fourteenth

2012-02-05T17:12:00.001+02:00

2012-02-02T19:30:00.000+02:00

2012-02-02T19:11:00.000+02:00

2012-01-22T11:12:00.002+02:00

2012-01-17T22:01:00.003+02:00

A moment

Drawings

2011-12-09T08:47:00.002+02:00

2011-10-31T19:51:00.001+02:00

Stilltree cliff, 2011

2011-10-24T21:51:00.000+03:00

Trees, 2011

2011-10-24T15:04:00.001+03:00

tree, 2011

2011-10-23T22:57:00.000+03:00

cycloptree, 2011

2011-10-06T18:03:00.003+03:00

Watercolour. Eveningtree, 2011

The poet. Ο ποιητής

2011-08-11T20:18:00.001+03:00


The poet, acrylics on rice paper, 2011

Fly

2011-08-11T17:46:00.000+03:00

Fly, charcoal, ink, pastel and acrylics on plane kraft paper, 2011

Seabird

2011-08-11T13:31:00.000+03:00

Seabird, acrylics on cloth paper, 2004

In the pine forest.

2011-08-08T10:19:00.001+03:00

Pine trees, ink drawing on prepared paper, 2011

Lyrical horse

2011-08-08T10:14:00.000+03:00

A lyrical horse, ink drawing on rice paper, 2011

Summersap

2011-08-06T13:36:00.002+03:00

Summersap, acrylics on rice paper, 2011

Sea, rock , sky

2011-08-06T11:09:00.002+03:00

Sea, rock, sky, 2011

~~~~~~~~To zoom in, please click on images~~~~~~~

2011-08-04T18:30:00.004+03:00

Olivetree, ink, 2011

2011-08-04T08:31:00.006+03:00

Getting ready. Προετοιμασία.

2011-08-03T19:35:00.006+03:00

H Proetimasia, ink on 'Kraft' paper, 2011

~~~~~~~~To zoom in, please click on images~~~~~~~~~~~

Instructions on how to make your own Moleskin -type notebook 

Make a Notebook

2011-08-03T08:50:00.005+03:00

Gardenhorse, wet charcoal on prepared paper, 2011

Landhorse, wet charcoal pencil on prepared paper, 2011


from the studio

2011-08-02T14:17:00.002+03:00

Olivetree, ink on prepared paper, 2011

Apricot tree.

2011-08-01T22:59:00.002+03:00

Apricot tree, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

2011-08-01T16:02:00.001+03:00

Aerasftero, 2011

Ένας ουρανός ανασαίνει για σας,
ματάκια μου,
τώρα που απομείνατε ορφανά
από κάθε καημό,
και αγκαλιάζετε μονάχα ένα χρώμα.

Γιώργος Σαραντάρης

Λίγο πριν τον Αύγουστο...

2011-07-31T13:57:00.002+03:00

Tree, 2011

Ἡ καρδιά μας

Ἡ καρδιά μας εἶναι ἕνα κῦμα ποὺ δὲν σπάει στὴν ἀκρογιαλιά.     

Ποιὸς μαντεύει τὴ θάλασσα, ἀπ᾿ ὅπου βγαίνει ἡ καρδιά μας; 

Ἀλλὰ εἶναι ἡ καρδιά μας ἕνα κῦμα μυστικό, χωρὶς ἀφρό. 

Βουβὰ πιάνει μία στεριά. 

Καὶ ἀθόρυβα σκαλίζει τὸ ἀνάγλυφο ἑνὸς πόθου, 

ποὺ δὲν ξέρει ἀπογοήτευση καὶ ἀγνοεῖ τὴν ἡσυχία.

Γιῶργος Σαραντάρης

Ημερολόγιο Ιουλίου 2

2011-07-30T13:33:00.001+03:00

Unity, ink and pastel on paper, 2011

Ημερολόγιο Ιουλίου

2011-07-30T00:41:00.000+03:00

In (and alive)-are you?, 2011

Waterhorse

2011-07-28T14:01:00.001+03:00

Waterhorse, 2011

2011-07-26T22:18:00.000+03:00

Landscape

A time comes when we can see ourselves.

2011-07-26T22:14:00.001+03:00

2011-07-26T22:10:00.000+03:00

Treetrunk, 1991

What would we do without you Johann?

