A TRASPIRARE IL POMERIGGI DI SOLE

BY TRALDI

2011-10-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

Painted in 1926 by TRALDI this magnificent portrait,( PICTURED ignored)

CUTE

2011-09-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

PALOMA

PARINTINS

2011-07-05T13:31:00.001-07:00

BEAUTIFUL

2011-06-12T11:56:00.001-07:00

Chinese blue dreams

2011-04-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

about Sebastian

2011-01-21T12:16:00.001-08:00

Ranier Maria Rilke's poem

Saint Sebastian

Lying like a he is, quite

put off by the great will.

Far distant as mothers when they breastfeed

and is bound like a wreath.

And get the arrows, now and now

and when they would spring from his loins,

iron trembling with the free ends.

But he smiles dark, unharmed.

Once only his grief is great;

and the eyes are just painful

to deny something as small thing

and when she let go of contempt

the destroyer of a beautiful thing.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Winter 1905/06, Meudon

DILMA ROUSEFF

2010-11-01T04:43:00.000-07:00

"THAT´S THE GIRL "

LOST

2010-07-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

SAHA BORIS

2010-06-18T07:00:00.001-07:00

WE LOST SAHA BORIS!

He died on 16/06/2010 .

We are

immersed

in deep sorrow.

.RED CROSS MONTH.......

2010-04-06T08:25:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

March is American...

...Red Cross Month. I had just had an amazing day walking through Philadelphia to The Book Trader with my good friend Frank Sherlock. It was beautiful to recharge in the sunlight and run into old friends, people, trees, buildings.

After Frank went home I walked over to the library where I found a table proclaiming that March is American Red Cross Month. Brochures of how GOOD we are, what GOOD people we are helping THE WORLD. I walked up to the table and said to the young man, "MARCH IS AMERICAN INVASION OF IRAQ MONTH!"

We had a debate, a heated back and forth, and a librarian asked him if he was okay. IS HE OKAY? There's something incredibly SINISTER about this country, how we can invade and occupy countries, be responsible for OVER A MILLION people losing their lives, and MILLIONS more suffering the consequences of our greed, yet we manage to make ourselves look like GOOD people who are HERE TO RESUCE THE WORLD.

HOW DARE WE! It is times LIKE THIS where I understand TRULY UNDERSTAND the MANY American Iraq War Vets who come home after their tour of duty in Iraq, LOSE THEIR FUCKING MINDS at shopping malls and movie theaters and restaurants because NO ONE is allowing the truth about who we are and what it is we're doing AND THEN THEY GO to Germany where their base was located, marry German women, and denounce their US citizenship. I understand it COMPLETELY that kind of anger!

AND THEN OF COURSE THERE ARE THE STUPID GAY PEOPLE who want to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell so that our military can be a nice cozy PC world of tenderness with machine guns at the ready! My petition, in case you haven't yet seen it, it is here!

THE WORST THING THOUGH was walking home after the library, and I look up at the massive digital screen on the PECO building many stories above the city and it reads (I'm NOT KIDDING!) MARCH IS AMERICAN RED CROSS MONTH! OH MY GOD, I couldn't believe it!

CAConrad

# posted by a Philly Sound Poet PhillySound : 11:49 PM

CARTOON VIOLENCE - FERNANDO BOTERO ´S ABU GHRAIB PAINTINGS

2010-03-28T06:49:00.000-07:00

Yet Botero, by tackling this imagery in a focused and extended series, has demonstrated not only that such things can be represented in art but also that a figurative, cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity. It's no coincidence that one of the most profound and affecting works of Holocaust literature—Spiegelman'sMaus—is a comic book. To some viewers, the chubby figures in Botero's paintings may appear ridiculous, grotesque—but so were the monstrous abuses of power to which they testify.

12tTH INTERNATIONAL ARCHITECTURE EXHIBITION

2010-03-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

The 12th International Architecture Exhibition, directed by Kazuyo Sejima and titledPeople meet in architecture, will run in Venice 29th August to 21st November 2010(preview on 26th, 27th and 28th August).
Two major projects will be developed for the 12th Exhibition: the Architecture Saturdays (a series of conversations, performances and weekly discussions with architects and critics) and the greater involvement of the Universities (educational opportunities for students of Architecture, Engineering, Design, etc.).

ITS ONLY ROCK AND ROLL-ROBERTO PIVA

2010-03-18T12:27:00.000-07:00

I do not believe my eyes, I want to see beyond a distant landscape spoil all the influences you do not think right you tell me what you think you are, let's look at the sky and tell me immaturity, I will suffer and I do not pray and not I pray, the new language limits the double-think, the dictionary because fool me wearing this shirt, this outfit is not what I am, I am beyond any part of your clothing slim. And flying with the subtlety of the Red Sea. People rebel bright look the dark and I clearly show that certain points are divisive and not tell your donations on the screen of something evil things someone pitched temper by telling me random parts.

"Poema XIV'

of 20 poems with Broccoli,

dedicated to Carlinhos:

"I will crush your brain.'ll shred your
beardless & white thighs.
will squander the wealth of your
adolescence. I will burn your
eyes with a hot iron.
will incinerate your heart of flesh &
of your ashes will be manufactured
substance of crazed l

ove letters. "(20 Poems with Broccoli, 1981)

MY SUN CLOCK

2010-03-13T12:55:00.000-08:00

STEEL

BASELITZ

2010-03-10T18:58:00.000-08:00

"TOWER FOR THE WATER-POWERED SPHERE AND GLOBE".

2010-01-20T17:34:00.000-08:00

Song's greatest project was the 40-foot-tall Su Song's water-powered astronomical clocktower constructed in Kaifeng, the wooden pilot model completed in 1088, the bronze components cast by 1090, while the wholly finished work was completed by 1094 during the reign of Emperor Zhezong of Song.[40][41] The emperor had previously commissioned Han Gonglian, Acting Secretary of the Ministry of Personnel, to head the project, but the leadership position was instead handed down to Su Song. The emperor ordered in 1086 for Su to reconstruct the hun yi, or "armillary clock", for a new clock-tower in the capital city. Su worked with the aid of Han Gong-lian, who applied his extensive knowledge of mathematics to the construction of the clock-tower.[42] A small-scale wooden model was first crafted by Su Song, testing its intricate parts before applying it to an actual full-scale clock tower.[43] In the end, the clock-tower had many impressive features, such as the water-powered, rotating armillary sphere crowning the top-level and weighing some 10 to 20 tons,[43] a bronze celestial globe located in the middle that was 4.5 feet in diameter,[43] mechanically-timed and rotating manikins dressed in miniature Chinese clothes that would exit miniature opening doors to announce the time of day by presenting designated reading plaques, ringing bells and gongs, or beating drums,[44] a sophisticated use of oblique gears and an escapement mechanism,[45] as well as an exterior facade of a fanciful Chinese pagoda. Upon its completion, the tower was called the Shui Yun Yi Xiang Tai, or "Tower for the Water-Powered Sphere and Globe".

