Posts tagged poetry
And it seemed to me that there were fires
Flying till dawn without number
And I never found out things - those
Strange eyes of his - what colour?
Everything trembling and singing and
Were you my enemy or my friend,
Winter was it or summer?
―Anna Akhmatova
via mythologyofblue
Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.
Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not
… embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
And it is all over.
No more sweetpeas,
no more wide-eyed bunnies
dropping from the sky.
Only
a reddish boniness
under the sun of hoarfrost,
a thievish fog,
an insipid solution of love,
hate
and crowing.
But next year
larches will try
to make the land full of larches again
and larks will try
to make the land full of larks.
And thrushes will try
to make all the trees sing,
and goldfinches will try
to make all the grass golden,
and burying beetles
with their creaky love will try
to make all the corpses
rise from the dead,
Amen.
(Translated by Stuart Friebert and Dana Habova)
Razors pain you
rivers are damp
acids stain you
and drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful
nooses give
gas smells awful
you might as well live.
Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there’s no such thing.
Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
” Wislawa Szymborska
Cy Twombly - Summer Madness, 1990
”..the shard of white…
trembling with white light
with white flat sea
distant in memory
between the deluge of life
our dearest, our white youth
our white, our snow white youth
that is infinity…”
- George Seferis “Three Secret Poems”
Several lines of one stanza have been altered by Cy Twombly, with some words inked out. A section of the edited and spliced poem (with a few new words added by Twombly) is written on the canvas of Summer (more)
Valery LARBAUD . Extrait “Le don de soi-même”
Editions “Gallimard”, 1966
Max Ernst’s poem to his painting “La Puberté proche… ou Les Pléiades”, 1921
C’est un temps contre nature
comme le ciel des peintures
comme l’oubli des tortures
Il fait beau comme jamais
Frais comme l’eau sous la rame
un temps fort comme une femme
un temps à damner son âme
Il fait beau comme jamais
Un temps à rire et à courir
un temps à ne pas mourir
un temps à craindre le pire
Il fait beau comme jamais.
The sun is going down – had
dipped in flames
below the horizon.
It was like
A flaming sward
of blood slicing through
the concave of heaven
the sky was like blood – sliced with stips of fire
the hills turned deep blue
the fjord – cut in
cold blue, yellow, and
red colors-
the exploding bloody red-on the path and hand railing
my friends turned glaring yellow white -
I felt a great scream…
from “The private journals of Edvard Munch: we are flames which pour out of the earth” par Edvard Munch, J. Gill Holland
