Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts

Monday, October 26, 2015

Andrei Bely ... “Overview of Blok’s poetry”, 1923.

Andrei Bely ~ “Overview of Blok’s poetry”. Illustration to “Lectures about Blok”, 1923. Pencil, coloured pencil and watercolour on paper.

Born today... Andrei Bely, 26 October 1880, Moscow Russia

Once upon a time there were no grasses, nor "Earths", nor flints, nor granites; it was - flamy; laminae of flying gas diffused through the Cosmos; the earth was gurgling like a fiery flower; it was developing, confluing from the Cosmic sphere; and these gestures of the fires later duplicated themselves: in the petals of flowers; because of this the cosmic light is - the colored flower of the fields; all flowers/colors are - memories about the fires of the limitless, cosmic sphere; all words are - memories of the sound of an ancient meaning.

Once upon a time there were no concepts in our sense: a conceptual crust surrounded the image of the word; once there was not even the image itself of the word; later the images surrounded the imageless root; previously there had been no root; all roots are - serpent skins; the living serpent is - the tongue; once that snake had been streams, the palate had been - the sail of rhythms, carried along; the cosmos, as it firmed up, became the cavity of the mouth; a stream of air - this dancer of the world is - our tongue.

Glossolalia~ A Poem about Sound 1922

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Ithell Colquhoun.... Autumnal Equinox, oil on canvas 1949

Muin (Sept 2nd-30th)
I am the month of Muin, month of the vine
Exhilaration is mine through the garland of fruit
Draped from the right shoulder across the swell
Of a belly like Primavera's; yet mine of early
Fall is the realm. On the head too are grapes
And the vine-leaves wreathing my autumn-coloured hair
My robe the bluish mist of a sky pregnant
With the first heavy dews.

How calm I am! Yet is there perhaps hidden
AN anger that gives authority to my poise?
I drank from the horn-cup and swam into a trance
So deep that only attraction amethystine
Recalls me, after a voyage through gates of horn

I come now to bless and renew dreams that are true
-Ithell Colquhoun

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Born today... Georg Trakl ,February 3, 1887, Salzburg, Austria, Self portrait & poems


The dark eagles, sleep and death, 
Rustle all night around my head: 
The golden statue of man 
Is swallowed by the icy comber 
Of eternity. On the frightening reef 
The purple remains go to pieces, 
And the dark voice mourns 
Over the sea. 
Sister in my wild despair 
Look, a precarious skiff is sinking 
Under the stars, 
The face of night whose voice is fading.

Georg Trakl, self portrait, 1913

Whispered In The Afternoon

Feebly glints the sun's thin ray,
From the tree the ripe fruit falleth,
In the deep blue distance dwelleth
Silence--'tis an endless day.

Sharp a shot the stillness cleaves,
Prone to earth its victim bringing.
Harsh refrain of brown girls singing
Dies amid the fall of leaves.

Dream-wings o'er God's forehead play,
And He thinketh but in color.
Shadows round the hill grow duller,
Bordered by a dim decay.

Twilight, drunken with repose;
Sad guitar-notes trickle faintly.
Back unto his lamplight saintly
In a dream the wanderer goes.

Song of the Departed

To Karl Borromaeus Heinrich

The flight of birds is full of harmonies. At evening
The green forests have gathered to more silent huts;
The crystal meadows of the doe.
A dark shape calms the ripple of the brook, the damp shadows,

And the flowers of summer which ring beautifully in the wind. 
Already the brow of the pondering man grows dark. 
And goodness, a small lamp, shines in his heart 
And the peace of the meal; because bread and wine are sanctified 
By God's hands, and out of nocturnal eyes 
The brother silently gazes at you, so that he rests from thorny wanderings. 
O the dwelling in the soulful blueness of night. 

The silence in the room also lovingly embraces the shadows of ancestors, 
The purple martyrs, lament of a mighty race 
That now dies piously in the lonely grandchild. 
Because from black minutes of insanity the long-sufferer 
Always awakens more radiant at the petrified threshold 
And the cool blueness embraces him enormously and the bright decline of autumn, 

The still house and the telling of the forest, 
Measure and law and the lunar paths of the departed.