THE OTHERS

2010-01-15T11:24:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_UOwklALcuI

We believe that good storytelling strengthens social movements, so every year we want to select stories from Resist to turn into films. During 2008 we asked people to upload their stories of resistance and spoke with many writers and political thinkers.
Using what we've learnt, we've chosen to make our first film with the actor Gael Garcia Bernal about the wall that is being built between Mexico and America.The Wall that is being built along the entire USA border with Mexico. It is one of the greatest symbols of the divisions between rich and poor, and inspires a major investigation into the systemic causes of poverty and migration

ONLY HIMSELFT, AGAIN AND AGAIN, TRAPPED

2010-01-08T07:43:00.000-08:00

Orpheus Alone

by Mark Strand

It was an adventure much could be made of: a walk
On the shores of the darkest known river,

Among the hooded, shoving crowds, by steaming rocks

And rows of ruined huts half buried in the muck;

Then to the great court with its marble yard

Whose emptiness gave him the creeps, and to sit there

In the sunken silence of the place and speak

Of what he had lost, what he still possessed of his loss,

And, then, pulling out all the stops, describing her eyes,

Her forehead where the golden light of evening spread,

The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, everything

Down to her thighs and calves, letting the words come,

As if lifted from sleep, to drift upstream,

Against the water's will, where all the condemned

And pointless labor, stunned by his voice's cadence,

Would come to a halt, and even the crazed, disheveled

Furies, for the first time, would weep, and the soot-filled
Air would clear just enough for her, the lost bride,
To step through the image of herself and be seen in the light.
As everyone knows, this was the first great poem,
Which was followed by days of sitting around
In the houses of friends, with his head back, his eyes
Closed, trying to will her return, but finding
Only himself, again and again, trapped
In the chill of his loss, and, finally,
Without a word, taking off to wander the hills
Outside of town, where he stayed until he had shaken
The image of love and put in its place the world
As he wished it would be, urging its shape and measure
Into speech of such newness that the world was swayed,
And trees suddenly appeared in the bare place
Where he spoke and lifted their limbs and swept
The tender grass with the gowns of their shade,
And stones, weightless for once, came and set themselves there,
And small animals lay in the miraculous fields of grain
And aisles of corn, and slept. The voice of light
Had come forth from the body of fire, and each thing
Rose from its depths and shone as it never had.
And that was the second great poem,
Which no one recalls anymore. The third and greatest
Came into the world as the world, out of the unsayable,
Invisible source of all longing to be; it came
As things come that will perish, to be seen or heard
Awhile, like the coating of frost or the movement
Of wind, and then no more; it came in the middle of sleep
Like a door to the infinite, and, circled by flame,
Came again at the moment of waking, and, sometimes,
Remote and small, it came as a vision with trees
By a weaving stream, brushing the bank
With their violet shade, with somebody’s limbs
Scattered among the matted, mildewed leaves nearby,
With his severed head rolling under the waves,
Breaking the shifting columns of light into a swirl
Of slivers and flecks; it came in a language
Untouched by pity, in lines, lavish and dark,
Where death is reborn and sent into the world as a gift,
So the future, with no voice of its own, nor hope
Of ever becoming more than it will be, might mourn.

“Orpheus Alone,” from The Continuous Life: Poems by Mark Strand, © 1990 by Mark Strand. Used by permission oAlfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

The Women of the Avant-Garde / Avant-Garde All the Time : The Poetry Foundation

2010-01-04T18:38:00.000-08:00

http://feeds.poetryfoundation.org/~r/AvantGardeAllTheTime/~5/TuSBCBLaen0/AGAT-WomenOfAvant-part1-10-19-09.mp3

NEW YEAR !

2009-12-30T21:17:00.001-08:00

Comments and Graphics - New Year Layouts - Photobucket

WAITING

2009-12-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

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

BRAZILIAN PRINTS- XX CENTURY

2009-12-20T06:34:00.000-08:00

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. )

FOR CHRISTMAS

2009-12-15T21:05:00.000-08:00

The best Christmas wish!

ELEGY I

2009-11-20T18:12:00.000-08:00

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.

ICICLES ROUND A TREE IN DUMFRIESSHIRE

2009-10-30T18:34:00.000-07:00

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
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.

THIS POEM WON THE 1996 National Poetry Prize

FANTASTIC MEETINGS AND NASTY ATTITUDE !

2009-10-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

They were not really gentlemen

THREE COOL GUYS IN VENICE

2009-10-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

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

Photograph: Hulton Getty

2010-CALENDAR

2009-10-11T08:12:00.001-07:00

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

WHY I AM NOT A PAINTER

2009-10-03T11:59:00.000-07:00

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.

(1971)

I CRAVE YOUR MOUTH .....

2009-09-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

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

EMPEROR TANG-SKEPTIC

2009-09-20T11:29:00.000-07:00

...................................................................................................

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

EVENING AFTER RAIN

2009-09-18T08:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Thank you for your cooperation friends!

2009-09-09T09:24:00.001-07:00

2009-09-08T05:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-06T06:23:00.000-07:00

DECONSTRUCTING MATA HARI

2009-09-03T19:51:00.000-07:00

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.

BLACK AND WHITE

2009-09-02T15:01:00.000-07:00

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 ??

ERYKAH BADU

2009-08-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

BAHNHOFSTRASSE

2009-08-16T11:33:00.000-07:00

.....
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

Alone

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.

Bahnhofstrasse

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.

LAS NINÃS - SONG OF THE SILLY GIRLS

2009-08-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

MERCEDES ROFFÉ

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

tired

messy

sad girls

*
a recess of judicious

industrious

little girls

an ode to obedience and good

will

good

manners

the girls repeat the sound

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

the girls repeat the sound

oooooooooo

then some girls hold the

mmmmmm

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

face

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?

--nope.

*

a round

a round of exhausted

lifeless

girls

a recess of shadows

an angle

sliding

along the wall

TeorÍa de los Colores

(del libro La ópera fantasma.

Buenos Aires, Bajo la luna, 2005)

OSCILO 1

2009-08-01T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

http://www.exstat.org/video-sound-works_files/Oscilo-DOE507.swf

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.