Χλωρό

2011-07-26T22:02:00.000+03:00

Trees, 2011

The path

2011-07-24T21:05:00.002+03:00

Traveling, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

I'll tell you a big secret, my friend: Don't wait for the Last Judgment. It happens every day.

~Albert Camus, The Fall, 1956

2011-07-24T19:05:00.001+03:00

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. ~William Shakespeare

Stillhorse, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

αμνός

2011-07-22T18:20:00.000+03:00

Sheepwalking, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

ανάσα

2011-07-19T15:48:00.000+03:00

Breathtree, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

2011-07-19T10:06:00.000+03:00

Olivetree, ink, 2011

Prelude 2

2011-07-18T19:02:00.000+03:00

Prelude 2, acrylics on prepared paper

Prelude

2011-07-18T18:18:00.000+03:00

Prelude, acrylics on prepared paper, 2011

olivetree

2011-07-17T07:20:00.000+03:00

Olivetree, water colour, 2011

2011-07-15T23:46:00.000+03:00

Outfront, water colours, 2011

2011-07-13T11:45:00.000+03:00


Orangetree

2011-07-10T15:07:00.001+03:00

In the orchard, water colour, 2011

2011-07-07T02:16:00.001+03:00

In the field, acrylic, ink, pastel, 2011

Landhorses

2011-07-04T15:21:00.001+03:00

Landhorses, acrylic, 2011

Oliveblue

2011-07-04T06:41:00.002+03:00

Oliveblue, acrylic, pastels, 2011

stillhorse

2011-07-04T02:09:00.003+03:00


Stillhorse, acrylic, soft pastel, 2011

Rocktree

2011-07-01T18:12:00.001+03:00

Rocktree, water colour, 1997

Firetree

2011-06-29T00:28:00.001+03:00


Firetree, water colour

Horsefield

2011-06-27T00:37:00.004+03:00

Horsefield, acrylic, oil pastel, charcoal pencil

Forget the suffering

You caused others.

Forget the suffering

Others caused you.

The waters run and run,

Springs sparkle and are done,

You walk the earth you are forgetting.

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.

What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?

A childlike sun grows warm.

A grandson and a great-grandson are born.

You are led by the hand once again.

The names of the rivers remain with you.

How endless those rivers seem!

Your fields lie fallow,

The city towers are not as they were.

You stand at the threshold mute.

Czeslaw Milosz

Και για μένα δεν προσεύχομαι μοναχά,
Αλλά για όλους, αυτούς που στάθηκαν μαζί μου στη σειρά
Στη ζέστα του Ιούλη, στο ψύχος του χειμώνα
Κάτω από τον τόσο κόκκινο, τον τοίχο, κι αθώρητο ακόμα.

Άννα Αχμάτοβα

Pinetree

2011-06-26T19:31:00.003+03:00

Καὶ θυμᾶμαι τὸν ἥλιο ποὺ γελοῦσε

Πού γελοῦσε καὶ δάκρυζε θυμᾶμαι

Γιῶργος Σαραντάρης

Pinetree, water colour

for Michael Longley

As a child, they could not keep me from wells

And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.

I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells

Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.

I savoured the rich crash when a bucket

Plummeted down at the end of a rope.

So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch

Fructified like any aquarium.

When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch

A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call

With a clean new music in it. And one

Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall

Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,

To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring

Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme

To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

Seamus Heaney

Personal Helicon

Όποιος ποτέ του δεν αγάπησε, θ' αγαπήσει, στο φως...

Γιώργος Σεφέρης

Bluehorse

2011-06-25T08:32:00.010+03:00

Ὕπαρξη,

Δῶρο στὴν ἁγνή μας οὐσία

Γιῶργος Σαραντάρης

Bluehorse, (watercolour, charcoal pencil, ink, pastel) 

Memory believes before knowing remembers.

William Faulkner

ζωή life

2011-06-17T18:09:00.004+03:00

Δύναμις, σθένος, ορθοστασία, ζωή

Strength, vigour, standing still, life

"on the move", ink drawing by fourteenth

The Little Prince: Chapter 21

2011-06-08T08:10:00.008+03:00

"Who are you?" asked the little prince, and added, "You are very pretty to look at."