Springtime of the Soul

Outcry in sleep; through black alleys the wind falls,
The blue of spring beckons through breaking branches,
Purple night-dew and stars extinguish all around.
Greenish the river dawns, silverly the old avenues
And the towers of the city. O gentle drunkenness
In the gliding boat and the dark calls of the blackbird
In innocent gardens. Already, the rosy veil thins.

Solemnly the waters murmur. O the moist shadows of the floodplain,
The striding animal; greening shapes, flowering branches
Touch the crystal forehead; shimmering boat-sway.
Quietly the sun sounds in the rose-colored clouds by the hill.
Great is the stillness of the fir forest, the earnest shadows at the river.

Purity! Purity! Where are the terrible paths of death,
Of gray stony silence, the rocks of night
And the peaceless shadows? Abyss radiant with sun.

Sister, when I found you at the lonely clearing
In the forest, it was midday and the silence of the animal great;
Whiteness under wild oak, and the thorn bloomed silver.
Enormous dying and the singing flame in the heart.

Darker the waters flow around the beautiful play of fishes.
Hour of mourning, silent vision of the sun;
The soul is a strange shape on earth. Spiritually blueness
Dusks over the pruned forest; and a dark bell rings
Long in the village; peaceful escort.
Silently the myrtle blooms over the white eyelids of the dead.
Softly the waters whisper in the subsiding afternoon
And the wilderness on the bank greens more darkly; joy in the rosy wind;
The brother's gentle song by the evening hill.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Born today...Hugo von Hofmannsthal February 1, 1874, Landstraße, Vienna, Austria

Creatures of Flame

We are all creatures of flame. The butterfly: the intensity of a short life and fragility
become color. My death is like shadow, my life aquiver, a pulse in the light; I am so 
close to death it makes me proud, cruel and demonic.
Unmoved, I flutter from Helen's lips to Adonis' wound. 
I love my death, the flame, more than anything.

Creature of the Flood
Poem of the Mussels

We are alone in the dark. You up there have lips, rolled-up leaves, hands entwined with rosy blood and bluish veins, we are alone and cannot touch. We live our life fully, our fate is to resist the waves, that is what we become, and triumph and pain color us as the reflection of fall and of the sun colors the waves there near the surface.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Paul Holman... Tara Morgana, excerpt, 2014

from Tara Morgana by Paul Holman published by Scarlet Imprint and illustrated by the photography of Paul Lambert

Sunday, January 4, 2015

Rikki Ducornet ...poem and watercolour & gouache ... 1989

The lunatic algebra
of Love.
The frenzied orbits
of Mood.
The malarial temperatures
of Wound.
Symbols of the Cult
of Seizure:
This flesh, this amulet
This hot spoor
of predators.
This zodiac savaged
in the sky.

The Cult of Seizure 1989

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Born Today ... Rosaleen Miriam "Roie" Norton, October 2, 1917, Dunedin, New Zealand

image: The Hag , watercolour

...My home is the house of winds,
With great songs of Space ringing wild in my ears
Whose shouting heart leaps to their tune.
I mock at the shapes, plodding thickly, through lamplight:
stupid and cruel - or kind -
They are alien, Other, I'm touched with uneasiness...
Fear of these human.... and glide away sidelong:
Yet joying in fear, in my stealthy aloofness,
To know they are They and I'm I.
Towers of old cities are spiralling over me, Night-conjured,
rising from Time
And I hear, through the seething of luminous silence -
Secretive, vibrant, the sound of the Solitude -
Calling of others like me
Quietly they come, flitting softly as secrets; light-footed,
velvety, swift...
With eyes gleaming green, lambent flame of the Opal.
Kindred... we signal our quick recognition.
I am I ... but I know we are we
Panther of silence; god of Night; Lord of the wild inhuman
You are my own; teeming soul of solitude.
Here is no loneliness, secret Master -
You, Dark Spirit are with me. RN

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Georg Trakl (1887-1914)... Self Portrait & poem. .. 1913

Born, February 3, 1887 - Died, November 3, 1914

 photo Paintedprobablyon11301913InnsbruckinthestudioofMaxvonEsterle_zps0035346b.jpg

Painted Probably on 11.30.1913, Innsbruck in the studio of Max von Esterle

The Deep Song

From deep night I was released.
My soul is astonished in immortality,
My soul listens over space and time
To the melody of eternity!
Not day and lust, not night and suffering
Is the melody of eternity,
And since I listened to eternity,
I feel no more lust and suffering!

more HERE

Monday, March 18, 2013

Memento Mori... print & poem.. Christina Georgina Rossetti

 photo MementoMoriWochentage_zps87870b74.jpg

Memento Mori

Poor the pleasure
Doled out by measure,
Sweet though it be, while brief
As falling of the leaf;
Poor is pleasure
By weight and measure.