ODE TO A LARGE TUNA IN THE MARKET

2009-07-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

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.

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 .

MUSICAL RHYTHM

2009-07-11T13:41:00.000-07:00

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

TERESA QUEIROZ

2009-07-07T08:05:00.000-07:00

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

GUIDO BOGGIANI

2009-07-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

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

HOT LINE

2009-07-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

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

THE HAND OF DISAPPEARING

2009-06-24T07:50:00.000-07:00

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.

___________________________2/7/1995

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..

THE LONELY DREAMER

2009-06-18T12:07:00.001-07:00

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

seas

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.

POINT LOBOS

2009-06-12T13:38:00.000-07:00

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

THE BLUE-WHITE GULLS

2009-06-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

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).

JIMÉNEZ DEREDIA

2009-06-05T12:44:00.001-07:00

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.

THE PATH OF SEA STARS

2009-06-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

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
______________________________________________

.....

2009-06-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

.....................

....................................................

........................

HAROLD NORSE AND THE BEAT HOTEL

2009-05-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

The hotel, the patronne Madame Rachou and the stair well.
Owing to the less stringent laws in force at the time,
the smoking of hashish and marijuana was, among some
of the residents, a social activit y like any other in the hotel.
The distinctive smell would, day or night, drift from
someof the ill-fitting doors on to the stairs..beat Hotel

Harold Norse was part of the magical interlude of "The Beat Hotel". Along with William Burroughs and Brion Gysin he playe d a pivotal part in the seeds that led to cyberspace.

Excerpts from "Beat Hotel":

"Bob sat up straight in bed, straining to listen. Nothing. Voices crackled as from an old radio and figures strirred in some numb echo-chamber of his brain, like newspapers down a windy street. He felt enclosed in a soundproof room. He had no idea where he was. He looked around without comprehension, not even knowing what city he was in. Low rapid monologue, nervous whisper of junk journey, endless trips -- "... in Tangier, for example, I dug Arabic from Hebrew -- same language you see -- you get these programs from Radio Cario -- I can tell what they're saying -- school broadcasts for example: Little Mohammed, says teacher, what do you do when you meet a Jew? Kill him. Little Mohammed, what do you do when you meet two Jews? I call ten Arabs to kill 'em...Good-natured laughter and applause. Like Little Mohammed is six years old, dig. And didja know Jews ain't allowed to ride camels because that way they're higher than an Arab...?"
"Aladdin and Titania still in Tangier?"
"Too stoned to move...three years in the Casbah..empty palace..mosaicwalls...six kids...rush mats...a cat...a groundhog..nah, I forgot...somebody ate the groundhog...made groundhog soup..."
"Man, all they ever eat is brownies, majoun brownies...hash, honey, sesame seeds, anise, dates, cinnamon...check runs out each month...the bread goes for hash and grass...even the kids are stoned...contact high...they were conceived high, Aladdin says.,.those little girls giggle all the time...lean against each other for support and giggle...never talk ..."
"Aladdin don't say much...and Titania...has any one ever heard her say a word?"
"They're living in the UNIVERSE, man...no gas...no water...no electricity...only the blinding light of the void...in hotel universe...hotel nirvana..."
"Blue dream of space...celestial flash of blue light in crystal blue silence...on blue mosaic floors...lattice light on silent mosaic heads..."
"Aladdin's a joint machine...sits and rolls till he's catatonic...a holyroller...shit is his religion...best dealer in Tangier...you always get a good count."
"Yeh, best mind in the business...except for Leary..."
"They're buddies...on the astral plane...Communicate via astral post office... Saves money in stamps ...."

Angry with journalists who called the hotel a "flea-bag shrine", Harold Norse used their expression to prophesy;"The flea-bag shrine will be documented by art historians".

Patrick Shelley, the English sensualist painter, and AllenGinsberg, Room 25. Christmas 1956.
Shelley introduced me to the Beat Hotel in the winter of that year.

Light Control Panel for each of the rooms in the Beat Hotel.

The bulb glowed dimly or brightlyaccording to the amount

of electricity beiing used.

photographer Harold Chapman

HAROLD NORSE

2009-05-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

Queer Beat Poet

Political activist and writer Born 1916, New York City. B.A., Brooklyn College 1938; M.A., New York University 1951. At age 22 in 1939 he became a member of W. H. Auden's inner circle, cited by scholar/critic Nicholas Jenkins in The New Yorker, April 1, 1996. William Carlos Williams called him "the best poet of your generation." The 10-year correspondence between Norse and Williams (1951-1961) was published by Bright Tyger, San Francisco 1990. [...]
That year City Lights published Norse's Hotel Nirvana: Selected Poems, establishing him among the leading Beat poets. He was nominated for the 1974 National Book Award.Norse lived in the "Beat Hotel" in Paris, 1960-63, with William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso. There he wrote his experimental cut-up novel, Beat Hotel, published in German by Maro Verlag, Augsburg 1973, now in its 30th printing. [...]
With Carnivorous Saint: Gay Poems 1941-1976, Gay Sunshine Press 1977, Norse became the leading gay liberation poet. His Memoirs of a Bastard Angel (William Morrow), 1989, preface by James Baldwin, further established his reputation. [...]Norse has produced 12 books of poetry and 3 of prose. He has received 2 NEA poetry grants and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Poetry Association.

Classic Frieze in a Garage

I was walking thru the city past umberembassies

& pine-lined palaces

fat palms beside balconies

the heat something

you could really touch

the kids with cunning

delinquent faces

after american sailors

-thinking of nerval tends-moi le pausilippe

et la mer d'Italie & living

on the hill posillipo under

a gangster's dancefloor

among goldfinches

on the bay of naples

in a stone cottage

over tufa caves in which the sea

crashed in winter sweet gerad

one hundred years

have made the desolation greater

the tower is really down & the sun blackened

beyond despair the loudspeaker drowns

finches cliffs caves

all in the hands of racketeers

yet i have passed my time dreaming thru this

fantastic wreck

walking thru incendiary alleys of crowded laundry

with yellow gourds in windows &

crumbling masonry of wars

human corruption

so thick and hopeless that i laugh

when suddenly i saw among the oil & greasy rags

& wheels & axles of a garage

the carved nude figures of

a classic frieze

there above the dismantled

parts of cars!

perfect! & how strange! garage

swallows sarcophagus!

mechanic calmly spraying

paint on a

fender

observed in turn by lapith and centaury

flow

of unthinking flesh!

frank thighs!eyes

of aphrodite!