"I am a fox," the fox said.

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince. "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince.

But, after some thought, he added:

"What does that mean--'tame'?"

"You do not live here," said the fox. "What is it that you are looking for?"

"I am looking for men," said the little prince. "What does that mean--'tame'?"

"Men," said the fox. "They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens.

These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?"

"No," said the little prince. "I am looking for friends. What does that mean--'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."

"'To establish ties'?"

"Just that," said the fox.

"To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys.

And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me.

To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.

But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.

To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."

Antoine de Saint - Exupery

Let your flute be still and your soul float through

Waves of sound formless as the waves of the sea,

For here your song lived and it wisely grew

Before it was forced into melody.

Rainer Maria Rilke

2011-06-05T08:03:00.003+03:00

The Parable Of The Old Men And The Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him, thy son.

Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,

A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

Wilfred Owen

Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand. Plato

2011-06-03T17:47:00.017+03:00

House On A Cliff

Indoors the tang of a tiny oil lamp. Outdoors

The winking signal on the waste of sea.

Indoors the sound of the wind. Outdoors the wind.

Indoors the locked heart and the lost key.

Outdoors the chill, the void, the siren. Indoors

The strong man pained to find his red blood cools,

While the blind clock grows louder, faster. Outdoors

The silent moon, the garrulous tides she rules.

Indoors ancestral curse-cum-blessing. Outdoors

The empty bowl of heaven, the empty deep.

Indoors a purposeful man who talks at cross

Purposes, to himself, in a broken sleep.

Louis MacNeice


Cy Twombly, Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire that Consumes All before It, 1978

Sojourns in the Parallel World

We live our lives of human passions,

cruelties, dreams, concepts,

crimes and the exercise of virtue

in and beside a world devoid

of our preoccupations, free

from apprehension--though affected,

certainly, by our actions. A world

parallel to our own though overlapping.

We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly

admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.

Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,

our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,

an hour even, of pure (almost pure)

response to that insouciant life:

cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing

pilgrimage of water, vast stillness

of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,

animal voices, mineral hum, wind

conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering

of fire to coal--then something tethered

in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch

of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.

No one discovers

just where we've been, when we're caught up again

into our own sphere (where we must

return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)

--but we have changed, a little.

Denise Levertov

Pebbles by fourteenth

St. Peter and the Angel

Delivered out of raw continual pain,

smell of darkness, groans of those others

to whom he was chained--

unchained, and led

past the sleepers,

door after door silently opening--

out!

And along a long street's

majestic emptiness under the moon:

one hand on the angel's shoulder, one

feeling the air before him,

eyes open but fixed . . .

And not till he saw the angel had left him,

alone and free to resume

the ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads of

what he had still to do,

not till then did he recognize

this was no dream. More frightening

than arrest, than being chained to his warders:

he could hear his own footsteps suddenly.

Had the angel's feet

made any sound? He could not recall.

No one had missed him, no one was in pursuit.

He himself must be

the key, now, to the next door,

the next terrors of freedom and joy.

Denise Levertov

2011-06-02T07:58:00.018+03:00

              Between going and staying the day wavers,
              in love with its own transparency.
              The circular afternoon is now a bay
              where the world in stillness rocks.

              All is visible and all elusive,
              all is near and can't be touched.
              Paper, book, pencil, glass,
              rest in the shade of their names.

              Time throbbing in my temples repeats
              the same unchanging syllable of blood.
              The light turns the indifferent wall
              into a ghostly theater of reflections.

              I find myself in the middle of an eye,
              watching myself in its blank stare.

              The moment scatters. Motionless,
              I stay and go: I am a pause.

Octavio Paz

Agora, Athens by Ben Hein

“And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.”

                            William Wordsworth

from I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

Ben van den Bussche

              Interval of Joy

              We were happy all that morning 
              God how happy.
              First the stones the leaves and the flowers shone 
              and then the sun 
              a huge sun all thorns but so very high in the heavens.

              A Nymph was gathering our cares and hanging them on the trees 
              a forest of Judas trees. 
              Cupids and satyrs were singing and playing
              and rosy limbs could be glimpsed amid black laurel 
              the flesh of young children.

