"Ejaculation" undated
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Sphinx...Oscar Wilde & Alastair...1920
Your lovers are not dead, I know;
They will rise up, and hear your voice,
And clash their cymbals, and rejoice,
And run to kiss your mouth, -- and so
Set wings upon your argosies!
more on the background of this book and other illustrators > THE SPHINX
previous Alastair posts L'Anniversaire de L'Infante
Labels:
Alastair,
books,
illustrations,
illustrator,
Oscar Wilde,
poems
Monday, July 19, 2010
Abdellatif Laâbi... poetry
Abdellatif Laâbi: from Fragments of a Forgotten Genesis
Translation from French by Gordon Hadfield & Nancy Hadfield
FRAGMENT 1
In the beginning was the cry
and already discord
Which tore
the marriage of fire
Confused
violation
sordid struggles of separation
and staggering blows of solitude
Sky drew back from fire
water drew back from sky
earth drew back from water
idea drew back from clay
and the form surged
cut in two
One half was retained
the other thrown in the abyss
No one thought of good
or evil
Who could have done otherwise?
It was necessary to pile
embers against embers
to awaken this unshakeable
fire in the eyes
The prey softens and submits
offers its hairy neck
to the belly’s
voracious germination
Everything devours everything
each cunningly takes its turn
the gluttonous sounds of swallowing
Vast was the destruction
The tadpole
in its stagnant pool
could not fathom
If only he had an antenna
with a small lens attached to the end
he could have …
But what would that accomplish?
Destruction
sole witness to destruction
With this indictment the water returns
cloaking the unsavory spectacle
Amplifying the disorder
These purposeless waves
For a lapse in eternity
there was nothing but waves
A wineskin
its contents shaken
as if something begrudged its roots
With somber jaws
the waves cut to the quick
stifling these stammers
mixing and remixing
For which fleeting idea did they seek revenge?
The waves mixed primal decline
excess of matter
meagerness of memory
This upheaval spawns Hybrid
arch menace
cauldron of pure insanity
Hybrid frolicked
proliferated
color is invented
by a simple rustle of light
free from its form
the gaze rises from the offal
mouths adorned
by either a retractable vulva
or an edible penis
Organs mirthfully
exchanged
One even hears snatches
of clear music
Being sculpts Being
Limbless life
examines itself
Like a vital flowering
with a sprig of intelligence
and immediate love
There were only dreaming leaps
in the dance of origins
Body of all bodies
Hybrid
the possible denying the impossible
progress from the horizon to the whole
genesis in love with genesis
But a darkening
from flashes of rage
and a flood of meteorites
What endures great trials
will last
Then the waves ebbed
abandoning the earth
that overturned cauldron
with its bloodless population
Why this confusion?
from the wonderful collection at >
POEMS AND POETICS
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Joseph Jengehino...poems and drawing..
a physiology of conversion (collab with Amely Jones)
Gerald slices his thoughts with a citrus knife. Removes the matter.
His fiction is the salt she sucks from open wounds.
Her machinery is too much for him. At night he tears it down.
He likes to watch her mouth sleep.
likes the way it is crooked but still toxic. but silent.
He's afraid of her.
He's afraid of her unobstructed mind and the traps and equations she uses.
He wants to get under her skin
his static can break her. disrupt her.
break the plane of her bones,
break the circuitry of her mind,
give her parachutes to numbness.
Her head is turned, the profile of a bird on a pillowcase.
he touches her throat, a little
Hides his hands
He wants to hold her
in the softest prison,
place a thumb on her eye,
and feel the kaleidoscope's stained and transparent explosions.
The dreams are fueling her mind
maybe he can make her smile when she is like this...
but he won't touch those toxic lips
even with the latex fingers
he envisions her a future huffing oxygen from an apparatus.
sees her body tied to machines
sees the bricks of her mind dissolving
in a place where he can forever watch her mouth sleep
The Broken Neck of the Swan
Joseph Jengehino blog at MYSPACE
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Paen for Pan...Poem & drawing
Dolorosa
PAEAN FOR PAN
Brashest of the clan
my half-brother Pan is
my pet pandemaniac
my quite incorrigible
my fleet unflappable
His is the pipe of my my panegyric
He pantheizes my natural nature
I feed for my health on
his organic folly
I work out on the exercise of
his indiscretion
He is my undressable beast
He is the wildlife in my bedroom
I take him for
my cohort cavorter
my itch-twitchy goat
my knockout smeller
my randy rumpus
my pantophagous marauder
Him I adore and hump for
Him am crazy to jump with
James Broughton 1981
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Agostino Carracci... Satyr
The Satyr Mason 1578
I make leaf-circlets
and a crown of honey-flowers
for thy throat;
where the amber petals
drip to ivory,
I cut and slip
each stiffened petal
in the rift
of carven petal:
honey horn
has wed the bright
virgin petal of the white
flower cluster: lip to lip
let them whisper,
let them lilt, quivering:
Most holy Satyr,
like a goat,
hear this our song,
accept our leaves,
love-offering,
return our hymn;
like echo fling
a sweet song,
answering note for note.