the myth of the mediterranean

was in that garage

where the brown wiry

youths saw nothing unusual

at their work

among dead heroes & gods

but i saw hermes in the rainbow

of the dark oil on the floor

reflected there

& the wild hair of the sybil

as her words bubbled

mad and drowned

beneath the motor's roar

TAROT

2009-05-23T13:03:00.000-07:00

Heinrick Ulrick

(Nurremberg
approx. 1572 - 1621)
The Jester-Etching

THE ALLEGORIES OF THE TAROTS
The allegories which appear on the trump cards belong to the iconographical tradition common to most of Europe from the 13th century. They may be found in the decorations of the Gothic cathedrals, in the frescoes of public buildings, and in encyclopaedic and astrological manuscripts. In practice, the figures represented on the cards of the Triumphs are a real Biblia Pauperum, that means a "the Poor men's Bible". Playing the cards, people directly drew from these a knowledge of the Christian mysticism and its contents, concepts that were continually recalled in their minds, according to the method of the Ars Memoriae of the time. They may be readily interpreted by reference to the cultural context of the courts of northern Italy, and their taste for moralizing images derived both from religious tradition and classical mythology. For the ancient gods continued to play a role in medieval Christian culture, even though their characters were different from those of the original divinities.On the one hand, they were held to be civilizing heroes who taught men many arts, like Minerva, the first weaver, or Apollo, the medical god. On the other hand, they were interpreted as allegories of virtue and vice, and it is in this sense that they appear on some of theTarot cards. Obvious examples include Strength, represented by the mythical Hercules as he destroys the Nemean Lion - the symbol of animal instinct; Love, represented as Cupid ready to launch his darts against incautious lovers; Prudence, represented by Saturn; and the Modesty of Diana, the Immodesty of Venus, the Truth of Apollo illuminating Earth with the disc of the sun.Many Tarot figures clearly employ Christian iconography. For example, the World is sometimes represented by the Celestial Jerusalem placed inside a sphere supported by angels or dominated by Celestial Glory. The card bearing the Popess, identical to that in Giotto's frescoes in the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, derives from the image of Faith. Amongst many other possible examples, representations of virtues such as Temperance, Justice and Fortitude echo the classical iconography to be found in the sculpture of Gothic cathedrals or the minatures of the sacred books.Other sources of inspiration include ancient astrological treatises. The figure of the Bagatto, or Juggler, appears among the Children of the Moon - that is to say, the trades which are influenced by the moon. The Misero, or Fool, is found among the Children of Saturn, the Lovers among the Children of Venus, the Pope among the Children of Jupiter, and the Emperor among the Children of the Sun. Moreover, astrologers appear in several packs of trumps as representations of the Moon or the Stars.Lastly, there are images drawn from everyday life. An extremely interesting example is the figure of the Hanged Man, which refers to the punishment inflicted upon traitors.In the Bolognini Chapel of the church of San Petronio in Bologna an identical figure is represented in a fresco by Giovanni da Modena as the retaliation punishment for idolaters, since idolatry was considered the most awful kind of betrayal because addressed to the disownment of the Creator. Although the punishment of hanging by a leg has been represented in other works, the San Petronio fresco is the only known example which concides perfectly with the Tarot card.

AN INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITIONunder the patronage ofMinistry for the Cultural and Environmental Heritage and Foreign Office Protocol no. 16638 dated January 1995LE TAROT Cultural Trust for Historical Studies and ResearchStradello Cappuccini 14 - 48018 FAENZA - ItalyTel & Fax +39.546.661143 / cell. +39.335.5619171info@associazioneletarot.it / letarot@virgilio.ithttp://www.blogger.com/www.associazioneletarot.it

ELETRIC VERSES

2009-05-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

.....................street light & night time cities

Photo Gallery by arn at pbase.com

Electric Verses---------- bothFinnish and Swedish speaking. The site contains their

poetry in the original and translations into other languages.

EIRA STENBERG

Born in Tampere. Five collections of poetry, novels, radio plays, children's books and plays. Studied at the Sibelius Academy.

To talk of love…

the thing you can't talk about
the cul-de-sac of a looking-glass
with someone hanging upside down
from an invisible tree,
legs wrapped round a branch,
apparently grappling with gravity
and opening a mouthno cry comes out of…

Or to talk as if
love were a door
with a key called longing
and behind the door a tree flamed
into visibility,
a foetus straightened its legs and dived
up to the surface
and spoke to you the juggler,
who toss your head from hand to hand like dice,
and brought you a fresh leaf
after the deluge.

JUHANI AHVENJÄRVI

He living in Tampere. He has worked as teacher of creative writing in the University of Tampere and other places. He made his debut in 1992 in the anthology Ryhmä 92 -Group 92, edited by Jyrki Kiiskinen and Kari Levola-. Since that he has published three collections of poems, the latest of which, Yhä kiihtyvä tauko, came out in 2005.

There is no hope.
The image we
have of the eye
stays open

HELENA SINERVO

-1961 published her first collection of poems, Lukemattomiin (Untold), in 1994. Since that she has published six more. Sinervo has translated poems by Elizabeth Bishop and Yves Bonnefoy and written the lyrics for Liisa Lux’ debut song album (2002).

If the wind cannot recall, can you?

The one I thought of a thousand times
at the first hour, a thousand times at the second ,
could not recall me at all,
although the wind recalled its windward
a thousand times at the first hour, a thousand times at the second ,
and still at the third hour,
when the rooster had crowed thrice,
did the wind recall its windward
searching for early traces, covered in reminiscence.

JYRKI KIISKINEN

worked as editor in chief in the Nuori Voima literary magazine in 1991-1994 and Books from Finland in 1995-2000. He is one of the most important literary figures of his generation. He has published five collections of poems, three novels and three children’s books. He was awarded the Eino Leino Prize in 1992, Kalevi Jäntti Prize in 1994 and Yleisradio’s (the equivalent of the BBC) Tanssiva Karhu (Dancing Bear) Prize in 2000.

No one

So green that no one,
no one can say it
so green that the grass, the stand of pine trees
the clump of alders
cannot hide it
cannot describe
no one can describe it
so yellow that the dandelion, the
sun, so bright
that the water
that the light cannot break it
so deep, so warm, so quiet
is it
that no one can understand it
so icy, so dumb, so deep
is it

LEEVI LEHTO

- 1951- has published five collections of poems, Muuttunut tuuli -Changed Wind, 1967-, Rakkauden puheesta (Of Speech of Love, 1969-Ihan toinen iankaikkisuus -Quite Another Eternity, 1991- Kielletyt leikit -Forbidden Games, 1994- and Ääninen -1997- He also has published the novel Janajevin unet -Yanayev’s Dreams, 1992- and worked as translator, translating John Ashbery’s Flow Chart -Vuokaavio, 1994- among others.