              We were happy all that morning;
              the abyss was a closed well 
              in which the tender foot of a young faun stamped 
              do you remember its laughter: how happy we were!

              And then clouds rain and the damp earth; 
              you stopped laughing when you reclined in the hut,
              and opened your large eyes and gazed 
              on the archangel wielding a fiery sword   
              "We cannot explain it," you said, "We cannot explain it,
              " We find people impossible to understand 
              however much they may play with colors 
              they are all black".

              George Seferis
              translated by Kimon Friar

Διάλειμμα Χαρᾶς

Πεντέλη, ἄνοιξη

Εἴμασταν χαρούμενοι ὅλοι ἐκεῖνο τὸ πρωὶ

θεέ μου πόσο χαρούμενοι.

Πρῶτα γυάλιζαν οἱ πέτρες τὰ φύλλα τὰ λουλούδια

ἔπειτα ὁ ἥλιος

ἕνας μεγάλος ἥλιος ὅλο ἀγκάθια μὰ τόσο ψηλὰ στὸν οὐρανό.

Μιὰ νύμφη μάζευε τὶς ἔνοιές μας καὶ τὶς κρεμνοῦσε στὰ δέντρα

ἕνα δάσος ἀπὸ δέντρα τοῦ Ἰούδα.

Ἐρωτιδεῖς καὶ σάτυροι παῖζαν καὶ τραγουδοῦσαν

κι ἔβλεπες ρόδινα μέλη μέσα στὶς μαῦρες δάφνες

σάρκες μικρῶν παιδιῶν.

Εἴμασταν χαρούμενοι ὅλο τὸ πρωΐ

ἡ ἄβυσσο κλειστὸ πηγάδι

ὅπου χτυποῦσε τὸ τρυφερὸ πόδι ἑνὸς ἀνήλικου φαύνου

θυμᾶσαι τὸ γέλιο του: πόσο χαρούμενοι!

Ἔπειτα σύννεφα βροχὴ καὶ τὸ νοτισμένο χῶμα

ἔπαψες νὰ γελᾶς σὰν ἔγειρες μέσα στὴν καλύβα

κι ἄνοιξες τὰ μεγάλα σου τὰ μάτια κοιτάζοντας

τὸν ἀρχάγγελο νὰ γυμνάζεται μὲ μία πύρινη ρομφαία-

«Ἀνεξήγητο» εἶπες «ἀνεξήγητο

δὲν καταλαβαίνω τοὺς ἀνθρώπους

ὅσο καὶ νὰ παίζουν μὲ τὰ χρώματα

εἶναι ὅλοι τους μαῦροι».

Γίωργος Σεφέρης

2011-05-31T19:23:00.001+03:00

The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;

Marianne Moore

Joshua Tree by Sandy Redding

2011-05-30T15:12:00.006+03:00

H δύναμή σου πέλαγο κι η θέλησή μου βράχος...

Διονύσιος Σολωμός

Your strength an ocean and my will a rock...

Dionysios Solomos

2011-05-29T07:03:00.029+03:00

Mark Rothko No. 14

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,

Skip out for beer during commercials,

Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John

Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat

hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

Gil Scott-Heron

The human being is flesh and consciousness, body and soul;
his heart is an abyss which can only be filled by that which is godly.

Olivier Messiaen


Osceola Refetoff, Giacometti Sculptures - MOCA - Los Angeles, CA http://www.ospix.com/

I Am The People, The Mob

I AM the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.

Do you know that all the great work of the world is

done through me?

I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the

world's food and clothes.

I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons

come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And

then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.

I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand

for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.

I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.

I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and

makes me work and give up what I have. And I

forget.

Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red

drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.

When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the

People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer

forget who robbed me last year, who played me for

a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world

say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a

sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.

The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.

Carl Sandburg

Sotiris Sorongas

Σοφοί δε Προσιόντων

                                             Θεοί μεν γαρ μελλόντων, άνθρωποι δε γιγνομένων,
       σοφοί δε προσιόντων αισθάνονται.

