Wednesday, 26 December 2007
A saudade de coisa nenhuma
because I've been dreaming all day about women lost on a winter forest path, their wings fallen, trapped in the same moment, the same place forever, longing for the nameless.
Tenho em mim como uma bruma
Que nada é nem contém
A saudade de coisa nenhuma,
O desejo de qualquer bem.
I have in me like a haze
Which holds and which is nothing
A nostalgia for nothing at all,
The desire for something vague.
(Fernando Pessoa)
Monday, 24 December 2007
the unconceivable end
I dreamt of an image closely resembling this one, except one thing: instead of the bench, the lovers walking in the darkness found a white sofa by the road, open to wholeness. The lovers sat there for hours, holding each other, the moonlight filling the alleys with a strange transparency. I wonder: will my dreams give them back to me, again and again, the lovers with soft eyes and uncertain future, their countenance motionless, untouched by the cold passage of time, the sofa drifting away gently towards the unconceivable end.
deserving punishment is worse
The gods delight in instances of such testimony,
since they, thereby, give witness of their powers.
They often ease punishments and restore the sight
they've taken, when they see true penitence for sin.
Oh, I repent! If anything the wretched say's believed,
I repent, and feel the real torment of my actions.
Though exile is grief, my offence is more so:
and deserving punishment's worse than suffering it.
If the gods favoured me, and he most visible of them
should annul my sentence, the fault still exists forever.
At least death will make me, when it comes, no longer an exile:
but death can't arrange things so I never offended either.
So it's no wonder if my mind's decaying,
melting like water dripping from the snow.
Saturday, 22 December 2007
drinking xi hu long jing
but there is also the refined voice - so familiar, so close, always here - whispering to my ear:
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
(T.S. Eliot, from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")
Friday, 21 December 2007
what makes the day sacred
oh gentle, your prayer - Show me the world that can not be erased -
I know enough about such worlds, but my blog is surely none of them. one simple click and it would be gone, and I fight this temptation every day now. perhaps I am too tired even for such a small gesture, despite its highly dramatic tension which I would normally find a way to enjoy :-)
I seam to have forgotten what makes the day sacred.
Friday, 14 December 2007
L'Amour, Le Dedain et l'Esperance
Je t'ai prise avec toute ta beauté ta beauté plus riche que tous
.......les placers de
.......fièvre de l'or
J'ai empli mon avidité sensuelle de ton sourire de tes regards de
.......tes frémissements
J’ai eu à moi à ma disposition ton orgueil même quand je te tenais
.......courbée et que tu subissais ma puissance et ma domination
J’ai cru prendre tout cela ce n'était qu'un prestige
Et je demeure semblable à Ixion après qu'il eut fait l'amour avec
.......le fantôme de nuées fait à la semblance de celle qu'on appelle
.......Héra ou bien Junon l'invisible
Et qui peut prendre qui peut saisir des nuages qui peut mettre la
.......main sur un mirage et qu'il se trompe celui-là qui croit emplir
.......ses bras de l'azur céleste
Guillaume Apollinaire
(Poèmes à Lou, L’amour, le dédain et l’espérance)
I have held you with all your beauty your beauty richer
.......than all the sands of
.......gold rush
I have filled my hunger for your sensuality with your
.......smile your looks your trembling
I have even had your pride in my power when I made
.......you bend and you submitted to my dominance
I thought to keep all that it was only a dream
And I am left like Ixion when he had made love to a
.......phantom of cloud in the shape of the goddess
.......called Hera or the unseeable Juno
And who can seize who can grasp cloud who can put
.......his hand on a mirage how he deceives himself
.......thinking he can fill his arms with the blue sky
(Poems to Lou, Love and Scorn and Hope)
Thursday, 13 December 2007
geisha
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Bruderschaft
Alles ist Wundenschlagen,
und keiner hat keinem verziehn.
Verletzt wie du und verletzend,
lebte ich auf dich hin.
Die reine, die Geistberührung,
um jede Berührung vermehrt,
wir erfahren sie alternd,
ins kälteste Schweigen gekehrt
(Ingeborg Bachmann)
Brotherhood
Each and every thing cuts wounds,
and neither of us has forgiven the other.
Hurting like you and hurtful,
I lived towards you.
Every touch augments
the pure, the spiritual touch;
we experience it as we age,
turned into coldest silence.
Monday, 10 December 2007
Lady of the Lake
Lady of the Lake
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Saturday, 8 December 2007
ueber gott und reh
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Rose, oh reiner Widerspruch
Rose, oh reiner Widerspruch, Lust,
Niemandes Schlaf zu sein unter soviel
Lidern.
Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy
of being No-one's sleep, under so
many lids.