Sweet the sorrow
Which ends to-morrow;
Sharp though it be and sore,
It ends for evermore:
Zest of sorrow,
What ends to-morrow.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Monday, March 4, 2013

Frans de Geetere & Arthur Rimbaud... The Stupra... 1925

 photo FransdeGeetere_zps21527d6d.jpg

Frans de Geetere ~ illustration for The Stupra 1925

The ancient beasts...

The ancient beasts bred even on the run,
Theirs glans encrusted with blood and excrement. 
Our forfathers displayed theirs members proudly
By the fold of the sheath and the grain of the scrotum.

In the middle ages, for a female, angel or sow,
A fellow whose gear was substantial was needed;
Even a Kléber, judging by his breeches which exagerate
Perhaps a little, can't have lacked resources.

Besides, man is equal to the proudest mammal;
We are wrong to be surprised at the hugeness of their members;
But a sterile hour has struck: the gelding

And the ox have bridled their ardours, and no one
Will dare again to raise his genital pride
In the copses teeming with comical children.

Arthur Rimbaud ~ The Stupra 1925

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

George Russell 'AE' (1867-1935)... Tired...drawing and poem


Tired, Ink and wash, 

Star Teachers

EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires,
The plumes of paradise, the dying light
Rays through the fevered air in misty spires
    That vanish in the heights.

These myriad eyes that look on me are mine;        
Wandering beneath them I have found again
The ancient ample moment, the divine,
    The God-root within men.

For this, for this the lights innumerable
As symbols shine that we the true light win:        
For every star and every deep they fill
    Are stars and deeps within.

George William (“A. E.”) Russell (1867–1935).  Collected Poems by A.E.  1913.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

M. Fröhlich... illustration... Else Lasker-Schüler 1907


illustration of Else Lasker-Schüler from "Tino of Baghdad" by Else Lasker-Schüler  1907

To the Barbarian

The rough drops of your blood

Bring sweetness to my skin.

Do not call my eyes traitresses

Because they’re floating around your skies;

I’m resting on your night, smiling

And teaching your stars how to play.

And I’m walking through the rusty gate

Of your bliss with a song.

I love you and am coming nearer, in white

And transfigured on pilgrimage toes,

I’m taking your haughty heart,

Pure chalice, with me to the angels.

I love you as if I’d died

And my soul were spread across you –

My soul took in all the pain,

Its bitter images will shatter you.

But there are so many roses in bloom

I’d like to give you;

I’d like to bring you all the gardens

Woven into a wreath.

I keep thinking of you

Until the clouds drop down;

We’d like to kiss,

Wouldn’t we?

by  Else Lasker-Schüler

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio ...St John the Baptist at the Well ...1607-08


 The Executioner of John the Baptist

MS 1 of the Scottish Collection

Askelon, the royal seat,
In which the great deed was done;
There, not lasting was the fame,
John the noble was slain.

'What evil woman among you
Will take in hand my beheading?
Not one from east or west,
Of the blood of Foreigners or Gaels.

'Thou handsome yellow-haired John,
Yonder is a Gael beyond all others;
His abode is far away in the west,
In the lands of the western men.'

'I ask a boon from Christ who loves me,'
Said John the noble,
'That no comely Gael may get
Food nor rainment in any case.'

Said Mogh Ruith without grace,
'Give to me even his rainment,
And I shall cut off his head
For the weal of the men of Ireland.'

Then was John beheaded,
The Gael will suffer therefrom;
Much silver and gold
Was put under the head east in Askelon.

trans. by Prof. MacKinnon

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Alastair (Baron Hans Henning) & Harry Crosby... illustrations & poem


  TheYoung Lovers

The Passionate EmbraceThe Passionate Embrace
 The Passionate Embrace

more HERE

Lit de Mort

I shall not die within a mad man's cell
Or in the city of unconquered pain
Nor on the ocean in a cockle shell
When mad March winds are blowing hurricane.