       Φιλόστρατος, Τα ες τον Τυανέα Aπολλώνιον, VΙΙΙ, 7

                                 Οι άνθρωποι γνωρίζουν τα γινόμενα.
                                 Τα μέλλοντα γνωρίζουν οι θεοί,
                                 πλήρεις και μόνοι κάτοχοι πάντων των φώτων.
                                 Εκ των μελλόντων οι σοφοί τα προσερχόμενα
                                 αντιλαμβάνονται. Η ακοή

                                 αυτών κάποτε εν ώραις σοβαρών σπουδών
                                 ταράττεται. Η μυστική βοή
                                 τούς έρχεται των πλησιαζόντων γεγονότων.
                                 Και την προσέχουν ευλαβείς. Ενώ εις την οδόν
                                 έξω, ουδέν ακούουν οι λαοί.

Κ.Π. Καβάφης

(Από τα Ποιήματα 1897-1933, Ίκαρος 1984)

But the Wise Perceive Things about to Happen

    “For the gods perceive future things,
                                 ordinary people things in the present, but
                               the wise perceive things about to happen.”

                                               Philostratos, Life of Apollonios of Tyana, viii, 7.


                                Ordinary people know what’s happening now,
                                the gods know future things
                                because they alone are totally enlightened.
                                Of what’s to come the wise perceive
                                things about to happen.

                                Sometimes during moments of intense study
                                their hearing’s troubled: the hidden sound
                                of things approaching reaches them,
                                and they listen reverently, while in the street outside
                                the people hear nothing whatsoever.

                                C. P. Cavafis

love is a tree

2011-05-27T07:33:00.021+03:00

                             Love is a Tree


                             The intellectual is always showing off,

                             the lover is always getting lost.

                             The intellectual runs away.

                             afraid of drowning;

                             the whole business of love

                             is to drown in the sea.

                             Intellectuals plan their repose;

                             lovers are ashamed to rest.

                             The lover is always alone.

                             even surrounded by people;

                             like water and oil, he remains apart.

                             The man who goes to the trouble

                             of giving advice to a lover

                             get nothing. He's mocked by passion.

                             Love is like musk. It attracts attention.

                             Love is a tree, and the lovers are its shade.

                             Rumi

Paul Gauguin

                             Get out of my walled infinity

                             Of the star circle round my heart

                             Of my mouthful of sun

                             Get out of the comic sea of my blood

                             Of my flow of my ebb

                             Get out of my stranded silence

                             Get out I said get out

                             Get out of my living abyss

                             Of the bare father-tree within me

                             Get out how long must I cry get out

                             Get out of my bursting head

                             Get out just get out

                             Vasko Popa

"Look!" I cried. "Look at my face! Doesn't anybody know me?"

2011-05-25T15:40:00.005+03:00

The Execution

by Alden Nowlan

On the night of the execution
a man at the door
mistook me for the coroner.
"Press," I said.

But he didn't understand. He led me
into the wrong room
where the sheriff greeted me:
"You're late, Padre."

"You're wrong," I told him. "I'm Press."
"Yes, of course, Reverend Press."
We went down a stairway.

"Ah, Mr. Ellis," said the Deputy.
"Press!" I shouted. But he shoved me
through a black curtain.
The lights were so bright
I couldn't see the faces
of the men sitting
opposite. But, thank God, I thought
they can see me!

"Look!" I cried. "Look at my face!
Doesn't anybody know me?"

Then a hood covered my head.
"Don't make it harder for us," the hangman whispered.

Alden Nowlan was born into rural poverty in Stanley, Nova Scotia close to the small town of Windsor, Nova Scotia along a stretch of dirt road that he would later refer to as Desolation Creek. His father, Gordon Freeman Nowlan, worked sporadically as a manual labourer.

His mother, Grace Reese, was only 15 years of age when Nowlan was born, and she soon left the family, leaving Alden and her younger daughter Harriet, to the care of their paternal grandmother. The family discouraged education as a waste of time, and Nowlan left school after only four grades. At the age of 14, he went to work in the village sawmill. At the age of 16, Nowlan discovered the regional library. Each weekend he would walk or hitchhike eighteen miles to the library to get books, and secretly began to educate himself. "I wrote (as I read) in secret." Nowlan remembered. "My father would as soon have seen me wear lipstick."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alden_Nowlan

2011-05-23T18:30:00.004+03:00

Facing you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you in one single wave
of pride and knives!