You (I)
But I will couple you with the spring sky.
I have eaten angel flesh, drunk the moon from the sky,
visited China in a dream and returned to the kitchen at night:
to be my own son and close the cupboard door.

JORGE RIECHMANN

2009-05-02T14:43:00.000-07:00

Alliance

An entire forest has come back from
your neck tonight,
I saw a conciliator,
friend, strongly favor
possible, you were sleeping
upon the severity of recent
days. I did not wake me refresh
your pulse.
The signs seem clear:
We can assist in time together
Two of the god, the three other
case. It is now time not to forget
the dreams.

2
Sniff
as well.
There are sweat as honey,
There is wheat and soil. I see and hear
resonant
as well. You know so well enjoy.
While preserving instincts of the flower to the
fruit. I see and I hear you breathe
again
I called you at our table of wind.

3
I dreamed
the salvation of your sweat
advocate
our common privacy
before the ravages of this bloody
sky
receipt
Freedom in your body marking
the slight pleasure prosody
I dreamed
the salvation of your sweat.

4

Then on the edge of the shadow
dance
illuminated by white slow,
beautiful,
strongly live, knowing all
the pores
and all the wrinkles of pleasure,
It is true that the death, but only
begins tomorrow.

Of "mobile equipment" and "Book of Berlin":

Absent
Encounter with the
angel
Unbelief

Poem of the meeting
Three times
awakening

From "Song of erosion:

Abolish the nostalgia
You
Get rid of your vertebrae tame
Sleep a bit longer, gardener adorable ...
At dawn she always just left
Trace of a body

From "Hope violent":
Absence of a friend in ZamoraT
he most beautiful dress
The lover 2
Heading
The smoothness of love

Jorge Riechmann Fernández

Born in Madrid in 1962. Degree in mathematics from the Universidad Complutense, studied philosophy, German literature and political science. Professor of moral philosophy at the University of Barcelona since 1995, editor of the magazine "Meanwhile" , translator of French literature and German. He is considered by critics as one of the best examples of Spanish poetry of recent decades. Awards: Poetry Hyperion in 1987, Feria del Libro de Madrid in 1993, National Poetry Villafranca del Bierzo 1996 jaen Poetry in 1997 and 2000 awards: International Poetry of Gabriel Celaya Translation and Stendhal. Following publications: "Song of erosion"-1987, "Cuaderno de Berlin"-1989, "Rolling stock" - 1993, "Both in April in October", "The cut under the skin 'and' Dance an alien "- 1994, 'Figure of yourself', 'Hope violent" and "The truth is a fire where ardemos", containing poems of the eighties ,published in "Amarte No Return" in 1995.

PASTORA PAVÓN Y GARCIA LORCA

2009-05-01T07:56:00.001-07:00

LA NIÑA DE LOS PEINES

2009-04-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

Pastora Pavón

Garcia Lorca:
“voice of the shadows, voice of tin, voice of moss...”.

In 1996 her voice was declared a part of Andalusian cultural heritage by the Cultural Council of the Regional Government of Andalucía. Pastora Pavón is now considered the best and most important cantaora of all time. Her singing, which she described as “singing with a foundation”, is the mirror through which all other cantaoras look at themselves.

Pastora Pavón Cruz, known as La Niña de los Peines Seville, Spain-10 February ,1890-November- 26-1969

She is considered the most important woman flamenco singer of the 20th century She was a sister of singers Arturo Pavón and Tomás Pavón, also an important flamenco singer, and aunt to Arturo Pavón, the first flamenco pianist. Both brothers, Pastora and Tomás, together with singer Manuel Torre,, were the inspiring models for the next generation of singers like Antonio Mairena, Pepe de la Matrona or Fosforito , who led the movement towaBorn in the famous quarter of Alameda de Hércules, in Seville, she started singing for the public as at the age of 8, in the Seville Spring Fair . Later, when she was singing at Café de la Marina, a café cantante in Madrid, she acquired the nickname La Niña de los Peines (The Girl of the Combs, a nickname she never liked), as she usually sang a stanza in tangos style with the following lyrics:

Peinate tú con mis peines
Mis peines son de canela

Comb with my combs
My combs are made of cinammonrds

SEAMUS HEANEY

2009-04-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

Seamus Heaney born 13 April 1939 is an Irish poet, writer and lecture and who was awarded theNobel Prize in Literature in 1995. He currently lives in Dublin

small bird

chirp-chirruped:

yellow neb,

a note-spurt.

Blackbird over

Lagan water.

Clumps of yellow

whin-burst!

LAJOS PARTI NAGY

2009-04-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

Lajos Parti Nagy

He was born (1953) in Szekszárd, Hungary. teacher of literature and history from Pécs University before going on to edit the Pécs-based journal of contemporary, Hungarian literature, Jelenkor (The Present). He began his literary career as a poet and has been writing prose and drama since the early 1990s. He written and adapted a number of works for the stage as well as his own original pieces, (adaptations of works by Caragiale, Hauptmann, Kroetz, McDonagh and Moliere). He lived in Berlin in 2001-2002 on a DAAD scholarship Lajos Parti Nagy , contributed to the reinvention of the Hungarian, literary language and his works always present something new and memorable. His recent works ,Hősöm tere (My Hero's Square - published in German in 2000 as Meines Heldenplatz), Grafitnesz (Graffitness - poems, 2003) and A fagyott kutya lába (The Frozen Dog's Leg - short stories, 2006). Kossuth Prize and the Hungarian Literary Prize.

Speaking in terms

of perspective,

infinity

finally turns

the parallel

of our lines

into a point,

but in terms of

railway sleepers,

endlessly linked

and kept apart

we are both

running on

our own.

INDIAN CONTEMPORARY POETRY

2009-04-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

THE POET

by P. Lal

For all his wild hair like an aureole, Stammer at parties, slipping from a tram,
Putting off the mending of a sole,
And putting on a mock-heroic Damn!,
He notices the spider’s intestines
Claim harlot, smuggler and blackmarketeer,
And in the clicking grin his eye divines
A moody world of artifice and fear.

Above all, this: When a woman turns
Black clouds of hair, with a rhythmic hand
Weaving their silk in the possessive sun,
He sees her common eyes stretch to a land
O lost, lost; as when repentance yearns
For hope,and love, and finds that there is none.

