secretfragileskies

MYSTERIOUS LETTERS

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 14:51:00 +0000

mysterious letters

For our wild flower, Patti - March 28, 2013

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 02:32:00 +0000

          What though the radiance which was once so bright
          Be now for ever taken from my sight,
              Though nothing can bring back the hour
          Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
              We will grieve not, rather find
              Strength in what remains behind;

William Wordworth,536.Ode

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

image here: anhelos via vintague

we've held all we could want

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 15:37:00 +0000

“We chase after ghosts and spirits and are left holding only memories and dreams. It’s not that we want what we can’t have; it’s that we’ve held all we could want and then had to watch it slip away.”
- Charles de Lint
here
image

one moment

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 19:20:00 +0000

one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

image
Rilke: Sunset

Born but to smile

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 04:30:00 +0000

O life of this our spring! Why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the spring? Born but to smile and fall?

The Book of Thel, William Blake

image: Robert Doisneau
for Newtown, CT.

should have caught some ghost of us

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 02:46:00 +0000

No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No poison cup,
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder
not merely played but should have listened to us,
and could instruct those after us:
this we were, this is how we tried to love,
and these are the forces we had ranged within us
within us and against us, against us and within us.

text: Adrienne Rich
image: thebeautythelight/poetbabble

december

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 18:00:00 +0000

The Darkling Thrush

Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Dec. 31, 1900
Hardy
(via seabois)

everywhere

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 16:44:00 +0000

“I couldn’t see you when you were here, and now that you’re gone, I see you everywhere.” - Ruby Sparks

mythologyofblue:

Erich Hartmann, Hurrying travellers in Grand Central Station, NYC, 1976

awake

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 02:26:00 +0000

A Japanese legend says that if you can’t sleep at night it’s because you’re awake in someone else’s dream.

— Anonymous

If Jane

images- journalofanobody

Le souvenir est un poète

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 04:31:00 +0000

“Memory is a poet, not an historian.”rchardes:
indubio:

september

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 04:52:00 +0000

I’ve never forget that morning, 1983 by Bohdan Holomicek
artforum

like a storm

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 17:08:00 +0000

"...like a storm across the sky of everything."

—Matthew Dickman, lines from “Cloud” - The American Poetry Review (v.41 July/August 2012)

You are everything that has not yet been lost

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 03:18:00 +0000

(via end-of-may)

 Scissors     embers       misnomers       Are you thisloneliness of hands      Do you burrow past kindness    

Are you no less than a cell dividing no more     than an arboretum    

Who has visited you    Who has kept your dark eyes in thrall    

Is there a clear sound     threading through      What you want               

What you say     What you do     Do you know what you are losing

when the dusk seals off the center of things    in the parks     

Hour of dismissal           Nobody stops to sit       as they did during day

I am listening     to the peace that gathers       in the husky throats of

mourning doves     the children     with no need of goods

They told us what our eyes feel     being outside is enough

The moon moves quickly     The years         could shut us out

There is an ache in the lungs     so deep        it can't be heard

A floating-inward     rush of air     Are you rosin     wax

Are you alizarin-crimson         the spiraling glitters of pelicans

over the cone marsh the threshold      at which change becomes

unstoppable     We are traveling     through the unmanifest dark

and have only our skin     to glide by     I will vouch for you

when you make a place for me     in the city of soft gray-bodied trees           

If I have a wish     it is to find you     where I find poetry

Do you ever     close your eyes in full sunlight     Here close your eyes          

 You are everything      that has not yet been lost

Joanna Klink's "Aerial"

It is a wonderful gift.

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 20:50:00 +0000

"Words that come out of history are complicated; they are cluttered  with etymology and connotation. And that slows us down when we try to  understand them.... But words that make up their histories as they come  into existence leap at us unchaperoned. First they are in our leader's  mouth, then they are in ours. It is a wonderful gift. We can hum along  with the words passing through us; we can clap, we can jump. And as we  respond to the music we make, we will feel ourselves coming into being.  We will be wrong, but we will believe that we know at last who we are."

