confissão

                                                                       Daguerre

A confissão impúdica – Junichiro Tanizaki
li este livro ontem à noite...

bom resumo aqui

famously obscure poet Jeremy Prynne

"More than 90 years ago, Ezra Pound noted: “We no longer think or need to think in terms of monolinear logic, the sentence structure, subject, predicate, object etc. We are as capable or almost as capable as the biologist of thinking thoughts that join like spokes in a wheel-hub and that fuse in hyper-geometric amalgams.”

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/jh+prynne all was found here...

from 'Pearls That Were', JH Prynne                           

Shine ahead, cold star
like music on the water
in the wake of remission
from near, from far.

Take beauty’s injunction
as pledge for the chain
that binds up the open scatter
sprinkled in chill rain.
None so costly, none so clear
accepted on account
of pliant, client deception
to tarnish a fear.

And rise up to vocal induration,
lulled into fresh calm
by motionless, undistracted
insult to charm.


Es Lebe Der Koenig, JH Prynne  
                        
Fire and honey oozes from cracks in the earth;
the cloud eases up the Richter scale. Sky divides
as the flag once more becomes technical, the print
divides also: startlight becomes negative. If you
are born to peaks in the wire, purple layers in the
glass format, re-enter the small house with
animals too delicate and cruel. Their throats fur
with human warmth, we too are numbered like
prints in the new snow.
[…]

Gulf war

read about the artist here

N’écris pas !

J'AI REFERMÉ LES BRAS

N’écris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m’éteindre.
Les beaux étés sans toi, c’est la nuit sans flambeau.
J’ai refermé mes bras qui ne peuvent t’atteindre,
Et frapper à mon cœur, c’est frapper au tombeau.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas. N’apprenons qu’à mourir à nous –mêmes.
Ne demande qu’à Dieu ... qu’à toi, si je t’aimais !
Au fond de ton absence écouter que tu m’aimes,
C’est entendre le ciel sans y monter jamais.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas. Je te crains : j’ai peur de ma mémoire ;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire :
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon cœur ;
Que je les voix brûler à travers ton sourire ;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon cœur.
N’écris pas.

Marcelline Desbordes-Valmore
'Pièces isolées' - Éditions Robert Laffont

Le roi de cette reine

La fidèle

Si j'étais la plus belle
Comme la plus fidèle,
Je le serais pour toi !
Si j'étais souveraine,
Le roi de cette reine,
Tu le serais par moi !

S'il te prenait l'envie
De demander ma vie
Pour te faire un beau jour,
Cette vie ignorée,
À l'amour consacrée,
Tu l'aurais, mon amour !

Et si tu disais : " Donne
Beauté, vie et couronne,
Pour orner celle-là,
Cette seule que j'aime... "
À cet autre toi-même,
Je dirais : " Les voilà. "

Car s'il est doux de vivre
Pour s'attendre ou se suivre
Dans le même désir,
Pour une âme enflammée,
Vainement consumée,
Il est mieux de mourir.

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE   (1786-1859)

Unit

"The smallest indivisible human unit is two people, not one; one is a fiction."

Tony Kushner

manhã

Movimiento

Movimiento

Si tú eres la yegua de ámbar
                  yo soy el camino de sangre
Si tú eres la primer nevada
                   yo soy el que enciende el brasero del alba
     Si tú eres la torre de la noche
                   yo soy el clavo ardiendo en tu frente
     Si tú eres la marea matutina
              yo soy el grito del primer pájaro
Si tú eres la cesta de naranjas
              yo soy el cuchillo de sol
Si tú eres el altar de piedra
              yo soy la mano sacrílega
Si tú eres la tierra acostada
              yo soy la caña verde
Si tú eres el salto del viento
              yo soy el fuego enterrado
Si tú eres la boca del agua
              yo soy la boca del musgo
Si tú eres el bosque de las nubes
              yo soy el hacha que las parte
Si tú eres la ciudad profanada
              yo soy la lluvia de consagración
Si tú eres la montaña amarilla
              yo soy los brazos rojos del liquen
Si tú eres el sol que se levanta
              yo soy el camino de sangre

"Motion/Movimiento" By Octavio Paz, Translated    by Eliot Weinberger, from COLLECTED POEMS 1957-1987, copyright ©1986    by Octavio Paz and Eliot Weinberger.

el arte del bodegón

Juan Sánchez Cotán (June 25, 1560 – September 8, 1627)

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Stanley Kunitz

O arame (andar no)

Num mundo onde a velocidade da luz

não constituísse um limite

o bem e o mal seriam absolutos.

Nós nunca poderíamos viver em tal mundo

para sempre presos na imutabilidade dos nossos gestos

capazes do melhor e do pior

precisamos do tempo para nos redimir

ou danar para sempre.

*

O meu pai lembra-se dos grandes ulmeiros que existiam na vila,

das linhas de água que os alimentavam

dos esteiros do rio a entrar pela terra dentro ao ritmo das marés.

Lembra-se de andar descalço pela rua,

de jogar com bolas de trapos e dos nomes dos cães que teve,

lembra-se de andar à pesca à força de remos,

da mão leve do meu avô. O meu pai lembra-se e eu começo

a lembrar também - coisas que já não estão

gente que já não é,

o meu avô pelas tardes à sombra do salgueiro,

o meu outro avô com o boné ao contrário

a fazer outro fogareiro de carvão,

as manhãs de ir para a escola…

O tempo sim e a luz também,

vão-nos fazendo e desfazendo.

Let the Great World Spin

I'm reading Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann it's a beautiful book and I recommend it to everybody


see more here

Peace

know more about the painter and his art here

errância

September

Olana

Drawbridge

Drawbridge mentality

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Drawbridge mentality describes the attitude of those people who migrate to more exclusive or more "unspoiled" communities and thereafter campaign to preserve the tranquility of that community by opposing further inward migration by people or businesses and, possibly, any development or refurbishment, including plans put forward by those already located there.

The term can imply a selfish attitude and can be taken as an insult by people who have strong affection for their home locality and wish to protect it from any changes. It is closely related to the NIMBY attitude.^[1]

A drawbridge was historically the hinged bridge at a castle's gates providing entry across a defensive moat for those occupying the castle. Raising the drawbridge to a vertical position was therefore one means by which intruders could be shut out of the castle.

Angelique

constelations

sometimes you walk on constelations...

errância