Holy Satyr by Hilda Doolittle 1922
and a crown of honey-flowers
for thy throat;
where the amber petals
drip to ivory,
I cut and slip
each stiffened petal
in the rift
of carven petal:
honey horn
has wed the bright
virgin petal of the white
flower cluster: lip to lip
let them whisper,
let them lilt, quivering:
Most holy Satyr,
like a goat,
hear this our song,
accept our leaves,
love-offering,
return our hymn;
like echo fling
a sweet song,
answering note for note.
Holy Satyr by Hilda Doolittle 1922
Labels:
Agostino Carracci,
art,
Hilda Doolittle,
Holy Satyr,
paintings,
poems,
satyr
Monday, January 25, 2010
may butterflies rise from yr grave every year..for Garcia Lorca...Rob Plath..poem
Louis le Brocquy - Lorca
may butterflies rise from yr grave every year..
by Rob Plath
a soldier pumped
two bullets
into yr buttocks
for being a queer
two bullets
into yr buttocks
for being a queer
then another
into the branches
of yr lung
for being
a poet
into the branches
of yr lung
for being
a poet
another word
for dirty communist
to them
for dirty communist
to them
you were their worst enemy
w/unplugged asshole
& wide open singing
lung bags
w/unplugged asshole
& wide open singing
lung bags
i imagine yr
assassin bragging
about it afterwards
to his comrades
assassin bragging
about it afterwards
to his comrades
then later that night
giving his wife a good
hetero fascist fuck
giving his wife a good
hetero fascist fuck
his dick standing like
a middle finger
to commie faggot poets
a middle finger
to commie faggot poets
his torso full of
fearful gears
moving w/precision
over her body
fearful gears
moving w/precision
over her body
his clenched homophobic
cheeks thrusting
like a pair of iron fists
bloodless knuckles
cheeks thrusting
like a pair of iron fists
bloodless knuckles
giving it to her once
for himself
& once for the gang
for himself
& once for the gang
the regime
Labels:
art,
Federico García Lorca,
Louis le Brocquy,
poems,
poetry,
prints,
Rob Plath
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Leonor Fini... Sphinx & Charles Baudelaire...Beauty..poem and drawings...
Beauty
I am fair, O mortals! like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where each one in turn has bruised himself
Is made to inspire in the poet a love
As eternal and silent as matter.
And my breast where each one in turn has bruised himself
Is made to inspire in the poet a love
As eternal and silent as matter.
On a throne in the sky, a mysterious sphinx,
I join a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans;
I hate movement for it displaces lines,
And never do I weep and never do I laugh.
Poets, before my grandiose poses,
Which I seem to assume from the proudest statues,
Will consume their lives in austere study;
For I have, to enchant those submissive lovers,
Pure mirrors that make all things more beautiful:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal brightness!
Charles Baudelaire - The Flowers of Evil
Translation by William Aggeler
Labels:
art,
Charles Baudelaire,
drawings,
Leonor Fini,
poems,
poetry,
writers
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Federico García Lorca...drawing and poem...
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Aleksander Blok... poem..
"Snow Wine"
Again, from the goblet, your presence
sparkling fills my heart with care--
you with your smiling innocence
and your serpentine waves of hair.
Swept off my feet in the dark stream
I again live through
a passionate forgotten dream
of kisses, of snowstorms masking you.
Your laugh your magical laughter
and in the golden goblet sway,
and lightly over your sable hair
the current of the blue wind play.
And how, looking into the liquor,
could I miss my Bacchic wreath?
and fail to remember your kisses
my face upturned to meet mouth your mouth?
29 December 1906
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Devour the fire...Harry Crosby 2 Poems... illustration Alastair...