This enigmatic poem marks Rilke's gravestone. As the legend goes, it was the thorn of a rose which caused his death, poisoning his blood with supreme beauty (or so the poet believed). The most aethereal of all the deaths that I know of.
the roses ah the roses
Monday, 3 December 2007
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Friday, 30 November 2007
es kommen haertere tage
Drüben versinkt dir die Geliebte im Sand,
er steigt um ihr wehendes Haar,
er fällt ihr ins Wort,
er befiehlt ihr zu schweigen,
er findet sie sterblich
und willig dem Abschied
nach jeder Umarmung.
Sieh dich nicht um.
Schnür deinen Schuh.
Jag die Hunde zurück.
Wirf die Fische ins Meer.
Lösch die Lupinen!
Es kommen härtere Tage.
(Ingeborg Bachmann)
Over there your love sinks in the sand
It climbs around her waving hair,
it breaks into her words,
it commands her to be still,
it finds her mortal
and willing to part
after every embrace.
Don't turn around.
Lace up your shoe.
Chase back the dogs.
Throw the fish in the sea.
Extinguish the lupins.
Harder days are coming.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
when in dreams
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Saturday, 24 November 2007
and what is it to be the sister (3)
Soft eyes Soft fingers
Friday, 23 November 2007
Thursday, 22 November 2007
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
and what is it to be the sister (2)
Monday, 19 November 2007
death of the innocent
Thursday, 15 November 2007
STELĂ TRECĂTOARE - Victor Segalen
În China antică, stelele erau inscripţii în piatră, presărate pe marginea drumurilor, înălţate pe un soclu, către cer, adresându-se peregrinilor necunoscuţi. Stelele orientate spre est vorbesc despre iubire, cele spre nord, despre prietenie.
Nu în pielea ta de piatră, insensibilă, le-ar place-acestor semne să pătrundă, şi nici spre zorii fără gust şi fără formă, ca de amurg, le-ar place, fiind libere, să-ntoarcă faţa.
Si nici pentru un cititor ales, de-ar fi chiar caligraf, plăcere n-ar simţi de-ar fi rostite.
Ci pentru Ea.
Veni-va zi când ea va trece pe aici. Înaltă, dreaptă, stând cu faţa către tine, citească-i ochii vii şi mişcători, cei ocrotiţi de gene-a căror umbră o cunosc;
Măsoare-ncet aceste vorbe cu buzele ei ţesute din carne (al căror gust nu l-am uitat), cu limba ei hrănită de săruturi, cu dinţii-a căror urmă încă-o port;
Cutremure-se ca un suflu – holdă mlădie-n vântul încropit – împrăştiind din sâni şi până la genunchi ritmul firesc al şoldurilor ei – pe care-l ştiu;
Atunci, acest înscris, încălecând pe spaţiu şi dănţuind pe revărsatele-i cadenţe, acest poem, acest dar, acest dor –
Dintr-o dată cojise-va de pe piatra fără suflare, ah! şubredă şi trecătoare – pentru-a se dărui vieţii Ei,
Pentru-a se duce să hălăduiască-n preajmă-i.
(Traducere de Ştefan Aug. Doinaş)
Stèle provisoire - Victor Segalen
Stèle provisoire
Ce n'est point dans ta peau de pierre, insensible, que ceci aimerait à pénétrer ; ce n'est point vers l'aube fade, informe et crépusculaire, que ceci, laissé libre, voudrait s'orienter ;
Ce n'est pas pour un lecteur littéraire, même en faveur d'un calligraphe, que ceci a tant de plaisir à être dit :
Mais pour Elle.
o
Vienne un jour Elle passe par ici. Droite et grande et face à toi, qu'elle lise de ses yeux mouvants et vivants, protégés de cils dont je sais l'ombre ;
Qu'elle mesure ces mots avec des lèvres tissées de chair (dont je n'ai pas perdu le goût) avec sa langue nourrie de baisers, avec ses dents dont voici toujours la trace,
Qu'elle tremble à fleur d'haleine, -- moisson souple sous le vent tiède, -- propageant des seins aux genoux le rythme propre de ses flancs -- que je connais,
o
Alors, ce déduit, enjambant l'espace et dansant sur ses cadences ; ce poème, ce don et ce désir,
Tout d'un coup s'écorchera de ta pierre morte, oh ! précaire et provisoire, -- pour s'abandonner à sa vie,
Pour s'en aller vivre autour d'Elle.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
This is the end beautiful friend
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
Ill never look into your eyes...again
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But youll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end
Ophelia by Millais
"she has retreated so far into her madness that she lies motionless and emotionless, oblivious of her doom."
http://www.cazbo.co.uk/ThePainting/Aboutthepainting/AboutthePainting.htm
I am not a painter. and how far could my camera ever take me?