Purusottama Lal born 1929, in Punjab - India. Poet, essayist, translator, professor and publisher. Founder and publisher of Writer's Workshop in Calcutta where he lives presently.
Under the name of P. Lal, he has written eight books of poetry, over a dozen volumes of literary criticism, a memoir, several books of stories for children, and dozens of translations from other languages, chiefly Sanskrit, into English. He has also edited a number of literary anthologies.

http://www.shakuhachi.com/Sound/Tanifuji/Tanifuji-Shakulute-C-1.mp3

2009-04-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

Japanese Flute

2009-04-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

Wild Geese Descending to Sandbar, Chosôn dynasty (1392–1910)Unidentified artist (late 15th–16th century)KoreaThe title identifies the work as one of the Eight Views of the Xiao and Xiang Rivers, a poetic theme traditionally associated with the Northern Song painter Song Di

This painting takes as its inspiration a poem, inscribed in Chinese characters in the upper right corner after the four-character title:

On the frozen frontier is a hail of arrows,

Along the Golden River [Jinhe] there are no rice fields.

Brothers one and all, flying down in skeins,

After ten thousand li, they arrive at Xiao and Xiang.

The distant waters shine like reels of silk

The level sands are white as glinting frost

.At the ferry quay, no one is about,

Close to the setting sun, the geese descend ever more gracefully.

(Translation by Roderick Whitfield)–ca.

HAGIWARA SAKUTARO

2009-04-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

At dayFor all the startling beauty and originality of his work, Hagiwara remains a poet of the dark; a native of that extraordinary world where Dylan Thomas' question ("Isn't life a terrible thing, thank God") really needs no answer. Shiveringly sensitive to loveliness in all its million modes, he finds it not only in its familiar haunts but even in such unexpected subjects as a rotten clam or the dead body of an alcoholic. A man intensely aware that the sun, that symbol of Japan, rises as much to cast shadows as to give light, his early self-portrait establishes the tone of all his later work:

Sad in the ailing earth,
Tongue-tender with despair,
Green moves through grief's grimace;
And, sick and lonely, there
In the gloom of the under world
,At the bottom of the world, a face.

The Most Primitive Feeling

In the depths of this jungle one can see
Fronds of the great
Gum-trees lounging leadenly:
Like ears of elephants
Their leaves luxuriate.
In this damp and dim-lit place,
Towing their shadows like a trawl,
All kinds of fern embrace
Wetly. All kinds of plants
Sprawl out upon each other. All
Kinds of reptiles, kinds of snake,
Frog, lizard, salamander, newt
Maul in the clammy gloom to make
Slithering absolute.
From the sad longing of mid-day
For what did Adam yearn,
To what dank dawn look back?
The feeling of primitiveness
Is like a cloud, an endless
Endlessly darling love.
It flows away
Past reasonings of return,
Endless and endlessly.
On the far-off other bank
Of the river of memory,
There is no glade nor grove
Nor landing place nor plank
To pin this feeling down.

EZRA POUND

2009-04-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

Canto XLIX: For the Seven Lakes

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:

Rain; empty river; a voyage,

Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight

Under the cabin roof was one lantern.

The reeds are heavy; bent;

and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes

against sunset

Evening is like a curtain of cloud,

a blurr above ripples; and through it

sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,

a cold tune amid reeds.

Behind hill the monk's bell

borne on the wind.

Sail passed here in April; may return in October

Boat fades in silver; slowly;

Sun blaze alone on the river

.Where wine flag catches the sunset

Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light

Comes then snow scur on the rive

And a world is covered with jade

Small boat floats like a lanthorn,

The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin

they are a people of leisure.

Wild geese swoop to the sand-bar,

Clouds gather about the hole of the window

Broad water; geese line out with the autumn

Rooks clatter over the fishermen's lanthorns,

A light moves on the north sky line;

where the young boys prod stones for shrimp.

In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.

A light moves on the South sky line.

State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?

This is infamy; this is Geryon.

This canal goes still to TenShi

Though the old king built it for pleasure

K E I M E N R A N K E I

K I U M A N M A N K E I

JITSU GETSU K O K W A

T A N FUKU T A N K A I

Sun up; work

sundown; to restdig

well and drink of the water

dig field;eat of the grain

Imperial power is? and to us what is it?

The fourth; the dimension of stillness.

And the power over wild beasts.

TRANSLATION OF THE NIGTH

2009-04-09T19:58:00.000-07:00

Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo.

Born in March 4, 1901, Tananarive, Madag.he died in June 22, 1937, place Tananarive) Malagasy writer. Largely self-educated, he earned his living as a proofreader for a publishing concern. He wrote seven volumes of poetry in French, of which Near-Dreams (1934) and Translation of the Night (1935) are considered the most important. The mythical and surrealistic world created in his poems is intensely personal and dominated by visions of death, catastrophe, and alienation. Harassed by French authorities and addicted to drugs, he committed suicide. He is regarded as the father of modern literature in his native land.

"And the drum is ready
when gladioli crown
the horns of the delivered calf
who bounds
and grazes the hills of grass.

There it will resound,
and its incantations will become dreams ...

from Translated from the Night:#3

9

The secret hives are aligned
near the lianas of heaven,
among the luminous nests.

Gather nectar there, bees of my thoughts,
little bees winged with sound
within the pregnant cloud of silence;
laden yourself with resin
perfumed with stars and wind:
we will seal all the gaps
communicating with the tumult of life.

Laden yourself also with stellar pollen
for the prairies of the earth;
and tomorrow, when there will be wreathed
the wild roses of my poems,
we will have celestial rose hips
and sidereal seeds.

PLACES WHERE I NEVER BEEN

2009-04-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

Probably never see, so I let my imagination go where they are .....

Madagascar

Is legendary wildlife and flora,Isolated from the continents 160 million years ago, Madagascar followed a unique evolutionary path into enormous tortoises elephant birds, and lemurs. Lemurs were the highest primate formon the island until the Malagasy people, of Afro-Polynesian ancestry,arrived a mere 2000 years ago. Though divided into at least 18 tribes or clans, the Malagasy share a belief in the power of dead ancestors.This belief explains the importance of tombs and funerals. Although the form differs among the clans, it is after the first burial that the Malagasy honour their dead. The best-known ceremonyis the famadihana of the Merina people, a joyful occasion to communicate with a loved one whose remains are exhumed and wrapped in a new shroud. Some of the world’s most unusual birds are found only on Madagascar – gorgeous ground-rollers,the diverse vanga family, the couas.