± RED SKELETONS, 1927 ±
TEMPLE DE LA DOULEUR
My soul has suffered breaking on the wheel,
Flogging with lead, and felt the twinging ache
Of barbéd hooks and jagged points of steel,
Peine forte et dure, slow burning at the stake,
Blinding and branding, stripping on the rack,
The canque and kourbash and the torquéd screw,
The boot and branks, red scourging on the back,
The gallows and the gibbet. All for you.
Flogging with lead, and felt the twinging ache
Of barbéd hooks and jagged points of steel,
Peine forte et dure, slow burning at the stake,
Blinding and branding, stripping on the rack,
The canque and kourbash and the torquéd screw,
The boot and branks, red scourging on the back,
The gallows and the gibbet. All for you.
These tortures are as nothing to the pain
That I have suffered when you gaze at me
With cold disdainful eyes. You do not deign
To smile or talk or even set me free-
Yet once you let me hold your perfumed hand
And danced with me a stately saraband.
That I have suffered when you gaze at me
With cold disdainful eyes. You do not deign
To smile or talk or even set me free-
Yet once you let me hold your perfumed hand
And danced with me a stately saraband.
SALOME
Proud panoply of fans and frankincense,
Gold blare of trumpets, flowered robes of state,
Unnumbered symbols of magnificence,
To lead Salome through the palace gate,
Where loud the prophet of the Lord blasphemes
The red abominations of her race
And chides her for her flesh-entangled dreams
and turns his back upon her painted face.
Gold blare of trumpets, flowered robes of state,
Unnumbered symbols of magnificence,
To lead Salome through the palace gate,
Where loud the prophet of the Lord blasphemes
The red abominations of her race
And chides her for her flesh-entangled dreams
and turns his back upon her painted face.
Thus do we turn from some red-shadowed lust
That through the broken forests of the brain
Weaves silently with tentacles out-thrust,
Groping in darkness, but for one in vain,
For like a sliding sun the soul has fled
Leaving a princess and a vultured head.
That through the broken forests of the brain
Weaves silently with tentacles out-thrust,
Groping in darkness, but for one in vain,
For like a sliding sun the soul has fled
Leaving a princess and a vultured head.
¤ SUN-TESTAMENT ¤
Labels:
Alastair,
Harry Crosby,
illustrators,
poems,
Red Skeletons,
writers
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
AND ALL IN ARMOUR ON HER BED SHE LIES by Paul Holman.... & new drawing
Dolorosa 09
AND ALL IN ARMOUR ON HER BED SHE LIES ...
Her drawings show how she thinks we see her, but it is not the predicament in which she finds herself in the course of each implied adventure, shackled to the steam engine or discharging ectoplasm in some darkened room, by which she is defined, but the quality of distance she brings to these situations,amused and just a little haughty.
This detachment causes her to appear most distinct from her sister - the unicorn might be prettier, but does not gleam so, though both are made up the same -
yet, even in her more recent elegance, the twin we follow may allow
herself to be weirdly exposed, to look not composed but engaging: a
controlled goofiness in a moment that she chose to treat as if
unobserved, as if all eyes were not upon her.
Girl as landscape, girl as costume: how she permeates, sharp faced and quizzical, still unmistakable in the demon mask.
from Tara Morgana
Paul Holman
RIP Alda Merini...
Winged woman, stop your rancor:
the life that you bear of mystery
smells bad above the cushion
and moribund passes away.
Just so every proud tree oozes
love, behind your dark manures
that you spread of seed and of lust,
and pays at least for the seduction
of violated souls. Even so cantata
of the devil, you are an enemy of God
and then sullenly your lust
coagulates over the souls of heroes,
and you are young. You harm
all who see the path
of your peace and no one penalizes
you for the altar of your greatness
which makes offers to gods. As if you
were a goddess dressed in lust,
you call the gold into your arms
as I call the sons of the night.
¤¤¤
I do not need money.
I have need of feelings
of words, words chosen wisely
of flowers called thoughts,
of roses called presences
of dreams inhabiting the trees,
of songs that make statues dance,
of stars that murmur to the ear of lovers.
I need poetry
this spell which burns the weight of words
that arouses emotions and gives new colors.
the life that you bear of mystery
smells bad above the cushion
and moribund passes away.
Just so every proud tree oozes
love, behind your dark manures
that you spread of seed and of lust,
and pays at least for the seduction
of violated souls. Even so cantata
of the devil, you are an enemy of God
and then sullenly your lust
coagulates over the souls of heroes,
and you are young. You harm
all who see the path
of your peace and no one penalizes
you for the altar of your greatness
which makes offers to gods. As if you
were a goddess dressed in lust,
you call the gold into your arms
as I call the sons of the night.
