gentle hope

.
.

my tulips, gone mad

that kneeling woman
the hour of the wound rising in her
as the tide rises
through your thousand
unrevealed names

your face, darkening in the garden
my tulips, gone mad
bleeding, beheaded
their heads rolling down
my silvery back.

the blooming forest (blue series)

let yourself be bound to fire

'Illuminated memory, vague gallery where
dwells the shadow of my hope. It is not
truth that will come. It is not truth that
will not come.

She leaps with her shirt in flames
star to star.
From shade to shadow.
She is the one who dies a distant death
the one in love with the wind.

she says she does not understand about the panic of the death of love
she says she is afraid of the death of love
she says love is death is the panic
she says death is the panic is love
she says she doesn't understand

Life, life of mine, let yourself fall, let yourself feel
agony, life of mine, let yourself be bound to fire,
to raw silences, to green rocks in nighttime's
house, let yourself fall and feel this agony,
my life of mine.'



Alejandra Pizarnik (from The Tree of Diana)
tr. Zachary Jean Chartkoff

elementals

For the elements brought forth abundantly
The living Soul in glorious forms; and every one came forth,
Walking before her Shadowy face and bowing at her feet.
But, in vain, delights were poured forth on the howling Melancholy!

William Blake

for Susan Kruse, in homage to her work with rain, wind and fire

...

oh the blooming forest -
into the blue time of my blood
come, dip your fingers.


.
.

it's Spring!

from morning

till evening

softness of the world

what better place

I remember the temple, this route I've travelled before,
I recall the bridge as I cross it again.
It seems the hills and rivers have been waiting,
The flowers and willows all are selfless now.
The field is sleek and vivid, thin mist shines,
On soft sand, the sunlight's colour shows it's late.
All the traveller's sorrow fades away,
What better place to rest than this?


Du Fu (Travelling Again)

...

(the Bridge will be silent for a while)





.
.

the improbable spring (4) (and probably last)

(for Manu)

without reckoning

When two people love each other, they don't love in the same way.
One of them is strong, the other, weaker.
And the weaker is always the one
who loves without reckoning...
without reservation.
It feels now as if I've awakened from some kind of dream...
after some other kind of life.



from Tarkovsky's Sacrifice

light rain

A Master-Painter, in the Sung era, had the habit of climbing up the terraces of vineyards, equipped with a flagon of wine, and of passing the day mildly drunk, staring and meditating. Do you know what he observed? Clearly a spectacle, since he was a Master, and a Painter. The commentators say: "That he looked for the bond of light joining ultimately once and forever joy and life, life and joy," and they mocked him for being a drunkard and a lunatic.

And yet, this inebriated vision, this piercing gaze, this clairvoyance can replace for some people -- to whom you belong? -- all the reason of the world and of the god.

I invite you then simply to see. I ask you to forget everything about you; to hope for nothing further; and to regret nothing.

Victor Segalen, Paintings, pp 3-4

the improbable spring (2)

(a bit at a loss for words, i hope it is not a total falling out of grace but rather a falling into the grace of silence, meanwhile the snow goes on and the spring is soft and even if i might not find ways to answer, know that, if you wish to comment, everything you say is precious to me and i am grateful that you are here)