December 2011
1 post
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WatchMarsen Jules and Anders Weberg
November 2011
3 posts
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...
September 2011
1 post
Watch video - Gaze by Ivan Villafuerte music - Only the Circle by Deru
June 2011
3 posts
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)
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“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...
May 2011
3 posts
Words have beautiful dead sweethearts on whose graves they sometimes lay flowers. Edmond Jabès (trans.)
March 2011
1 post
A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. Hermann Hesse
January 2011
1 post
December 2010
2 posts
While old photogrphs fill out our mental image of the past, the photographs being taken now transform what is present into a mental image, like the past. Susan Sontag (from The Image World 1977)
November 2010
1 post
Let us make signals in the air and cry aloud. We must leave a wide noise tolling in the night; and in the deep of time, set the wide wind rolling. Wallace Stevens (from Moment Of Light)
October 2010
3 posts
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All I know is what the words know, and the dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning, a middle and an end as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. Samuel Beckett (from Molloy)
September 2010
2 posts
THE MEANING OF SIMPLICITY I hide behind simple things so you’ll find me; if you don’t find me, you’ll find the things, you’ll touch what my hands have touched, our hand-prints will merge. The august moon glitters in the kitchen like a tin-plated pot (it gets that way because of what I’m saying to you), it lights up the empty house and the house’s kneeling...
July 2010
3 posts
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To burn always with this hard gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life. Failure is to form habits; for habit is relative to a stereotyped world…. Not to discriminate every moment some passionate attitude in those about us, and in the brilliance of their gifts some tragic dividing of forces on their ways is, on this short day of frost and sun, to sleep before...
June 2010
1 post
May 2010
5 posts
Whether we write or speak or do but look We are ever unapparent. What we are Cannot be transfused into word or book. Our soul from us is infinitely far. However much we give our thoughts the will To be our souls and gesture it abroad, Our hearts are incommunicable still. In what we show ourselves we are ignored. The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged By any skill of thought or trick of...
Nothing substance utters or time stills and restrains joins design and supple measure deftly as thought’s intricate polyphonic score dovetails with the tread sensuous things keep in our consciousness. Basil Bunting (1930)
Poetry is a finikin thing of air That lives uncertainly and not for long Yet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.
Wallace Stevens
April 2010
9 posts
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Cold meager rays that sow Thin light in the dripping forest. I slowly carry sorrow Like a gray bird in my breast. What shall I do with this broken bird? The dead sky has nothing to say. Fog has left the bell tower obscured Where they’ve taken the bells away. And the orphaned heights are empty And fallen still Like the white abandoned tower Where fog and silence dwell. In the morning the long...
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Every great poet creates poetry out of one single poetic statement only. The measure of his greatness is the extent to which he becomes so committed to that singleness that he is able to keep his poetic Saying wholly within it. The poet’s statement remains unspoken. None of his individual poems, not their totality, says it all. Martin Heidegger (from Language In The Poem)
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Miniature is one of the refuges of greatness. Gaston Bachelard
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March 2010
6 posts
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February 2010
7 posts
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She lifts her eyes and the breeze is stilled, Lowers her lids, and the landscape flows; She turns her head, and a single rose Is caught in the game, for it turns its head too, And as far as the far horizon, nothing is the same again. Jules Supervielle
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Lammergeyer: Breathless (from Beneath The Sky)
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Poetry must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Wallace Stevens