¤¤¤
I do not need money.
I have need of feelings
of words, words chosen wisely
of flowers called thoughts,
of roses called presences
of dreams inhabiting the trees,
of songs that make statues dance,
of stars that murmur to the ear of lovers.
I need poetry
this spell which burns the weight of words
that arouses emotions and gives new colors.
Love do not damn me to my fate
Hold me open all the seasons
let my great and warm decline
not fall asleep along drives
put in passive all the passions
sleep on the pillow tenderly
where grow provident ambitions
of love and universal passion
take my everything and do not hurt me.
Hold me open all the seasons
let my great and warm decline
not fall asleep along drives
put in passive all the passions
sleep on the pillow tenderly
where grow provident ambitions
of love and universal passion
take my everything and do not hurt me.
Alda Merini
Friday, October 30, 2009
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin... book cover & poems...
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin (1872–1936) was a symbolist poet, prose writer, and playwright. Openly gay, he wrote the first celebrations of
gay themes in Russian literature, and the first Russian coming-out novel, Wings (1907), in which a young man learns to accept his sexuality, which makes him feel as if he has grown wings. Kuzmin too was a poet who mined his own biography,incorporating its associations
and events in his poem-cycles.
gay themes in Russian literature, and the first Russian coming-out novel, Wings (1907), in which a young man learns to accept his sexuality, which makes him feel as if he has grown wings. Kuzmin too was a poet who mined his own biography,incorporating its associations
and events in his poem-cycles.
Wings.Story in Three Parts(Krylya) cover by Nikolai Petrovich Feofilaktov
~Poems~
Sun, Sun
Sun, sun,
divine Ra-Helios,you delight
the hearts of kings and heroes,
sacred horses neigh to you,
in Heliopolis they sing hymns to you;
when you shine,
lizards crawl out onto rocks
and boys go laughing
to swim in the Nile.
Sun, sun,
I am a pale scribbler,
a library recluse,
but I love you, sun, no less
than a tanned sailor
smelling of fish and salt water,
and no less
than his accustomed heart
rejoices
at your royal rising
from the ocean,
my heart trembles,
when your dusty, but flaming ray
slips
through the narrow window by the ceiling
onto my filled page
and my thin, yellowish hand,
writing out in vermilion
the first letter of a hymn to you,
O Ra-Helios sun!
Sun, sun,
divine Ra-Helios,you delight
the hearts of kings and heroes,
sacred horses neigh to you,
in Heliopolis they sing hymns to you;
when you shine,
lizards crawl out onto rocks
and boys go laughing
to swim in the Nile.
Sun, sun,
I am a pale scribbler,
a library recluse,
but I love you, sun, no less
than a tanned sailor
smelling of fish and salt water,
and no less
than his accustomed heart
rejoices
at your royal rising
from the ocean,
my heart trembles,
when your dusty, but flaming ray
slips
through the narrow window by the ceiling
onto my filled page
and my thin, yellowish hand,
writing out in vermilion
the first letter of a hymn to you,
O Ra-Helios sun!
The Sense Of Your Bidding
The sense of your bidding is unclear:
to pray, to curse, is it, to fight
you bid me, inscrutable genius?
The spring slackens, niggard, meager,
and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier
dozes in the drowsy thickets.
Hills are dark with honeyed cloud.
Look: I do not touch lithe strings.
Your gaze, prophetically flying,
is clenched, gushes no winged streams,
and beckons by no May road, trying
to outstrip Hermes in his flight.
Hobbled horses do not neigh,
Aging warriors sprawl in disarray...
Hold your palms open wide!
Risen spring is bright,
but groves of darkness are not given
to leap for joy having leapt from dreams.
The groom names not the hour,
be not guiled to tarry,
hark through ice the clarion voice,
your flax is drenched with chrism,
and, bidding goodbye to numb laze,
free, in love, you will rise.
The sense of your bidding is unclear:
to pray, to curse, is it, to fight
you bid me, inscrutable genius?
The spring slackens, niggard, meager,
and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier
dozes in the drowsy thickets.
Hills are dark with honeyed cloud.
Look: I do not touch lithe strings.
Your gaze, prophetically flying,
is clenched, gushes no winged streams,
and beckons by no May road, trying
to outstrip Hermes in his flight.
Hobbled horses do not neigh,
Aging warriors sprawl in disarray...
Hold your palms open wide!
Risen spring is bright,
but groves of darkness are not given
to leap for joy having leapt from dreams.
