Artist from Recife PE. BRAZIl, Gilvan Samico art is located close to the CORDEL As a function in the story, uses the formal arrangement of figures shaped into emblem to show: confrontation, aaxialidade, juxtaposition, repetition, the operating static.Tthe story works in another field full of shortcuts and deviations ranging from antiquity to the present.
Cordel( is a type of folk poetry was originally oral, and then printed on brochures or other rustic quality of paper, displayed for sale hanging from ropes or twine, which gave rise to the name that comes there from Portugal, which had a tradition hang flyers in strings. In northeastern Brazil, we are named (though people call this manifestation of brochure), but the tradition of the string is not perpetuated. That is, the brochure or Singapore could not be exposed to strings. They are written in a rhyming poems and some are illustrated with woodcuts, the same style of engraving used on the covers. The stanzas are the most common of ten, eight or six verses. The authors, or twine, recite these lines in a melodious and rhythmic, accompanied by guitar, as do readings or recitations very excited and animated to win over potential buyers. )
We're talking different kinds of vulnerability here. These icicles aren't going to last for ever Suspended in the ultra violet rays of a Dumfries sun. But here they hang, a frozen whirligig of lightning, And the famous American sculptor Who scrambles the world with his tripod For strangeness au naturel, got sunset to fill them. It's not comfortable, a double helix of opalescent fire * Wrapping round you, swishing your bark Down cotton you can't see, On which a sculptor planned his icicles, Working all day for that Mesopotamian magic Of last light before the dark In a suspended helter-skelter, lit By almost horizontal rays Making a mist-carousel from the House of Diamond, * A spiral of Pepsodent darkening to the shadowfrost Of cedars at the Great Gate of Kiev. Why it makes me think of opening the door to you I can't imagine.No one could be less Of an icicle.But there it is - Having put me down in felt-tip In the mystical appointment book, You shoot that quick * Inquiry-glance, head tilted, when I open up, Like coming in's another country, A country you want but have to get used to, hot From your bal masquй, making sure That what you found before's Still here: a spiral of touch and go, Lightning licking a treeImagining itself Aretha Franklin * Singing "You make me feel like a natural woman" In basso profondo, Firing the bark with its otherworld ice The way you fire, lifting me Off my own floor, legs furled Round your trunk as that tree goes up At an angle inside the lightning, roots in The orange and silver of Dumfries. * Now I'm the lightning now you, you are, As you pour yourself round me Entirely. No who's doing what and to who, Just a tangle of spiral and tree. You might wonder about sculptors who come all this way To make a mad thing that won't last. You know how it is: you spend a day, a whole life. Then the light's gone, you walk away * To the Galloway Paradise Hotel. Pine-logs, Cutlery, champagne - OK, But the important thing was making it. Hours, and you don't know how it'll be. Then something like light Arrives last moment, at speed reckoned Only by horizons: completing, surprising With its three hundred thousand * Kilometres per second. Still, even lightning has its moments of panic. You don't get icicles catching the midwinter sun In a perfect double helix in Dumfriesshire every day. And can they be good for each other, Lightning and tree? It'd make anyone, Wouldn't it, afraid? That rowan would adore To sleep and wake up in your arms * But's scared of getting burnt. And the lightning might ask, touching wood, "What do you want of me, now we're in the same Atomic chain?" What can the tree say?" Being the centre of all that you are to yourself -That'd be OK. Being my own body's fine But it needs yours to stay that way. "No one could live for ever in * A suspended gleam-on-the-edge, As if sky might tear any minute.Or not for ever for long.Those icicles Won't be surprise any more. The little snapped threads Blew away. Glamour left that hill in Dumfries. The sculptor went off with his black equipment. Adzes, twine, leather gloves. * What's left is a photo of A completely solitary sight In a book anyone might open. But whether our touch at the door gets forgotten Or turned into other sights, light, form, I hope you'll be truthful To me. At least as truthful as lightning ,Skinning a tree.
