Saturday, 26 December 2009


Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
John Burroughs

Sunday, 20 December 2009


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. )

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Friday, 20 November 2009


Elegy I: By Dryden

For mighty wars I thought to tune my lute,
And make my measures to my subject suit.
Six feet for ev'ry verse the muse design'd,
But Cupid laughing, when he saw my mind,
From ev'ry second verse a foot purloin'd.
"Who gave thee, boy, this arbitrary sway,
On subjects, not thy own, commands to lay,
Who Phoebus only, and his laws obey ?
'Tis more absurd, than if the queen of love
Should in Minerva's arms to battle move;
Or manly Pallas from that queen should take
Her torch, and o'er the dying lover shake.
In fields as well may Cynthia sow the corn,
Or Ceres wind in woods the bugle-horn;
As well may Phoebus quit the trembling string,
For sword and shield; and Mars may learn to sing.
Already thy dominions are too large;
Be not ambitious of a foreign charge.
If thou wilt reign o'er all, and ev'ry where,
The god of music for his harp may fear.
Thus when with soaring wings I seek renown,
Thou pluck'st my pinions, and I flutter down.
Could I on such mean thoughts my muse employ,
I want a mistress, or a blooming boy.
"Thus I complain'd; his bow the stripling bent,
And chose an arrow fit for his intent.
The shaft his purpose fatally pursues;
" Now, poet, there's a subject for thy muse,
"He said: (too well, alas, he knows his trade,)
For in my breast a mortal wound he made.
Far hence ye proud Hexameters remove,
My verse is pac'd, and tramell'd into love.
With myrtle wreaths my thoughtful brows enclose,
While in unequal verse I sing my woes.

Friday, 30 October 2009


by Ruth Padel

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
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.

THIS POEM WON THE 1996 National Poetry Prize

Sunday, 25 October 2009

Thursday, 15 October 2009


WH Auden, Cecil Day Lewis and Stephen Spender at the PEN conference in Venice, 1949.
Photograph: Hulton Getty

Sunday, 11 October 2009


We are pleased to let you know that your artwork/photography has been accepted into the 2010 calendar! The date you will be featured on is: 11/18/2010

Saturday, 3 October 2009


Michael Goldberg ."SARDINES"
Why I Am Not a Painter
Frank O’Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well.
for instance,Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it.
""Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.


Monday, 28 September 2009


I crave your mouth...

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda

Sunday, 20 September 2009


Emperor Tang -- Skeptic
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 --

Paul Eldridge

Friday, 18 September 2009


Evening After Rain.
(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.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

The Impersonation on Blogger

If you are aware of someone you know being impersonated on us blog, CAT...MEOW or a TRASPIRARE IL POMERIGGI DI SOLE please LET US KNOW

WE FIND :"Atra Spirare il Pomriggiodis" and "Elaine Erig - Cats Meow" in blogs from friends,thank´s

Sunday, 6 September 2009

Thursday, 3 September 2009


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.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009


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 ??

Sunday, 16 August 2009


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 i
n 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


The noon's greygolden meshes make
All night a veil,
The shorelamps in the sleeping lake
Laburnum tendrils trail.

The sly reeds whisper to the night
A name-- her name
And all my soul is a delight,
A swoon of shame.


The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.

Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! star of pain!
Highhearted youth comes not again

Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.

Be Not Sad

Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -
Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.

Thursday, 6 August 2009


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).
Song of the Silly Girls ------Las Ninãs
(Codex Calixtinus)


a round
a round of little girls
sad girls

a recess of judicious
little girls
an ode to obedience and good

the girls repeat the sound
the girls repeat the sound
then some girls hold the
like the pedal of a harmonium
while the rest melodize

it seems that they were told
to shut up
to sing
very softly

as if in petticoats

--I love freedom
--one says, making a bird
and spreading her arms wide

--me too
--says the other
locking herself in her room


there are two who are unbearable
and their voices are much shriller
than the others´

--Remember the calligrapher?
The one who spilled her inkwell
over your dress?


a round
a round of exhausted

a recess of shadows
an angle
along the wall

TeorÍa de los Colores
(del libro La ópera fantasma.
Buenos Aires, Bajo la luna, 2005)

Saturday, 1 August 2009


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 —
Bachelors Degree, 1999.1998 - 1999 Kunstakademie Duesseldorf (Jan Dibbets class), Duesseldorf, Germany — Guest Student.198Tanja Vujinovic
Oscilo consists of objects which each provide a different kind of sound by means
of touching or moving objects that contain pick-up microphones, miniature sound
producing devices, or loudspeakers. The length and intensity of the tactile contact
affect the audio signals produced.

Monday, 27 July 2009


Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
a swimming
I saw you,

All around you
were lettuces,
sea foamof the earth,
of the ocean
of the unknown,
of the
shadow, the
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black,
to deepest night.

Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
at one tip,
but constantly
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
in the swift
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
assault, silver
submarine fir,
of seaquakes,
only dead remains,
in all the market
was the only
purposeful form
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
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.

Pablo Neruda

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 .

Saturday, 11 July 2009


Khien Yimsiri

Musical Rhythm, 1949,

Bronze, 55 x 38 x 38 cm.

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.

Music from Thailand & Laos - Lak Paed Song

Music from Thailand & Laos - Mekong River Song

Found at bee mp3 search engine
Embed Code
Music from Thailand & Laos - Mekong River Song
Found at bee mp3 search engine

Tuesday, 7 July 2009


From Lisbon Portugal we received the invitation the talented Teresa Queiroz to the launch of his book .Sure will be a success!

Sunday, 5 July 2009


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

Thursday, 2 July 2009


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.

A Message

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.

Hot Line

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.

translated by Alamgir Hashmi

Wednesday, 24 June 2009


The Hand Of Disappearing

Every Time he puts his hand
On a spot of shadow
Shadow leaps
And dress it a glove.
Which way do you prefer her:
To be with you
Thinking of someone else
or to be
with someone else
thinking of you?
like a sleeping human
Dreaming that he is
sleeping beast dreaming that he is
sleeping human.
He doesn’t write
About her
on paper
he throws himself
on her
paper after paper.
You would love me the most:
when you lift up your hand
off me
I disappear.
Your hand
is the hand
of disappearing.

Monzer Masri

Born, lived, wrote, loved..and so near to death! been in a very few places.. Kavala, Diar baker, Lodeve...Paris.. and Londen latly... to read poetry.. My favorite place is Beirut..

Thursday, 18 June 2009


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 William Waterhouse (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
On treacherous Ocean where the Siren was heard.
The horrible shipwreck tilted the hull aslant
Deep down the abyss depth, immutable coffin.
It was a Gold Vessel. Her diaphanous sides
were revealing treasures that the secular crew,
Disgust and Neurosis, and Hatred, fought over.
What’s left of it under the brief abating storm?
What became of my heart, empty deserted ship?
Alas, it has sunk down in the abyss of Dream.

Friday, 12 June 2009


Edward Weston
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

Wednesday, 10 June 2009


Among the Blue

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).

Friday, 5 June 2009


The Mystery of the Genesis
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.

Wednesday, 3 June 2009


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
fear monte
dry tree
human lézarde
panes fighting
fear monte
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
watertight bulk
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

Sea robber
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
It workst
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
broken waves
seas fireball
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