The Second Coming - W.B.Yeats
variationsforthehealingofmishka:
variationsforthehealingofmishka:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
11:27 pm • 24 November 2016
variationsforthehealingofmishka:
Krishna and Radha Enjoy a Winter’s Evening on the Roof Terrace in the month of Margashirsha (November–December): Folio from a Baramasa Series
ca. 1780
Guler, Himachal Pradesh, India
opaque watercolor, gold and silver-colored paint on paper
MET
11:21 pm • 24 November 2016
ofskfe:
Three generations of Jewish women drink coffee in the grandmother’s home while incense is burned, Gondar, Ethiopia. A. Abbas.
1:24 pm • 3 September 2016
"Away from home
I live in my thirty-sixth rented room
With a trapped bee
and a three-legged spider.
Spider crawls on the wall
and I on the floor.
Bee bangs at the window
and I on the table.
Often we stare at each other
sharing our pool of loneliness.
They paint the wall
with droppings and webs.
I give them isolated
words net, maze, tangle
wings, buzz, flutter.
-
Away from home
my minutes are hours.
Spider travels from the window to the ceiling.
Bee flies from the window to the bin.
I stare out of the window.
Neither speaks each other’s tongue.
-
I wish
you would go deaf
before my silence."
—
Bhuchung D. Sonam, “Banishment”
Poet/writer, was born in Tibet. In exile he studied in TCV School, Dharamsala. His books include Dandelions of Tibet, Conflict of Duality, Songs from a Distance and Muses in Exile: An Anthology of Tibetan Poetry.
1:23 pm • 3 September 2016
"
Mon Seigneur garnement, rien au monde
Ne ressemble au rire qui brille dans vos yeux,
Quand vous le voulez : d'ailleurs je ne réponds
Plus de rien, inutile que je lutte
Contre la destruction que vous opérez au fond
De la réalité. Ça me libère et les autres imbéciles
Humains en mesure de le comprendre. Mais maintenant notre allègre
Façon de tout discréditer n'a plus
D'échappatoires dans mon âme tourmentée.
Je le contemple avec la mélancolie qu'éprouve
Celui qui sait qu'il n'y aura plus de retour.
Les sourires irrésistibles sont ceux d'un mort :
Les fêtes ont une raison tristement nouvelle.
Le bonheur concerne un autre jour.
"
— Pier Paolo Pasolini, L’hobby del sonetto, 17, trad. René de Ceccaty
1:21 pm • 3 September 2016
"Rien ne peut se comparer. Qu'est-ce qui n'est pas entièrement
seul avec soi, en effet, et y eut-il jamais chose à dire ;
nous ne nommons rien, il nous est seulement permis d'endurer
et de nous persuader que çà et là un éclat,
çà et là un regard nous a peut-être effleurés
comme si précisément //cela.// qui est notre vie
vivait à l'intérieur. A qui résiste,
le monde n'advient pas. Et à qui le comprend trop,
l'éternel se dérobe. Parfois
dans de grandes nuits pareilles à celle-ci nous sommes comme
hors de danger, partagés en fragments égaux,
répartis en étoiles.
Comme elles sont pressantes."
— Rainer Maria Rilke - Nächtlicher Gang / Parcours Nocturne
1:19 pm • 3 September 2016
harpy:
INSIDE by Ahmed Arif
Translated from Kurdish into English by Murat-Nemet Nejat
Have you heard, stone wall?
Iron door, blind window,
My pillow, my bunk, my chair,
My hidden sad picture for which
I risk death again and again,
Have you heard?
My visitor brought green onions,
My cigarettes smell of cloves.
Spring has come to the mountains of my land.
5:55 pm • 18 July 2016
"
In a way, her strangeness, her naïveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance or strings; had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for.
And like any artist with no art form, she became dangerous.
"
— Toni Morrison, Sula
5:46 pm • 18 July 2016
Kriegsfibel, Bertolt Brecht.
While in exile in Finland and Sweden, and later the US, Brecht compiled a book containing black and white photographs from World War II which he cut out from newspapers and magazines. To each image, he addressed a four-line poem of personal, political viewpoints.
In the words of Ruth Berlau, who assembled the photobook, “The great ignorance concerning social relations, an ignorance nursed carefully and brutally by capitalism, reduces thousands of photos in illustrated journals to hieroglyphs which are undecipherable for the unsuspecting readers. Like an ancient hieroglyph, the press photograph is “undecipherable” for anyone who lacks the appropriate training. Brecht’s book is offered, therefore, as a practical manual, demonstrating how to “read” and “translate” press photographs. At the same time, it seeks to provide some basic lessons about the nature of modern warfare.” (1957)
Here is a short video of selected images from Kriegsfibel with Brecht’s words and Hanns Eisler’s composition.
5:45 pm • 18 July 2016