CLOSER than my body's shadow Follows the blind nameless One, Carrying in his tightened, yellow fist Time, the thin sputtering candle, And in his swollen cheeks Death, the grey wind. So fill and refill my deep, golden horn With the strongest wine, O wise men of China, Before declaiming in magnificent verse My immortality, That I may nod, My eyes glittering with dreams, And believe --
(It was written by the Tu Fu lived between 712 and 770. )
Sudden rain this afternoon Saved my thirsty garden. Now sunset steams the grass And the river softly glistens. Who’ll organize my scattered books? Tonight I’ll fill and fill my glass. I know they love to talk about me. But no one faults me for my reclusive life.
Du Fu (also known as Tu Fu) wrote in the High Tang period. His work is very diverse, but his most characteristic poems are autobiographical and historical, recording the effects of war on his own life.
Born in Germany and raised by turkish-egyptian parents, dancer and choreographer Nejla Y. Yatkin chose to bring the tragic life of Mata Hari on stage. In her solo dance show named 'Deconstructing Mata Hari', Nejla explores images often associated with Mata Hari such as exoticism, espionage, criminal proceedings, confusion and uncertainty. At the end of her show, the question whether Mata Hari deserved to be executed remains timelessly unanswered.
Astrid Riecken, The Washington Times the Best of Photojournalism -BOP2006.
This poem was nominated as Poem of 2005 for the Best poem in the world, penned by an African kid...amazing thought!!!
Black and White
When I born, I Black, When I grow up, I Black, When I go in Sun, I Black, When I scared, I Black, When I sick, I Black, And when I die, I still black. And you White fella, When you born, you Pink, When you grow up, you White, When you go in Sun, you Red, When you cold, you Blue, When you scared, you Yellow, When you sick, you Green, And when you die, you Gray. And you calling me Colored ??
..... James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish expatriate author of the 20th century. He is known for his landmark novel Ulisses (1922) and its controversial successor Finnegans Wake(1939), as well as the shor storycollection Dubliners (1914) and the semi-autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). Although he spent most of his adult life outside Ireland, Joyce's psychological and fictional universe is firmly rooted in his native Dublin, the city which provides the settings and much of the subject matter for all his fiction. In particular, his tempestuous early relationship with the Irish Roman Catholic Churchis reflected through a similar inner conflict in his recurrent alter ego Stephen Dedalus . As the result of his minute attentiveness to a personal locale and his self-imposed exile and influence throughout Europe notably in Paris, Joyce paradoxically became one of the most comospolitan yet one of the most regionally focused of all the English Language writers of his time
Mercedes Roffé is one of Argentina’s contemporary leading poets. Widely published in Latin America and Spain, her poetry has also been published in translation in Italy, Quebec, Romania, Belgium, and the United States. In 1998 she founded Pen Press, Plaquettes de Poesía, a successful tiny press dedicated to the publication of contemporary Spanish-language poets as well as poets of other languages in Spanish translation. She holds a diploma in Modern Languages from the University of Buenos Aires, and a Ph.D. in Spanish and Latin American Literatures from New York University. Among other distinctions, she was awarded a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship in poetry (2001).
Tanja Vujinovic (Tatjana Vujinović Kušej) is a visual and sound artist born in 1973 in ex-Yugoslavia. Education2006 - to present Faculty of Humanities Koper, University of Primorska. Slovenia — postgraduate studies in Philosophy and Theory of Visual Culture.1994 -1999
Faculty of Fine Arts, (Gordan Nikolic/Momo Antonovic class), Belgrade, Serbia —
Among the market greens, a bullet from the ocean depths, a swimming projectile, I saw you, dead.
All around you were lettuces, sea foamof the earth, carrots, grapes, but of the ocean truth, of the unknown, of the unfathomable shadow, the depths of the sea, the abyss, only you had survived, a pitch-black, varnished witness to deepest night.
Only you, well-aimed dark bullet from the abyss, mangled at one tip, but constantly reborn, at anchor in the current, winged fins windmilling in the swift flight of the marine shadow, a mourning arrow, dart of the sea, olive, oily fish. I saw you dead, a deceased king of my own ocean, green assault, silver submarine fir, seed of seaquakes, now only dead remains, yet in all the market yours was the only purposeful form amid the bewildering rout of nature; amid the fragile greens you were a solitary ship, armedamong the vegetables fin and prow black and oiled, as if you were still the vessel of the wind, the one and only pure ocean machine: unflawed, navigating the waters of death.