THE ODE TO ANACTORIA

2009-03-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

Sappho -fragment 2

The Ode to Anactoria

That man seems to me peer of gods, who sits in thy presence,
and hears close to him thy sweet speech and lovely laughter;
that indeed makes my heart flutter in my bosom. For when I
see thee but a little, I have no utterance left, my tongue is
broken down, and straightway a subtle fire has run under my
skin, with my eyes I have no sight, my ears ring, sweat pours
down, and a trembling seizes all my body; I am paler than
grass, and seem in my madness little better than one dead. But
I must dare all, since one so poor ...

H. T. Wharton

THE COOL BREEZE AND STARRY NIGTH

2009-03-23T19:35:00.001-07:00

the cool breeze and starry night

A sea-breeze (or onshore breeze) is a wind from the sea that develops over land near coasts. It is formed by increasing temperature differences between the land and water which create a pressure minimum over the land due to its relative warmth and forces higher pressure, cooler air from the sea to move inland. Generally, air temperature gets cooler relative to nearby locations as one moves closer to a large body of watertells me

you are near!
Sea Breeze

Far off. Let’s go!
the birds, fly

into unknown spume

golden gardens mirrored by eyes –

in the sea,
the abandoned light of my lamp,

Boredom...
islands

CARMINA BURANA

2009-03-22T15:05:00.001-07:00

The satire of the organization of the Christian religions is subtle and swift, particularly in the performed presentation of the works. The verse begins as a hail to the virgin

"Ave, Formosissima"...

Hail, most beautiful and good,

Jewel held most dear by us;

Hail, honor of maidenhood,

Virgin ever glorious--

Hail, thou light above all lights,

Hail, rose of the world--

Blacheflor

And Helen,Venus,Venus,

Venus noble-souled!

and ends as a tribute to three goddesses of love .

BONITA AND THE FOUR GIRLS

2009-03-16T08:57:00.000-07:00

ELLA MAILLART, HERMINE DE SAUSSURE,

( MIETTE) AND TWO GIRLFRIENDS

Four girls, they are loaded aboard an old yawl of 14 tons,Bonita, for Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily and, following in the footsteps of Ulysses,
and the Ionian
Islands Ithaca. Finally, on a tuna they rigged the yawl Atalante
they attempt to repeat the feat Alain Gerbault.

ARRESTS OF LOVE II

2009-03-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

JEAN GENET visual poem

"UN CHANT D´AMOUR"

Evoking homosexual desire and existentialist suffering ,. After its initial screening in 1950, the film was banned in France , the only copies remained for over a decade with the gay intellectuals . In America in the 1960s the films resulted in arrests, near-prosecutions and finally an outright ban. Fifty years after itsbirth, the film was judged to be acceptable for public screenings, (some of the film’s more controversial scenes were cut.) Genet himself disliked the film and, in later life, disowned it. Despite its chequered history and reputation as pornography for the gay intelligentsia, Un chant d'amour is arguably Genet’s most evocative and haunting work. His only film, it is easily on a par with hi decided to start with the first film, Le Sang d’un poète / The Blood of a Poet, which runs about 55 minutes. I was dubious about Cocteau as a filmmaker since, as a poet, he was one of those laughably bad frauds produced during Europe’s decadent interwar years. While attempting to be Surreal, Cocteau’s writing was puerile, half-hearted, and soaked with clichés. He loathed the king of the Surrealists, André Breton, whom he sought to displace, and their antagonism has gotten both bad writers more play than anything either one ever wrote. s celebrated literary works, such as Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs and Querelle de Brest. With the mocking surrealism of Luis Buñuel and dark poetry of Jean Cocteau, it is as much a condemnation of middle class values as it is a celebration of sexual desire and a reflection of Genet’s grim existentialist outlook. The film depicts homophobia with uncompromising brutality, through the sadistic prison warder, for a society that is both titilated and repulsed by the idea of homosexual acts. A short film , twenty six minutes,in black and white, with no soundtrack.

Stylistically, nearer to the experimental films of the 1930s (Cocteau's Le Sang d'un poète or Man Ray's surrealist shorts). Cinematography crude, almost primitive. Genet draw on his own experiences in prison . Existentialists this film conveys the bleakness of a existence in a godless universe with painful believability. Thel anguish prisoners in their solitary cells, yearning for the human contact to reaffirm their existence, (share a fragment of the existentialist nightmare that was Genet’s own troubled life, a life marred by rejection, depression and self-doubt.) Un chant d'amour is less a film about homosexuality or voyeurism, but much more one about the torment of living in an empty loveless universe.

ARRESTS OF LOVE I

2009-03-10T18:58:00.000-07:00

Arrests d'Amours. Le tout diligement revu et corr igé en une infinité d'endroits, outres les précédentes impressions.
- Rouen, Raphaël du Petit Val, 1587 In-16 de 899 pp.,(1) p., (29) ff., maroquin citron, filet doré d'encadrement, armes aux centres des plats, dos à nerfs orné de caissons de fleurons et d'oiseaux dorés, pièce de titre de maroquin rouge, coupes et bordures décorées, tranches dorées (reliure du XVIIe siècle). Belle édition des célèbres Arrêts d'Amour de Martial de Paris, dit Martial d'Auvergne. Elle est complète et comporte bien le 53e Arrêt. Composés vers 1460 par ce juriste, procureur au Parlement, les Arrêts d'Amour furent l'un des livres les plus lus à la fin du Moyen-Age (on compte 35 éditions jusqu'en 1734). Chacun des 53 "arrêts" est un cas de casuistique amoureuse, un procès débattu devant Prévot de Deuil, Bailli de Joie, Viguier d'Amour, la Cour d'Amour ou les Dames du Conseil d'Amour. Chaque arrêt est divisé en trois parties: énoncé de la cause, débat, lecture du jugement. La peine la plus grave est le bannissement de l'Empire d'Amour. Ce livre repose sur la parodie du langage juridique et marque l'aboutissement du type lyrique des cours d'amour, ainsi que des remous suscités par "La Belle Dame sans mercy". Les thèmes proviennent du roman courtois mais prennent souvent une allure de fabliau: le plaisir de conter, le goût de l'époque pour le récit bref s'y trahissent."Livre charmant. Il est plus clair et plus léger que "Les Droits Nouveaux" de Coquillart, moins amer et moins profond que "Les Quinze Joyes du mariage". Montaiglon, Poètes français. Quelques restaurations anciennes, petit travail en marge à une dizaine de feuillets. Bel exemplaire, en maroquin, aux armes de Jacques-Annibal Claret de La Tourette, président de la Cour des Monnaies de Lyon. Olivier, Hermal et Roton, pl. 37, fer n° 2. De la bibliothèque Michel de Bry (Bookseller: Librairie Laurent Coulet]

ADONIS ALI AHMAD SA`ID

2009-03-04T21:20:00.000-08:00

The Language Of Sin

I burn my inheritance, I say:
"My land is virgin, and no graves in my youth."
I transcend both God and Satan
(my path goes beyond the paths of God and Satan).
I go across in my book,
in the procession of the luminous thunderbolt,
the procession of the green thunderbolt,
shouting:
"After me there's no Paradise, no Fall,
"and abolishing the language of sin.