I shall not die among the multitude
Or as a martyr tortured at the stake,
I shall not die in business servitude
Nor as a soldier for my country's sake;

But i shall die within my lady's arms
And from her mouth drink down the purple wine
And tremble at the touch of naked charms
With silver fingers seeking to entwine.

My dying words shall be a lover's sighs
Beyond the last faint rhythm of her thighs.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Rosaleen Norton ... drawing & poem excerpt


...My home is the house of winds,
With great songs of Space ringing wild in my ears
Whose shouting heart leaps to their tune.
I mock at the shapes, plodding thickly, through lamplight:
stupid and cruel - or kind -
They are alien, Other, I'm touched with uneasiness...
Fear of these human.... and glide away sidelong:
Yet joying in fear, in my stealthy aloofness,
To know they are They and I'm I.
Towers of old cities are spiralling over me, Night-conjured,
rising from Time
And I hear, through the seething of luminous silence -
Secretive, vibrant, the sound of the Solitude -
Calling of others like me
Quietly they come, flitting softly as secrets; light-footed,
velvety, swift...
With eyes gleaming green, lambent flame of the Opal.
Kindred... we signal our quick recognition.
I am I ... but I know we are we
Panther of silence; god of Night; Lord of the wild inhuman
You are my own; teeming soul of solitude.
Here is no loneliness, secret Master -
You, Dark Spirit are with me.

from Pan's Daughter by Nevill Drury

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Rosa Mundi a poem...excerpts...H.D. Carr (Aleister Crowley) & Auguste Rodin... 1905

click on image to enlarge

Limited edition, 488 copies printed with a full page watercolor drawing by Auguste Rodin signed in the plate.


pencil and wash design by Auguste Rodin

1. ROSE of the World!
Red glory of the secret heart of Love!
Red flame, rose-red, most subtly curled
Into its own infinite flower, all flowers above!
Its flower in its own perfumed passion,
Its faint sweet passion, folded and furled
In flower fashion;
And my deep spirit taking its pure part
Of that voluptuous heart
Of hidden happiness!

2. Arise, strong bow of the young child Eros!
(While the maddening moonlight, the memoried caress
Stolen of the scented rose
Stirs me and bids each racing pulse ache, ache!)
Bend into an agony of art
Whose cry is ever rapture, and whose tears
For their own purity's undivided sake
Are molten dew, as, on the lotus leaves
Sliver-coiled in the Sun
Into green girdled spheres
Purer than all a maiden's dream enweaves,
Lies the unutterable beauty of
The Waters. Yea, arise, divinest dove
Of the Idalian, on your crimson wings
And soft grey plumes, bear me to yon cool shrine
Of that most softly-spoken one,
Mine Aphrodite! Touch the imperfect strings,
Oh thou, immortal, throned above the moon!
Inspire a holy tune
Lighter and lovelier than flowers and wine
Offered in gracious gardens unto Pan
By any soul of man!

Matchless, serene, in sacred amplitudes
Of its own royal rapture, deaf and blind
To aught but its own mastery of song
And light, shown ever as silence and deep night
Secret as death and final. Let me long
Never again for aught! This great delight
Involves me, weaves me in its pattern of bliss,
Seals me with its own kiss,
Draws me to thee with every dream that glows,
Poet, each word! Maiden, each burden of snows
Extending beyond sunset, beyond dawn!
O Rose, inviolate, utterly withdrawn
In the truth: -- for this is truth: Love knows!
Ah! Rose of the World! Rose! Rose!

excerpts from Rosa Mundi by H. D. Carr (Aleister Crowley)

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Patrick John Larabee...drawing & poem

click on image to enlarge


An Invokation of the Hidden Light

I call forth to the Eldritch Spirits of the Dark Abyss,
Thee who don the Masks of Earths Gods,
I am Enchanted as a Light in the Dark,
Illuminated Rays ever searching for You.

Fiery Serpent of Wisdom I call forth to You,
Mighty Angel of the Absolute,
O' Sacred King of the Witch-Blood True,
To the Land of Man Thou hast Come as the Leader of the Way,
Let Thine Blessed Radiance impregnate this Red Clay.

I look forward into the Past,
I awaken the Soul of my Ancestor Qayin,
I bring to light the Hidden Wisdom of Midnight's Gods,
O' Gates of mine own Self be open!

O' Light of the Soul,
O' Brilliance of the Spirit,
Forever Shimmering is the Light of the Peacock Angel,
Descending from the Heavens to Earth to Embrace
the Flesh of the Existent.