In tribute to Franz who was looking for him at the bottom of the sea ... Franz was buried in the waters of the Ocean after his early death due to kidneys disease .
Khien Yimsiri1922-1971 born in Bangkok graduated from Silpakorn University, Bangkok/Academy of Fine Arts of Rome, Italy Khien Yimsiri was among Professor Silpa Bhirasri's first students and has taken an immense interest in Thai art and cultural education. He was one of the first to influence the direction of development in contemporary art in Thailand. . Khien benefited greatly from education and extensive travel abroad, particularly during 1949 when he spent a year in England studying sculpture at Chelsea School of Art in London under the guidance of world renowned sculptor, Henn. Moore. He also spent two years in Italy studying sculpture and art history (1953-1954). The character of Khien Yimsiri's modern traditional sculptures differ completely from his realistic sculptures. In fact, the beauty of line, volume and shape that is intrinsic in the Buddha images of Sukothai School has made a very deep impression on Khien Yimsiri. His study and research about art in this era helps him to acquire a profound understanding of the timeless beauty in Buddha images. Apart from his remarkable sculpture Musical Rhythm (1946), Land of Smile (195O) was one of his masterpieces. This work of art was very important because it not only received a gold medal in 195O, but it was also representative of Thai people, peaceful people with generous hearts.
The milanese Guido Boggiani (1861-1901) of the northern italian society, journalist, pianist and painter, awarded with very important prizes . Very praised by the great italian poet and writer , Gabrielle D'Annunzio, adventured whit him to the Greek Islands. On a very luxury yacht which sailed them, Boggiani portrayed the classic ruins, at the time that he was being introduced to the mysteries of a new born art, the photography. Boggiani has passed away at he age of 40, at the Chaco(PAraguay), with his skull cracked by an indian stone ax. After being deadly wounded, he was decapitated, as a way of the impeding his soul to make witchcrafts, according to an indian belief. Almost an year passed till an italo-paraguayan mission found his bones
Parveen Shakir (1952 – 1994), author of Khushboo, Sad-Barg, Khud-Kalami, and Mah-e-Tamam, is one of the most popular poets in Pakistan. All her verse is written in Urdu and, along with other women poets of her generation, she was responsible for developing a new expression for women’s poetry in Pakistan.
It’s the same weather. The rain’s laughter rings in the trees, echoes. Their green branches wear golden flowers and smile thinking of someone. The breeze is a scarf, again the light-pink. The path to the garden that knows us is looking for us.The moment of moon-rise is waiting for us.
How he used to complain to me! So many people come between us we cannot talk. In the season’s first rain, first snow, full-moon nights, evening’s mild fragrance, morning’s blue cool, how helpless! How the heart aches!
Today between him and me there is no third There can be contac with a slight movement of the hand. But how many seasons have passed since hearing that voice. It is not hard for me to call upon him, but the truth isthe voices and the accents do not have the same tone The tune is the same but the hearts are not close enough.
Émile Nelligan born in Montreal in 1879.. In 1896, published some of his first poems under the pseudonym "Émile Kovar." influenced by French poets as Verlaine and Baudelaire. His poems were unique and almost revolutionary in Quebec where patriotic and Romantic poetry reigned. He stressed the subjective impression, the power of words and the music of language. He wrote about nostalgia and melancholy, and the conflicts of being a poet. In 1897, Nelligan joined the École littéraire de Montréal, a literary movement that sought to break free from the restrictive style of poetry that was so dominant in Quebec. At around this time, Nelligan's father tried to send him off to England as a Merchant Marine, unhappy with his son's choice of vocation. Nelligan continued to publish poems in local journals, and in 1898, he was readmitted into the École littéraire de Montréal, where he would often read his poems to the gathered crowd. In 1899, however, he was confined to an asylum due to mental illness. He died there in 1941. In 1903, although only 23 of his poems had been published, Nelligan's friend Louis Dantin and his mother collected 107 poems and published them as Émile Nelligan et son oeuvre. .
