Friday 30 January 2009

Monday 26 January 2009

blue birds (2)

you must learn to see blue birds from now, I was told. you must learn to be someone else. after the last word was spoken. without. you must learn to unfold a life on the edge of this cutting silence, I was told.

must I? asked the little marquise quietly, and jumped on her wild horse. she led her black horse, which sometimes she called her pain, away into the blue morning, where blue birds fell from the sky and opened like flowers after the rain.

shall I obey, shall I defy, shall I take my revenge at the cusp of the sky...

when she reached the horizon line, where no eyes could follow her any more, she leant inside and, quickly, no hesitation in her white fingers, she strangled the black bird becoming alive in her grave, turning blue.

hush little bird, be quiet, be still. no god has ever risen through the scent of my hair. no stone has ever unfolded at the heart of the loss. I am the keeper of your death, the sacred door to the blue nothing.

Sunday 25 January 2009

black birds (1)

my brother, dearest one,
you whose mouth shape makes
the night as sharp as the whip
why have you silenced the wind?

I remember you in the summer field
dark and reckless
oh how young you were, and how thin
your transparent feet took then their place in my heart
and black birds startled
falling towards the sky
you parted my hair in half and I thought
you wanted to hide a kiss
but you placed a dead bird instead
the blackest one, the one with broken feet
you put it carefully on top of my head

my brother, dearest one,
why have you silenced the wheat?
why have you turned me into the grave
of the black bird without a wing?

Friday 23 January 2009

small romantic manifesto

the snow takes the leaf out of its round, heart-like shape, which is nothing but the soft membrane of our habitual eye, and returns it to the verge of being, that one second preluding life.

Thursday 22 January 2009

the knife

Auch ist es vielleicht nicht eigentlich Liebe wenn ich sage, daß Du mir das Liebste bist; Liebe ist, daß Du mir das Messer bist, mit dem ich in mir wühle.

Kafka an Milena

Nor is it perhaps really love when I say that for me you are the most beloved; love is to me that you are the knife which I turn within myself.

Wednesday 21 January 2009


come closer.

(for Clavdia)

Sunday 18 January 2009

What a strange world this is, where everything depends on the way another person feels.

Friday 16 January 2009


Today's post doesn't belong to the routine of this blog, but I am so happy that I have to tell you this: I have just found out that I got the big prize at the national D:Focus photography contest, together with the first prize at the category 'photojournalism'. This means that I got 2200 euro to buy electronic products, which in its turn means that I can finally buy the digital camera I have been longing for, the Nikon D300. Which I could have never ever bought otherwise, not in this life maybe :-)
I am so happy! And more than this material value, the prize has a special symbolic meaning for me, coming now, after I have returned to my images (and to my blog :-) when in late autumn I had given up photography for good (or so I had thought at the time).

You can see the winning album here (Japan by 'murasaki'). You already know some of the pictures from my blog.

Thursday 15 January 2009

more summer then, for you

my sweet sister, behead the poppies.
but she stood there hesitantly, with the scythe in her hand,
blinded by so much gold and blue.
instead of the feared execution -
because, sweet sister of mine,
how much you love the wound -
the blood of the slaughter appeared on her lips
when she opened her mouth
for him.

Tuesday 13 January 2009

my hands soaked in his silence
i teach him summer
and red flowers

Sunday 11 January 2009

mulberry queen

'tell her you buy the entire bucket if she lets you take a picture of her', my friend said.
I looked at her again. her hands black with mulberry, a rosary instead of a bracelet. her head turned away, not defying but simply indifferent, her entire attitude as serious and dignified as that of a little queen.

'please, let me see your eyes', I begged all of sudden, and something like the despair of a rejected lover could be heard in my voice.
slowly, she turned towards me, and looked at us. it was not interest lighting her face, nor smile, only a vague and sad amazement at a world in which somebody's eyes could inspire such wild passions. hers was the world of quiet mulberries, of things whose life and roots are one, breathing equally and peacefully since the beginning of time. deep down in the field, deep down in the woods.

when I pushed the button, I was glowing with humility.
my friend bought her entire mulberry bucket.

Friday 9 January 2009

for the dead

All over the world, people light candles to remember the dead.

Often, they burn incense, too. In Japan, it is said that this light will show the dead souls their way.

In our churches, we light only candles, and place them inside black boxes which look like big tree houses in the church courtyard. Because the candles don't have each a different holder, in time, their wax will combine and merge into a single lava flow, indifferent of what is old and what is new.

Some light a candle and pray for the dead even before understanding what that means. Some go on doing the same after they've realized they will never understand. And even after knowing there is nothing to understand, others still do it, quietly, holding on to something like hope, or a dream.

The hand lighting the candle, the hand burning incense, the young hand and the old hand, oh how much they are alike in their frailty.

Tonight I don't want any more images, just the song, even in this silence. In this light, in this darkness.

The voice singing for the voiceless.

Kamilya Jubran


Text: Paul Shaoul in Leaves of the Absent
Translation to English: Omnia Amin

Walking for days

In a low voice I count trees, hats, streets..

In a low voice .. I walk in a low voice

For several trees .. hats and streets

For several years I walk in a low voice

For several low voices in trees, hats and walls.

For several deaths.

Nafad Al-Ahwal 2

Text: Paul Shaoul
Translation to English:
Omnia Amin

I stood in the middle of the room searching for my cases.

I inspected the lamp, the ashtray, loss and gain, the door and the statues. I got belittled in my own eyes so I stood in front of the mirror for long to see my face. I scrutinized the air full of smoke and coughs. I almost erased and forgot it.

I got belittled and belittled until I stood for long in front of the door to enter, then to exit, and then without a sound I stretched on the armless, open and mute bed. There I remembered what happened.

I remembered the day I was killed, raped, cut to pieces lemon by lemon, cigarette by cigarette, was ripped and for the first time I cried for my death and for nature.

Aina Tantahi

Text: Aicha Arnaout
Translation to English:
Omnia Amin

Where Does the Wave End?

Where Does the Wave End ?

And where does the sea begin?

Where does the body end

And where does the shadow start?

Where does darkness end

And where does the light begin?

Words breathe outside of their frames.

The senses entangle then spread

A circle's circumference

With a center in the nowhere.

Thursday 8 January 2009

Wednesday 7 January 2009

spring is short

You do not come
On this moonless night.
I wake wanting you.
My breasts heave and blaze.
My heart burns up.

Ono no Komachi (9th century)

how my heart leaps
when my trembling fingers
strike a match in the evening.

I lift my breasts
and inhale and exhale the sound of love
like the passionate daughter of a lighthouse keeper.

Fukao Sumako (1893-1974)

Pressing my breasts
I softly kick aside
the Curtain of mystery
How deep the crimson
of the flower here.

Yosano Akiko (1878-1942)

Spring is short
what is there that has eternal life
I said and
made his hands seek out
my powerful breasts.

Yosano Akiko

This post was inspired by the wonderful lotusgreen post on nakedness.

Sunday 4 January 2009


I used to put on my colourful skirt
my purple shoes of spoiled gitana
you used to follow my every breath
and we danced
the song was simple and clear
and our blood scented
with the herbs of the moon
I was the mistress of your feverish bones
you were the lord of my furred whims
long ago
I used to put my dolls to sleep
in your claws
you used to guard my sea of gold
and wash its shores
and time became a feast
our tent of joy
how long ago

if one looked carefully
it was already there,
in some erratic movement of a limb
a broken rhyme, a sorrow rhythm,
the day to come
the dreadful hour
when you stood up
on your back feet
taller than me
your black wrath
sweet beast of memory
and thrust your fangs
into my throat