The groom names not the hour,
be not guiled to tarry,
hark through ice the clarion voice,
your flax is drenched with chrism,
and, bidding goodbye to numb laze,
free, in love, you will rise.
Labels:
book covers,
illustrations,
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin,
poems,
poetry
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Jorge Luis BORGES... drawing... Self Portrait
Poignantly relating to self-portraits, Borges wrote in his The Art of Poetry:
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water …
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful....
edward estlin cummings
(October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962)
(October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962)
"I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more."
self-portrait ee cummings
i am so glad and very
i am so glad and very
merely my fourth will cure
the laziest self of weary
the hugest sea of shore
so far your nearness reaches
a lucky fifth of you
turns people into eachs
and cowards into grow
our can'ts were born to happen
our mosts have died in more
our twentieth will open
wide a wide open door
we are so both and oneful
night cannot be so sky
sky cannot be so sunful
i am through you so i
i am so glad and very
merely my fourth will cure
the laziest self of weary
the hugest sea of shore
so far your nearness reaches
a lucky fifth of you
turns people into eachs
and cowards into grow
our can'ts were born to happen
our mosts have died in more
our twentieth will open
wide a wide open door
we are so both and oneful
night cannot be so sky
sky cannot be so sunful
i am through you so i
i have found what you are like
i have found what you are like
the rain,
(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows
lurch and.press
-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
the rain,
(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields
easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike
the air in utterable coolness
deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
newfragile yellows
lurch and.press
-in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss
2 little whos
2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree
smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here
(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who
(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)
2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree
smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here
(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who
(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I Invoke, I Invoke! ...
Pan to Artemis
From The Equinox, vol I
Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars
In the sounding, rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant, resilient
First rays of the spring!
By
the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke —
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!
the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke —
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!
By
the midnight of madness: —
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me,
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!
the midnight of madness: —
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me,
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!
You
were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
By
the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken —
The dust to the dawn! —
A secret communion
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue! —
the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken —
The dust to the dawn! —
A secret communion
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue! —
O
virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke —
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!
virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke —
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!
Aleister Crowley 1909
Thursday, October 1, 2009
*Guest Blog...
Maggie O'Sullivan
Maggie O'Sullivan was born in Lincolnshire to Irish parents. Poet, artist, editor, publisher, she has performed and published her work since the late 1970s.
Arshile Gorky, "Study for "Nighttime, Enigma and Nostalgia"
"Elegy" (after Arshile Gorky)
You measured things by weight.
You loved the feel & shape of apricots
the wave & sway of fields of grain
the strength & pressure of waterfalls
the flow & shimmer of rivers
the luxuriance of orange, amber & terracotta
on naked paper
the drift & wing, flutter & rustle
of birds & leaves.
You loved the surreal
the song
the edible
and, above all,
bread.
Your palette unfurls a flirtation
of glow & shadow,
a tenderness of breasts,
a poignant sweet incense of lemons
figs olives honey &
cherry trees in blossom.
The sanctuary holds all.
The bitter-red roses,
the scarlet-red crest of the cock,
the shivering silver sickness of poplar leaves
and the pallid hands, distorted, flat
as icons. [...]
Malevich
Malevich, "White on White" (1918)
white on white
white square on white ground
white ground on white square
groundlight on white
white on light
white nothing
nothing within nothing
within nothing nakendess
white nothing
naked
nothing revealing
nothing reveals nothing
yielding nothing
nothing yields nothing
* with many thanks to R O'B
Labels:
*Guest Blog,
Arshile Gorky,
art,
Maggie O'Sullivan,
Malevich,
poems,
poetry
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Federico García Lorca...drawing and poem...
Song of the Barren Orange Tree
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me.
Free me from the torment
of seeing myself without fruit.
Why was I born among mirrors?
The day walks in circles around me,
and the night copies me
in all its stars.
I want to live without seeing myself.
And I will dream that ants
and thistleburrs are my
leaves and my birds.
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me.
Free me from the torment
of seeing myself without fruit.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Edith Stein... poem...
And I Remain With You
Who are you, sweet light, that fills me
And illumines the darkness of my heart?
You lead me like a mother's hand,
And should you let go of me,
I would not know how to take another step.
You are the space
That embraces my being and buries it in yourself.
Away from you it sinks into the abyss
Of nothingness, from which you raised it to the light.
You, nearer to me than I to myself
And more interior than my most interior
And still impalpable and intangible
And beyond any name...
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