Wisdom and Truth of the Light I seek,
Ever to be found in the Gnosis of I,
Self-Knowledge of Mine Ever-Changing Ways,
Forever swirling about the Point,
As an Un-Earthed Treasure ever abiding in the Dark.

Sacred Fire of the Most High shine from Within,
Illuminate the Mind of the Wise with the Vision of the Eternal,
O' Secret Light cast by Witches Fire,
O' Secret Light cast by Sorcerer's Pyre,
Burn bright, grow high, forever alight in the Mind's Eye.

Patrick Larabee on Etsy

I am first and foremost a practitioner of the Traditional Witchcraft Mysteries as a Walker of the Lonley Road. My work is concerned with Arte of Magick and Sorcery. Secondly, I am an artist and writer who seeks to bring to light the Mysteries of the Darkness through Image and Word, Rite and Praxis.


Patricks Artists page on Facebook

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Anne Sexton (1928- 1974)... self portrait & poem...

Self Portrait Undated

'You are the answer, '
I said, and entered,
lying down on the gates of the city.
Then the chains were fastened around me
and I lost my common gender and my final aspect.
Adam was on the left of me
and Eve was on the right of me,
both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason.
We wove our arms together
and rode under the sun.
I was not a woman anymore,
not one thing or the other.

O daughters of Jerusalem,
the king has brought me into his chamber.
I am black and I am beautiful.
I've been opened and undressed.
I have no arms or legs.
I'm all one skin like a fish.
I'm no more a woman
than Christ was a man. 

excerpt from ~ Consorting with Angels by Anne Sexton

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

J Karl Bogartte... A Curious night for a double eclipse..2011

Received my copy today of a collaboration with a favourite poet/artist  JK Bogartte...

The levels of consciousness passing through at unfamiliar angles, aroused by intuition and the enfolding future of wasps in a secretive handshake... The word for venom is always glowing in the dark. The storm takes your shape, impregnates those clear-cut moments of primitive bliss and darkens them. Everything unknown comes from deceptive distances. Authenticity enlightens death.



Life is another identity to the one you call your own, and the mystery of who desires its own form, follows the rush of nebulae...

    The missing links ravishing the landscape, hesitant poses, reluctant portraits, the erotic gathering of phantoms that cast themselves skimming over the water, where you and your shadow mediate with death, shaking the clarities between the poles of unconscious desires, striking up the band, of thieves and precious stones, languorous nights collaborating with philosophers haunted by wolves in the foundry of priceless shoulder blades... Bone is like breath when it reflects the sun. It is like devotion, even when it slumbers and dreams of a desirable climax, a beautiful havoc no one can resist.

   There is joy and longing in the skeletal remains of the astronomy that announces your passion, in quadrants, so completely out of step, so flint-like in those moments before waking, where you cannot even be seen...

   “Eat me, my love, live on me with animal-thirst, in the charade of a diamond split open for perilous novelty. Lick my fleece and draw blood into enchanted circles... Suffer for me, my eager shadow, sip the nightshade of my buzzing and my antennae, and cling to my stake, glow for me in the shallows of all that resemble the artifacts of confusion and dismay... my love, enter me and become my hunger for you...”

   Gold is time compressed into a diamond. Time is the process by which infinity lifts her dress just enough to unsilver the mirror that reflects your absence. Your breath is the completed triangle of a furious glance. Night trembles, because it knows you...

   Desire and desperation unfold like roadblocks on a street of glaciers burning up the architecture of fear, where swans mimic giant prisms and autopsy implements fondling the brightest of your glimpses, with passion and concern, with empathy and idealization, a little violence and projection, a passing semblance of erotic devotion, and yes, filled with a certain grace, moments of acceptable doubt, an anguish that allows us to evolve... If we do not falter...

    You are, in spite of yourself, a series of references, and ingenious designs, however brilliant and often too intricate for precise placement in the moment, and we become medial angles taunted by candles and poetic crimes in progress, crossbows of a lunar eclipse, and chaste fountains in the middle of the room with opened arms. We follow you with intent to commit mayhem. We love you endlessly, your propellers tearing up the forest, and when your transparency astounds us, we love you even more. A lunacy of longing dwells in us like words that have no meaning, but animal cries, torn linen, a loving defiance... There is hope for fire.