Depressed, inward-looking, sometimes closed in his small room on the second floor of 260 Avenue Laval, sometimes walking in the city center, Nelligan likes to attend Bonsecours walked and Jacques-Cartier, if stops at a church. We know few women in his entourage (Edith Larrivée, Idola Saint-Jean or Barry Robertine). It would, they say, lived a pastoral idyll with a Swiss German in the fall of 1895, but we do not know much, the same mystery surrounds some Gretchen in 1897. Women at Nelligan, sometimes real, sometimes fictional (artist, apparition, mythic allusion, negress lointaine) is beautifully embedded in the imagination. And above all the world dreams of love reflected in his poems, the portrait of his mother and the plans of St. Cecilia's fear of loving.
St. Cecilia" by John WilliamWaterhouse(1895)
The Gold Vessel Le Vaisseau d’Or
Translated from the French by Loup Kibiloki
It was a massive Ship carved out of solid Gold,
Its masts reaching azure, she sailed on unknown
With Aphrodite of love spreadeagled at the prow,
hair dishevelled and naked under excessive sun.
But it came that a night the ship struck the great reef
One of the true regenerative artist: an awakener of the eye and the evolving mind it serves. Regeneration was a quality that Weston brought to photography for more than three decades, defining both the limits and the generosities of his medium. Point Lobos was only one of his subjects, though he returned to it again and again, and took his last photograph there. His career spanned crucial years in American photography, and a restless pursuit of his art created a body of work that ranged over nudes, still lifes, industrial scenes, portraiture, landscape In 1937 Weston became the first photographer to receive the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship. For a year, he traveled around the western United States with Charis Wilson, creating large-scale landscapes, a subject he had not pursued in depth since his time in Mexico.
The grant was renewed in 1938, part of which Weston spent at his new residence in Carmel, developing and printing negatives made in the preceding months.Weston created some 1,400 negatives during this remarkably productive time, and his visual approach became increasingly expansive. His deliberate, methodical technique of the late 1920s and early 1930s, when he spent hours creating single still life arrangements in his studio, gave way to greater spontaneity and an embrace of diverse views. His frame now encompassed hills, valleys, and coastlines, not just the rocks and tree stumps found there. He directed his attention to less static subjects, incorporating moving elements such as breaking waves or drifting clouds. , and any other subject that touched his visual imagination
Somehow I wish could say it was indifference not love that found the coordinates for cormorants among the blue the blue-white gulls
tell you that we have lived once and will not come this way again
say to you that as long as art teaches language of recovery eternal reminders of morning will grow on our sweat, spume, tick softly on our lips, on our lips.
Gerry McGrath was born in Helensburgh, near Glasgow, in 1962 and studied at Strathclyde University before becominga teacher. He now lives in North Ayrshire with his wife, Kate, and young son, Liam. He worked as a teacher of modern languages for seven years until 2000. He received a Robert Louis Stevenson Memorial Award in2004. His poems have appeared in Edinburgh Review, Being Alive, in Painted, Spoken and in PN Review, and a selection were published in Carcanet's New Poetries IV: An Anthology (2007).
Jorge Jimenez Deredia is a universal artist, born in Costa Rica but Italian by adoption, an expert on the Renaissance and the first non-European in the new millennium to be asked to create a sculpture for St, Peter´s in Rome.
Romanian-born French poet and essayist known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.The Dadaist movement originated in Zürich during World War I; Tzara wrote the first Dada texts - La Premiére Aventure cèleste de Monsieur Antipyrine (1916; "The First Heavenly Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine") and Vingt-cinq poémes (1918; "Twenty-Five Poems") - and the movement's manifestos, Sept manifestes Dada (1924; "Seven Dada Manifestos"). In Paris he engaged in tumultuous activities with André Breton, Philippe Soupault, and Louis Aragon to shock the public and to disintegrate the structures of language. About 1930, weary of nihilism and destruction, he joined his friends in the more constructive activities of Surrealism. He devoted much of his time to the reconciliation of Surrealism and Marxism and joined the Communist Party in 1936 and the French Resistance movement during World War II. These political commitments brought him closer to his fellow human beings, and he gradually matured into a lyrical poet. His poems revealed the anguish of his soul, caught between revolt and wonderment at the daily tragedy of the human condition. His mature works started with L'Homme approximatif (1931; "The Approximate Man") and continued with Parler seul (1950; "Speaking Alone") and La Face intèrieure (1953; "The Inner Face"). In these, the anarchically scrambled words of Dada were replaced with a difficult but humanized language.
