dataobscura

image poetry music
collected and composed by APK


graphics mine unless otherwise indicated
- started Jan 2010 -
-----------------------------------------

We are here on earth to do good unto others.
What the others are here for, I have no idea.

W.H. Auden

I know what i know and I write it
The embodiment of time
                                the act
the movement in which the whole being
is sculptured and destroyed
Consciousness and hands to grasp the hour
I am a history
                  a memory inventing itself
I am never alone
I speak with you always
                               you speak with me always
I move in the dark
                        I plant signs
  

Octavio Paz
from Vrindaban
translated from Spanish

Marsen Jules and Anders Weberg

The hours of August still wind you
in scents of the mild garden air,
Ivy and speedwell still bind you
A wreath for your wind-tangled hair.

Like gold is the wavering wheat, though
Perhaps less exultant and full,
Late-blooming roses still great, though
The sheen of their colours grew dull.

Then let us conceal what defies us
And turn to felicity, for
The one thing which is not denied us
Is walking together once more.

Stefan George
from The Year of the Soul (1897)
(trans Olga Marx & Ernst Morwitz)

  Source unknown.

 
Source unknown.

   Source unknown.

  
Source unknown.

 
video - Gaze by Ivan Villafuerte
music - Only the Circle by Deru

Surrounded by a void,
as a constellation is by space,
with infinite distance between its luminous points,
its timeless manifestation of itself.

So in complete calm,
in dead perfection,
lives the Truth about the great Nothing.
The soul of the void.

Like a constellation
named after an utterly forgotten divinity.

Pär Lagerkvist
(trans W.H. Auden)

April 26. Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in order. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.”

James Joyce
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
1914

 
White Rainbow : Warm Clicked Fruit

Words have beautiful dead sweethearts
on whose graves they sometimes lay flowers.

Edmond Jabès
(trans.)

 by Dan Slavinsky

 
by Dan Slavinsky

A writer is somebody for whom writing
is more difficult than it is for other people.

Hermann Hesse