Jonathan Morse, Word by Word: The Language of Memory (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press) 1990: 2.

link

image: Banksy

stories

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 05:22:00 +0000

Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.
Anaïs Nin 

text  Significant Objects
image (workman) 

“She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed” ― Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star”

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 19:08:00 +0000

  
Angels, Philadelphia, 1961 - George Krause
"I'm for mystery, not interpretive answers.
The  answer is never the answer. What's really interesting is the mystery.  If you seek the mystery instead of the answer, you'll always be seeking.  I've never seen anybody really find the answer, but they think they  have. So they stop thinking. But the job is to seek mystery, evoke  mystery, plant a garden in which strange plants grow and mysteries  bloom. The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer."
 - Ken Kesey
link TEXT:  acorda eu

IMAGE: HERE                                              

as far as memory

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Sun, 05 Aug 2012 19:37:00 +0000

image/alexey titarenko
from; Time Standing Still," (1998-2000)

"...you are as far as invention, and I am as far as memory."  

From Yellow Stars and Ice

Susan Stewart

link

 more Titarenko:

"and if he left off dreaming of you..." Lewis Carrol

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 15:29:00 +0000

Forgetting someone is like
forgetting to turn off the light in the back yard
so it stays lit all the next day.

But then it’s the light
that makes you remember.

Yehuda Amichai
image

my entrance

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 16:22:00 +0000

“It was my entrance into the radiance of imagination.”                                            

—	Patti Smith, Just Kids (via starswithplanets)

image source:                                                                 beingyourhero                                        

we were not home

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 15:30:00 +0000

“A la recherché du temps perdu is the constant attempt to  charge an entire lifetime with utmost awareness. Proust’s method is  actualization, not reflection. He is filled with the insight that none  of us has time to live the true dramas of life that we are destined for.  This is what ages us – this and nothing else. The wrinkle and creases  on our faces are the registration of the great passions, vices, and  insights that called on us: but we, the masters were not home.”

Walter Benjamin on Proust    theobjectiveimage:
Alex Howitt
Via nevver

the border

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 04:02:00 +0000

 “The woman he loved most in the world (he was thirty at the time)  used to tell him (it would make him desperate to hear it) that her life  was hanging by a thread. Oh yes, she wanted to live, she loved life, but  she also knew that her ‘I want to live’ was spun from the threads of a  cobweb. It takes so little, so infinitely little, for  a person to cross  the border beyond which everything loses meaning: love, convictions,  faith, history. Human life – and herein lies its secret – takes place in  immediate proximity of that border, even in direct contact with it; it  is not miles away, but a fraction of an inch.”
 
Milan Kundera, “The Border,” The Book of Laughter and Forgetting p. 206-207link
(via journalofanobody)

i want you

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 16:55:00 +0000

kleon

train your memory to fail

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 18:46:00 +0000

learn to say “I don’t know”
learn to say “I can’t say” “I don’t remember”
learn to say nothing

train your memory to fail
recognize that you have the right to make mistakes
to stay mute

insist that the noise in your ears is due merely
to history’s winds or to the changes in pressure
that make mirages out of daily life

link - Urszula Koziol
To a Young Man
A Polish Lesson
translated by Stanisław Barańczak and Claire Cavanagh
growing orbits
Image Source: inthewronggalaxy)

Sonnet II - Time Does Not Bring Relief: You All Have Lied

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 20:07:00 +0000

Funeral (Beerdigung). 1988. Oil on canvas 200 x 320 cm

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied    
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!    
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,    
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;    
But last year’s bitter loving must remain  
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.    
There are a hundred places where I fear    
To go,—so with his memory they brim.    
And entering with relief some quiet place    
Where never fell his foot or shone his face    
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”    
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Time Does Not Bring Relief” from Collected Poems.  Copyright 1931, © 1958 by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Funeral (Beerdigung). 1988.Gerhard Richter

Oil on canvas 200 x 320 cm

The Midnight Club

noreply@blogger.com (secretfragileskies) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 01:26:00 +0000

The gifted have told us for years
that they want to be loved
For what they are, that they,
in whatever fullness is theirs,
Are perishable in twilight,
just like us. So they work all night
in rooms that are cold and
webbed with the moon’s light;
Sometimes, during the day,
they lean on their cars,
And stare into the blistering
valley, glassy and golden,
But mainly they sit, hunched
in the dark, feet on the floor,
Hands on the table, shirts with a
bloodstain over the heart.
- Mark Strand
The Continuous Life

image/workman