Traitor
generals:
behold my dead house,
behold Spain destroyed:
yet instead of flowers from every dead house
burning metal flows,
yet from every hollow of Spain
Spain flows,
yet from every dead child rises a rifle with eyes,
yet from every crime bullets are born
that one day will find the target
of your heart.

You will ask why his poetry
doesn't speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,
of the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets,
come and see
the blood in the streets,
come and see the blood
in the streets!

Pablo Neruda

Christian Luna, Spain 2011

we find...

2011-05-23T00:35:00.003+03:00

Eyes open

eyes shut

we find

even in disgust

in the abyss and

in the boredom

we find.

Wols (Alfred Otto Wolfgang Schulze, 1913- 1951)

Henry Moore sculpture, photo by Timo Erkilli

Man looks at everything in terms of human interest:

to such an extent

that he does not comprehend things for themselves;

to nature he is useless;

he uses it, without being able

to render it the least service.

Wols

... the artist picks his way along, rejecting and accepting as he goes

2011-05-21T18:45:00.028+03:00

Thank you, Olivier...

My faith is the grand drama of my life.

I'm a believer, so I sing words of God to those who have no faith.

I give bird songs to those who dwell in cities and have never heard them,
make rhythms for those who know only military marches or jazz,
and paint colors for those who see none.

Olivier Messiaen

Nicolas de Stael

I am brutal, but I have, or did have, a mania for precision.—Valéry to André Gide

Pawel Pierscinski

Ἔχω δεῖ τὸν οὐρανό...

Ἔχω δεῖ τὸν οὐρανὸ μὲ τὰ μάτια μου
Μὲ τὰ μάτια μου ἄνοιξα τὰ μάτια του
Μὲ τὴ γλῶσσα μου μίλησε
Γίναμε ἀδελφοὶ καὶ κουβεντιάσαμε
Στρώσαμε τραπέζι καὶ δειπνήσαμε
Σὰν νὰ ἦταν ὁ καιρὸς ὅλος μπροστά μας

Καὶ θυμᾶμαι τὸν ἥλιο ποὺ γελοῦσε

Πού γελοῦσε καὶ δάκρυζε θυμᾶμαι

Γιώργος Σαραντάρης

Man... the human person...the free individual...the I...

at once torturer and victim...at once hunter and prey...

Francis Ponge

Reflections on the Statuettes,

Figures and Paintings of Alberto Giacometti

photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/telline/

2011-05-21T14:06:00.011+03:00

Brett Weston

The Thought Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:

Something else is alive

Beside the clock's loneliness

And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:

Something more near

Though deeper within darkness

Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow

A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;

Two eyes serve a movement, that now

And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow

Between trees, and warily a lame

Shadow lags by stump and in hollow

Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,

A widening deepening greenness,

Brilliantly, concentratedly,

Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox

It enters the dark hole of the head.

The window is starless still; the clock ticks,

The page is printed.

Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

2011-05-21T01:16:00.012+03:00

spotted feather was blown to my feet i kept that

feather and put it in my pocket with a sigh and

a flutter of my eye.

Olivia Melusine de Haulleville (OM)

2011-05-21T00:50:00.003+03:00

                                  Ώ άνθρωπε μη σκέφτεσαι
                                  στον κόσμο μην κοπιάζεις,
                                  την ώρα του θανάτου σου
                                  στο νου σου δεν την βάζεις.

Μ. Ατραΐδης (1920-1970), Ζεμζεμμανέ
Δίσκος Odeon A. 190353

2011-05-20T23:29:00.004+03:00

When I pronounce the word Future,

the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,

I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,

I make something no non-being can hold.

Wislawa Szymborska
“The Three Oddest Words"

2011-05-20T00:45:00.010+03:00

The poet’s dream stole over him like sunlight
And passed into the tenebrous thickets.
Seamus Heaney

Spiros Papaloukas

The function of music is to create soul,

by creating conditions for myth,

the root of all soul.

Where there is no soul,

music creates it.

Where there is soul,

music sustains it.

Jani Christou

Chios , 23rd Aug 1968

2011-05-18T22:43:00.015+03:00

A poet is a person translated into words.

                      Holy nothingness, have mercy on us.

                      Anna Kamienska
                    from The Shape of Breathing