la madera.

    [ENGLISH]

    As I listened to that old and beautiful song

    its fine words were baptised by the flames
    igniting the bonfire of this poem

    An incandescent lighthouse

    lit up a solitary boat
    guiding it
    through the tropics
    to the safe haven
    of the Caribbean

    But I listened to that song

    and in the smoke of the bonfire
    its poetry
    sparked

    Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam & Ali Alizade Haqiqi

    Photo by Shahab Shahmohammadi

    Poem by Limam Boicha

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    4 min
  • B1E29. Cayucos

    A girl asleep beneath a fishing net

    Sandals the color of tangerines

    Off the coast of Morocco

    A moonlit downpour, God's skeleton

    Bark, dory, punt, skiff

    "Each with a soul full of scents"

    Day after day spent shaping

    A ball of wax into a canary

    Little lamp, little lamp

    The word "contraband" arrived

    In English in the 16th century via Spanish

    Throw your shadow overboard

    Proverbs, blessings scratched into wood

    The tar of my country better than the honey of others


    Poem by Eduardo C. Corral

    Photo by Me

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    4 min
  • B1E28. Here City

    The sounds

    of the train

    piped in
    through the
    PA system.

    The whole city
    slightly askew

    but familiar
    in its shadows,

    its symmetrical brick,
    its dry hot breeze

    and its lack
    of pedestrians,

    save you.

    -----------

    The blinking message said:
    More alcohol
    is needed

    to achieve
    escape velocity

    -----------

    The salutations and styles
    erupting on the top
    few stairs,

    where service
    is mercifully restored
    and the world resumes

    its tangents and vectors,
    terrific possibilities
    processed by objects

    as small and dark
    as the eyes of a starling,
    constantly soaking up data

    and sending it back to Seattle,
    which sells it to Tokyo,
    which sells it

    to someplace else

    Photo by Me
    Poem by Rick Snyder

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    2 min
  • S1E21. A Wish

    When your joys are of the sweetest

        And your heart is light and free; 
    When your griefs are skimming fleetest, 
        Love, one moment think of me.

    I’d not ask you to remember 

        Me when life is dull and drear;
    When your hopes are but an ember
        From a cold and vanished year;

    Sorrow’s far too bleak a burden

        To retain in mem’ry’s hall. 
    Friendship has no greater guerdon
        Than to happiness recall.

    So, when roses scent the twilight

        Air with ling’ring dew damp breath, 
    Please remember me as eye-bright
        Faith remembers until death.


    Photo by Zhenya Tigina

    A wish by Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.

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    5 min
  • S1E20. Art and Nature

    He was painting the sky. Not painting images of sun and clouds on canvas — no, slapping paint across the sky itself. It was a painting en plein air on plain air.

    There was a theory behind it, of course, a theory so big it didn’t matter anymore, a map the size of the territory.

    Go tell it to the birds, he would say. But the birds didn’t care. They were flying nonchalantly through the sky, and he would paint them, too, the redbirds blue and the bluebirds red.

    Of course, the paint would drip everywhere. But didn’t it always? That’s what the rag was for, and the little blade. As someone said: If art was not difficult, it would not be art.

    The critics hadn’t found the right word for it yet. Not exactly realism, and not quite surrealism — not even subrealism. But he couldn’t wait for the critics to make up their minds. He just kept painting, while the sun was out.

    At the end of the day, his work was done. He put away his paints, and the sun put itself away, and the clouds likewise. It was so dark he couldn’t see the grass around his feet, no longer green but a ground of many colors, still wet, like some kaleidoscope of dew.

    Ah, what would he paint tomorrow? A seascape? He thought of the water, wave after wave, and his small brush dabbling in the shallows, stroking out into the deep.

    Art and Nature by Elton Glaser

    Photo by Ilya Haharev

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    6 min
  • S1E19. Map

    This is the world

    so vast and lonely
    without end, with mountains
    named for men
    who brought hunger
    from other lands,
    and fear
    of the thick, dark forest of trees
    that held each other up,
    knowing fire dreamed of swallowing them
    and spoke an older tongue,
    and the tongue of the nation of wolves
    was the wind around them.
    Even ice was not silent.
    It cried its broken self
    back to warmth.
    But they called it
    ice, wold, forest of sticks,
    as if words would make it something
    they could hold in gloved hands,
    open, plot a way
    and follow.

    This is the map of the forsaken world.

    This is the world without end
    where forests have been cut away from their trees.
    These are the lines wolf could not pass over.
    This is what I know from science:
    that a grain of dust dwells at the center
    of every flake of snow,
    that ice can have its way with land,
    that wolves live inside a circle
    of their own beginning.
    This is what I know from blood:
    the first language is not our own.

    There are names each thing has for itself,

    and beneath us the other order already moves.
    It is burning.
    It is dreaming.
    It is waking up.

    Map by Linda Hogan

    Photo by Sara Matos

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    5 min
  • S1E18. A frozen conceit

    [INTRO]

    Local anchors list the ways
    viewers might enjoy tomorrow.
    One says, “Get some great….”, but
    that seems like a stretch.
    The other snickers, meaning,
    “Where were you going with that?”
    Like you thought
    Like you could defend 
    vanity
    in the sense of
    idle conceit,
    vacuous self-
    absorption,
    doing whatever
    it takes to
    whatever
    because, really.
    As if to say,
    “Conceit is the vacuum energy.”


    [CHORUS]

    [FIRST LINE] What are you listening to? Do you think you are very talented? Yes, right, but do not be arrogant. You and I can not understand at the same time what is being said now.
    [SECOND LINE] The human mind is very complex and also has the ability to do strange things, But there are no limits, it’s our brain that is limited. It’s our mind that understands the infinite in a limited way because it is easier for it.
    [THIRD LINE] If you can hear this, then you are choosing not to hear other sounds, it is true that we are not able to hear and understand all the sounds at the same time, but we can choose what to hear.


    [VERSE]

    I have seen a life laid to waste,
    in the name of pure stubbornness,
    in the absolute definition of denial.

    I see my own life.

    Caught up on the same rails,
    charging full steam ahead,
    to a tunnel where no light shines.

    The gates of experience fly by.

    Still frames of adventures
    I have excused myself from
    for reasons, for selfishness.

    Vanity . . . shame.

    The double yellow line,
    solid and illuminated,
    laughs as I attempt to find the nerve.

    To dare cross.

    Throwing up walls of resistance

    as the hourglass bleeds
    grains of sand I can’t afford.

    I have seen a lifetime

    laid to waste,
    and in its shadow,
    I have seen my own.


    Intro by Rae Armantrout

    Chorus by Ali Alizade Haqiqi

    Verse by Natasha Head

    Photo by Elia Bonetti

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    4 min
  • B1E27. Cultivo una Rosa Blanca [SPANISH]

    Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam

    Photo by Diamonster -
    Cultivo una Rosa Blanca [I Grow a White Rose] by José Martí

    Cultivo una rosa blanca
    en junio como en enero,
    eara el amigo sincero,
    que me da su mano franca.

    Y para el cruel que me arranca

    el corazón con que vivo,
    cardo ni ortiga cultivo
    cultivo una rosa blanca.


    [ENGLISH]
    I grow a white rose
    in June and in January,
    for the true friend,
    who offers his honest hand.

    And for the cruel one who tears from me

    the heart I live with,
    not a thistle nor a nettle do I grow,
    I grow a white rose.

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    3 min

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How much do you remember your childhood? When you remember it, you'll get sad, your heart wants you to return to that time without any worries and have your little joys. Would you like to play rocket rocking with your old teammates once again?