On the sea stars is among the most beautiful poetry ever written in French.
The poem fits into the "post-dadaïste" Tzara period. dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorca.
Likely written towards the end of the years 1930s.
__The path of sea stars
Tristan Tzara poem_
What wind on the solitude of the world
so I remember human beings dearf
rail désolations aspirées by the death
beyond any heavy chasses time
the storm délectait to the nearest end
the sand is already arrondissait his hip lasts
but on the mountains of the pockets of fire
vidaient safe blows their prey light
blême and short such friend turns off
which person cannot say the words contour
and no appeal to the horizon has time to rescue
its measurable form only to his disappearance
and a Flash to another
the animal still tends his bitter rump
along the enemy centuries
through fields some parade other greed
and in its failure to profile the memory
as the wood that cracca in sign of presence
and of disparate need
There is also the fruit
and I am not forgetting the wheat
and the sweat gave them push monte throat
Yet we know the price of pain
the wings of oblivion and infinis drilling
at the underneath of life
words arriving to enter the facts
just to serve for laughs
the night horse has galopé trees to the sea
and held the reins of thousand charitable representations
It has dragged the along hedges
where men breasts caught the assault
with all whisper stuck to its flanks
among the huge rugissements to rattrapaient while fleeing the power of water
immense they are succédaient while that of any small whisper
could not be englouits and surnageaient
in the invincible solitude where spent tunnels
forests cities harnachées seas herds
a single man to the breath of several countries
met cascading and slippery on a smooth blade
of the fire unknown introduced sometimes at night
for the loss of those sleep assembles
in their deep remember
but talk more of those that bound
to the fragile branches to the bad moods of nature
even those who suffer harsh blows
tend the neck and on their body treadmill
when birds do not picorent Sun seeds
sound rigid boots of the conquerors
they are out of my memory
birds seek other spring jobs
to their calculations of sinécures
by charming herds of affolements
the wind at their kits
that the desert them is counted
the devil for warnings
Entertainment poppies and companys
crape the cold
No word is fairly soft
to bring the child of the roads
lost in the head
a man at the edge of the season
It looks at the vault
and look at the abyss
headsthe smoke in the throat
the roof is dwindling
but the famous animal arc-bouté
in the attention of the muscles and weird under the spasms
teep rock éclair leak in rock
is the appetite of joy déchaine
the morning rebuilt his world
to measure his yoke
You te penches under the expectation
and te lèves and whenever you salues drunk sea at your feet
on the sea star road
filed by columns of uncertainty
You te penches you te lèves
salutes brassés by bands
and on the heap must yet thou procedures
even while avoiding the most beautiful need yet thou procedures
You te penches
on the sea star road
my brothers shout of pain at the other end
needed them intact
What are the hands of the sea
l’on gives men nothing
glorious path on the path of the sea stars
"alcachofas alcachofas" is my beautiful Madrid
in the eyes of Tin fruity voice
that is open to all winds
vague fire iron waves
It's the splendours of the sea
needed them intact
those renversées broken branches
on the sea star road
where leads this path it leads to pain
men fall when they want to recover
men sing because they have tasteddeath
yet must walk
he path of the stars of sea by columns of uncertainty
but it empêtre in the voice of the lianas"
alcachofas alcachofas" is my beautiful Madrid at the low lights
open to all winds
calling me - years - of the discarded
It is a head of King damn son son
It is a head is the wave that sweeping
It is yet on the path of the sea stars
hands are open
They speak the beauty of the glory
nothing as reflections of tiny heave
nand imperceptible eyes surround clignements
but it is open to all winds Madrid
who tramples the floor in my head
alcachofas alcachofasthe screams capitals raidis
ouvre_ you infinite heart
that enters the path of the stars
in your numbers life as the sand
and the joy of the seas
contains the Sun
in the chest where shines overnight human
the man of today ' today on the sea star road
has planted the advanced sign of life
as it must live
the flight freely chosen of the bird jusqu’à deat
hand jusqu’à the end of the stones and ages
eyes fixed on the only certainty of the world
whose drips light rabotant trapped on the ground ______________________________________________