"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


4.9.15

The Gardener VI - Lluvia


Las flores se encienden
y alegres se abren
al beso del agua,
como manantiales.

Llueve y llueve esta tarde.


Fragmentos de "Llueve", de Juan Ramón Barat, en Poemas para gorriones.

31.8.15

The Nightingale Doth Sing VI - Blanks (versión censurada)


One day it will happen
One day it will all come true
One day when you're ready
One day when you're up to it.
I can feel it.
-Björk, One day

...even now, as the slugs begin their sluggish
withdrawal - each complete in love and lust;
each mother and father to what they've made
together; each alone, content, and free.
-Conversation with Slugs and Sarah, Jennifer Chang



I had a dream.
We were ourselves. We were not ourselves.
We inhabited our bodies.
They were possessed. By ancient eyes:

I am here. You are here.
Your lips steal an ancient longing from my lips.
Your mouth speaks of old yearnings to my mouth.
Your tongue feeds that never forgotten thirst on my neck.
Your hands press long kept desires unto my body.

I open up.
I let you summon me.
I let you shape me
into who I want to be:

Flesh that feels your flesh
Flesh that feeds on your flesh
Flesh that nests your flesh

I have you. You have me.
I hold you. You hold me.

We remember.
We wonder about a past
that could've been a mutual future.
Yet we prefer the now.
The many pleasures of the now.


When I woke up the first time
I knew you were still there
So I smiled before I opened my eyes:

You tuck me in
Before you leave.
Before you leave
I reassure you:
You are free.

The second time I woke up
I had new memories of you.
To fill in the blanks.


28.8.15

The Garden IV - Rosas como estrellas


¿Que es esto? ¡Prodigio! Mis manos florecen.
Rosas, rosas, rosas a mis dedos crecen.
Mi amante besóme las manos, y en ellas,
¡oh gracia! brotaron rosas como estrellas.

Y voy por la senda voceando el encanto
y de dicha alterno sonrisa con llanto
y bajo el milagro de mi encantamiento
se aroman de rosas las alas del viento.


Fragmento de El dulce milagro de  Juana de Ibarbourou

27.8.15

Les mots V - A painter using his stroke


Words 
     after all
are syllables just
and you put them
     in their place
     notes
     sounds
a painter using his stroke
     so the spot
where the article
     an umbrella
     a knife
we could find
     in its most intricate
     hiding
slashed as it was with color
     called “being”
     or even “it”

Passage, by Barbara Guest

25.8.15

Through the looking glass VI - Su propia imagen


No hubiera podido decir si había pasado mucho tiempo o poco, cuando la Hija de la Luna le tapó los ojos con la mano.

- ¿Por qué me has hecho esperar tanto? - oyó que le preguntaba -. ¿Por qué me has obligado a ir al Viejo de la Montaña Errante? ¿Por qué no viniste cuando te llamé?

Bastián tragó saliva.

- Porque... - pudo decir abochornado -, creí que... por muchas razones, también por miedo... Pero en realidad me daba vergüenza, Hija de la Luna.

Ella le retiró la mano y lo miró soprendida.

- ¿Vergüenza? ¿De qué?

- Bueno - titubeó Bastián-, sin duda esperabas a alguien digno de ti.

- ¿Y tu? - preguntó ella-. ¿No eres digno de mí?

- Quiero decir - tartamudeó Bastián, notando que enrojecía-, quiero decir alguien valiente y fuerte y bien parecido... un príncipe o algo así... En cualquier caso, no alguien como yo.

Había bajado la vista y oyó cómo ella se reía de nuevo de aquella forma suave y cantarina.

- Ya ves- dijo él-: también ahora te ríes de mí.

Hubo un silencio muy largo, y cuando Bastián se decidió por fin a levantar los ojos, vio que ella se había inclinado hacia él, acercándosele mucho. Tenía el rostro serio.

- Quiero enseñarte algo, Bastián - dijo-. ¡Mírame a los ojos!

Bastián lo hizo, aunque el corazón le latía y se sentía un poco mareado.

Y entonces vio en el espejo de oro de los ojos de ella, al principio pequeña aún y como muy lejana, una figura que poco a poco se fue haciendo mayor y cada vez más clara. Era un chico, aproximadamente de su edad, pero delgado y de maravillosa hermosura. Tenía el porte gallardo y apuesto, y el rostro noble y varonil. Parecía un joven príncipe. Lo más hermoso del joven eran sus manos, que parecían finas y distinguidas pero, sin embargo, insólitamente vigorosas.

Pasmado y lleno de admiración, Bastián contempló aquella imagen. No se cansaba de mirarla. Estaba a punto de preguntar quién era aquel hermoso hijo de rey, cuando lo sacudió como un rayo la idea de que era él mismo.

¡Era su propia imagen, reflejada en los ojos dorados de la Hija de la Luna!


Fragmento de La historia interminable, de Michael Ende.


19.8.15

Les mots IV - Let it be unnamed (Love & Freedom X)


Let it remain unnamed

Let it not know
the boundaries
of words
(There are no territories.
No walls.)

Let it be disdainful
of anything serving the purpose
of adverbs and adjectives
(they're nothing but preconceived ideas)

Let it be cautious
of Safe and Sane
and Must

Let it not know
the meaning of Power
the meaning of Pride
the meaning of Gain

Let it forge for itself another name
One far more legitimate,
far less misused, than Love



18.8.15

The Gardener V - Humble and grateful


I think the true gardener is a lover of his flowers, not a critic of them. I think the true gardener is the reverent servant of Nature, not her truculent, wife-beating master. I think the true gardener, the older he grows, should more and more develop a humble, grateful and uncertain spirit. 

Reginald Farrer, In a Yorkshire Garden, 1909

14.8.15

The Nightingale Doth Sing V - That certain night


I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendez-vous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
"Was that a dream? Or was it true?"





Lyrics to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square


13.8.15

The Gardener IV - Heaven shall be here


- And what protection can the gardener afford this rose from the harsh elements of change?

- Under nature's eye all roses may bloom, althoug the elements may treat us cruely. Patience, care, and a little warmth from the sun are our best hope, your majesty.





Dialogue from the movie A little chaos.




12.8.15

Les Mots III - Un altro paradiso


And solitude, a wild solitude
’s reveald
- Childhood's Retreat, Robert Duncan

The word solitude
speaks of paradise:

Vast
calm lakes
filled with reflections
undisturbed

Winds dancing with leaves
free
and storms wild

Moonlight and sunlight
alter nothing
but the color of light

The word solitude
speaks of peace
It speaks of happiness






10.8.15

Love & Freedom IX - Thus duty does make cowards of us all


To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,
Or to say “nit” when she proposes,
And by declining save her. To wed; to smoke
No more; And have a wife at home to mend
The holes in socks and shirts
And underwear and so forth. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;
To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there’s the rub;
For in that married life what fights may come,
When we have honeymooning ceased
Must give us pause; there’s the respect
That makes the joy of single life.
For who would bear her mother’s scornful tongue,
Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;
The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;
The pain of barking shins upon a chair and
Closing waists that button down the back,
When he himself might all these troubles shirk
With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,
And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?
Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,
Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night 
For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro
After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing
Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools
To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights
In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed
At ten o’clock to save the light bills?
Thus duty does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of chores;
And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,
And loses its attraction.


Almost Edgar Albert Guest's The Bachelor's Soliloquy.