To Sisyphus

I vowed to write upon water,
I vowed to bear with Sisyphus
his speechless rock.
I vowed to stay with Sisyphus
suffering the fevers and the sparks, and seeking in blind eyes
a last plume
that writes for autumn and grass
In the poem of the fall
I vowed to live with Sisyphus.

Said Unto You

I said unto youI listened to the seas
reading to me their verses
I listened to the bells
slumbering inside the oyster shells.
I said unto you:
I sang my songs at Satans wedding
and the feast of the fable.
I said unto you: I beheld,
in the rain of history
and the glow of the distance
a fairy and a dwelling.
Because I sail in my eyes,
I said unto you, I beheld
everything
in the first step of the distance.

JEAN -PAUL BELMONDO

2009-02-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

CHARMING BÉBEL

Jean-Paul Belmondo was born in 1933 in Neuilly-sur Seine, near to Paris. He had a comfortable bourgeois family background, his father being the distinguished sculptor, Paul Belmondo. As a youth he trained as a boxer before deciding that his future lay in acting. After a number of attempts, he finally gained admittance to the Paris Conservatoire in 1952, although his tutors were not overly optimistic about his prospects. It was here that he acquired the affectionate nickname Bébel.BelmondoFrench motion picture actor who embodied the antiheroic spirit of the French New Wave in his early performances and later starred in and produced many commercially successful films that highlighted his graceful agilit.

SLEEPWAKEFULNESS

2009-02-27T10:37:00.000-08:00

Sleepwakefulness

Isaiah Latuf Mucci

Clothe me with a shirt embroidered with butterflies in pink sequins and went to sleep. Cover me with a quilt with flowers, hoping that in my dreams, the butterflies were dancing in their ballet up those sleepy flowers. When I woke before the sun of summer flowering, I was like a big blue butterfly, as this beautiful dragonfly, which appeared suddenly, out of the Atlantic, last Monday of carnival in the paradisiacal site and Helium Fernando, here in Saquarema. Flowers are flying butterflies and the butterfly is a piece of blue sky, a fragment of the sea, chinks of a pond, unaware that the law of gravity. The blue butterfly is a dream of God. and wakefulness

COME UN GATTO

2009-02-18T13:57:00.000-08:00

Elaine Erig- painting Ragazzi

Pier Paolo Passoline -

"Io sto benissimo nel mondo, lo trovo meraviglioso, mi sento attrezzato alla vita, come un gatto"

La piccola ode A un ragazzo, come scrive lo stesso Pasolini :

"Il ragazzo è Bernardo Bertolucci, figlio del poeta Attilio Bertolucci,
e ora bravissimo poeta lui stessoL'ode si colora dell'elegia al fratello Guido,
partigiano caduto per mano di partigiani nella Venezia Giulia.
Pasolini sente quasi come una colpa la morte
del fratello e così ricorda l'ultimo loro incontro:

"Era un mattino in cui sognava ignara
nei ròsi orizzonti una luce di mare:
ogni filo d'erba come cresciuto a stento
era un filo di quello splendore opaco e immenso.
Venivamo in silenzio per il nascosto argine
lungo la ferrovia, leggeri e ancora caldi
del nostro ultimo sonno in comune nel nudo
granaio tra i campi ch'era il nostro rifugio.
In fondo Casarsa biancheggiva esanime
nel terrore dell'ultimo proclama di Graziani;
e, colpita dal solo contro l'ombra dei monti,
la stazione era vuota: oltre i radi tronchi
dei gelsi e gli sterpi, solo sopra l'erba
del binario, attendeva il treno per Spilimbergo...
L'ho visto allontanarsi con la sua valigetta,
[dove dentro un libro di Montale era stretta
tra pochi panni, la sua rivoltella,
nel bianco colore dell'aria e della terra.
Le spalle un po' strette dentro la giacchetta
ch'era stata mia, la nuca giovinetta...".

The little ode to a boy, as the same Pasolini:

"It was a morning in which dreamed unaware
numerous horizons in the light of the sea:
every blade of grass grown as a barely
was a wire that immense splendor and opaque.
We were silent for the hidden argine along the rail,
yet lightweight and warm our last sleep in the nude
in town barn through the fields it was our refug

At the bottom of the
white lifeless Casarsa Terror in the proclamation of Graziani;
and affected only by the shadow of the mountains,
The station was empty: over the sparse trunks of mulberry trees and Sterpi,
just above the grass of the track, waiting for the train Spilimbergo ...
I saw away with his briefcase, where in a book of Montale
was close a few clothes, his revolver,
white color in the air and earth.
Shoulders a little 'tight inside the jacket
who had been my neck giovinetta

STOP ALL THE CLOCKS, CUT ......

2009-02-17T11:01:00.001-08:00

STOP ALL THE CLOCKS,

CUT OFF THE TELEPHONE

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public

doves

,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood

For nothing now can come any good

English poet and critic.To the young intellectuals of the left he was the great voice of the 30s: political,radical and uncomfortable.,his homosexuality was behind several personal refrences, appearing repeatedly in his poetry. As T.S.Eliot published the firsth collection of auden,poems 1930 he was immediately recognized as the spokesman of his generation

Erika Mann,arranged a marriage of convenience with W. H. Auden, in order to stay in England

ERIKA AND KLAUS

2009-02-17T10:35:00.000-08:00

Lotte Jacobi - Klaus and Erika Mann

Lotte Jacobi -

The avant-garde of the 20's had the curiosity and the courage to go beyond the conventional approaches in showing men and women and started to explore in depth what was obscure, ambiguous. male, Klaus Mann, female, Erika Mann. reversed roles: female looks like The photographer, Lotte Jacobi.

The shift of sexual traits in the photo suggests somehow a quest for androgyny unit..

THE IMPOSSIBLE GIRLS

2009-02-16T22:03:00.000-08:00

Erica Mann

Annemarie Scharzenbach