the regained splendour of summer: her skirt of fire (2)

i remember.
carefully balancing her forty kilos
in the palm of my hand,
i remember thinking what they had taught me to think.
she needs help.

i remember us facing each other.
i, queenly seated in my warm flesh
sending my snails out into the mouth of things,
their silvery tents glued to each fragrance,
each darkening juice of this world.

my soul, the hungry tide of my body.

she, for whom even a cloud
speaks too loudly of being.
she, condemned to the silence of matter,
attached by her shadow to heaviness.

i remember the day too,
the day when i understood.
i saw the light becoming breath
on the verge of your skin.
i whispered the song of the skirt
on your thighs of air,
the pale indian silk rustling
deep into your disappearing bones.

your body, the fading memory
of your soul.

the regained splendour of summer: her fields (1)

she dreams. the world dreams

<

and more veiled tulips for Prospero, who watches from his serendipitous sleep, through our dreams, even when we think he doesn't

and as a bonus for the never-in-distress Eneles, who has been waiting for my new Nikon D90:

self-portrait in Empire style, with dying petunia

(first digital picture on the Bridge, from now on digital images will have the tag "D")

last attempt - very ironic title, taking into consideration my obsession with the 'last song, last meeting' :-)

i have to apologize deeply to all of you who got worried about the Bridge gone floating. i am so sorry i scared you, but nothing seemed to work as i wanted to and i just had to close it to be able to test different solutions. i am afraid i am a bit obsessed with detail (perfectionism is a curse!), i just can't be satisfied with 'oh, just leave like this, what does it matter anyway' (you will understand better if i tell you that one of my métiers of choice would have been that of decorating illuminated manuscripts).
i think i have found a solution which allows me to keep my old template as well, i just couldn't adjust to the new ones i had been trying in the meantime (oh les anciennes amours!).

language related pondering as interlude (oh les anciennes habitudes! :-): what can be more frivolous and at the same time more thought-provoking, than this habit of the French to switch between masculine and feminine gender when they talk about 'amour'!

i would like to thank all of you who are here for me and also those who have overwhelmed me with letters about the Bridge (reaching from friendly encouragements, polite demands of being included on an eventual list of 'invited readers' to sweet-sulking inquiries and even infuriated menaces :-). i can't tell you how deeply i am moved. please be assured, if i ever let the Bridge sink, i will let you know first and find a way to say good-bye, even if i am very bad at doing that.

and since i find no better way of expressing my gratitude: for all my readers (and especially for Atenea who, despite having an important paper to finish, spent her entire day with me trying to figure out a way out of this mess), my humble gift of friendship - a tulip's dream of frailty and veiled light.

problems again :-(

i am again unable to post, i am fed up with blogger. suddenly the pictures get cut, a considerable part of the image at the right border becomes invisible and the image is not a rectangle any more, but becomes somewhat square. it affects the last posts as well, even if they looked ok until now. as far as i can see it, everything starts after that 'technical error' post, the images with s1600 seem to be all wrong now. i suppose you can see it as well. so the solution i had found back then was only temporary. uploading from flickr doesn't change anything.
now i am really considering closing this down. oh, and i have tried playing with the template, changing the outer wrapper and main wrapper size to 1020 seems to solve things, but then the images look really huge, taking up the whole screen, something i don't want either.

...

Coming, all is clear, no doubt about it.
Going, all is clear, without a doubt.
What, then, is all?

Hosshin
(13th century)

i die alone, my dream

- Und' vă duce, domnule ?
- În grădină, somnule.
- Ce să faceţi, domnule ?
- Să mă-mpuşte, somnule.
- Că au gloanţe, domnule ?
- Că au vreme, somnule.
- Und vă-ngroapă, domnule ?
- Sub zăpadă, somnule.
- Vă e frică, domnule ?
- Îmi e scîrbă, somnule.
- Cui să spunem, domnule ?
- Iadurilor, somnule.
- Va fi bine, domnule ?
- Va fi seară, somnule.
- Aveţi rude, domnule ?
- Am pe nimeni, somnule.
- Vreţi o cupă, domnule ?
- Cît mă costă, somnule ?
- N-are-a face, domnule.
- De otrăvuri, somnule...
- Nu vreţi cupa, domnule ?
- Sparge-o-n ţăndări, somnule !
- Să vă plîngem, domnule ?
- N-are-a face, somnule.
- Noapte bună, domnule !
- Dormi cu mine, somnule !
- Eu dorm singur, domnule.
- Eu mor singur, somnule.
- Moarte bună, domnule.
- Noapte bună, somnule !


Ion Caraion
(Am pe nimeni)


























Where are they taking you, sir?
To the garden, my dream.
Why do they take you there, sir?
To shoot me, my dream.
Because they have bullets, sir?
Because they have time to, my dream.
Where shall they bury you, sir?
Under the snow, my dream.
Are you afraid, sir?
I find it revolting, my dream.
Whom shall we tell all this, sir?
Tell the fires of hell, my dream.
Will you be alright, sir?
Night will have come, my dream.
Who is your next of kin, sir?
I am alone in the world, my dream.
Would you care for a drink, sir?
What will it cost me, my dream?
The cost does not matter, sir.
Is the chalice poisoned, my dream?
You seem not want it, sir?
Smash it to pieces, my dream!
Should we mourn you, sir?
That would change nothing, my dream.
Good night to you, sir.
Let us sleep together, my dream.
Sir, I sleep alone.
I die alone, my dream.
Good death to you, sir!
Good night to you, my dream!

Alone in the World, by Ion Caraion

(tr. Constantin Roman)

dedicated to S.M., who loves Romanian Dracula-style castles :-) This pictures were taken at the Râşnov fortress in Transylvania, on a particular foggy (for tourists, read: Dracula-style) day :-)


Note: the English translation didn't include the last three lines of the poem, I don't know why. I added them in my own translation. Also, in Romanian the dialogue takes place between the 'I' and 'my sleep', not 'my dream', as C. Roman chose to translate. Thus the word play is more striking: 'Let us sleep together, my sleep! Sir, I sleep alone!'. Here is a French version of the poem, translated by the same C. Roman:

Seul au monde

- Où vous emmènnent-ils, Monsieur?
- Dans le jardin, mon rêve.
- Pour quoi faire, Monsieur?
- Pour me fusiller, mon rêve.
- Parce qu’ils ont des balles, Monsieur?
- Parce qu’ils ont le temps, mon rêve.
- Où vous enterreront-ils, Monsieur?
- Sous la neige, mon rêve.
- Avez-vous peur, Monsieur?
- Je trouve ça révoltant, mon rêve.
- Qui doit-on prévenir, Monsieur?
- Les feux de l’enfer, mon rêve.
- Ça va aller quand même, Monsieur?
- Il fera nuit, mon rêve.
- Qui est votre plus proche parent, Monsieur?
- Je suis seul au monde, mon rêve.
- Voulez-vous boire un verre, Monsieur?
- Qu’est-ce que ça va me coûter, mon rêve?
- Peu importe le prix, Monsieur.
- Le calice est-il empoisonné, mon rêve?
- Vous n’en voulez pas, Monsieur?
- Casse-le en mille morceaux, mon rêve!
- Doit-on vous pleurer, Monsieur?
- Inutile, mon rêve.
- Bonne nuit, Monsieur.
- Dormons ensemble, mon rêve!
- Je dors seul, Monsieur.