un nuage

Je l’invente, mes mains dessinent un nuage

I invent it, my hands draw a cloud 

from: The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard

aurai:

Alexis Perevoschikov

requiem

 IX
Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.

That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.

However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:

Not my son's frightening eyes -
A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms

Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
 

[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

Anna Akhmatova 

George Krause - Angels, Philadelphia, 1961

image: regardintemporel:

for Norway 

Queen-Anne’s Lace

Her body is not so white as

anemony petals nor so smooth—nor

so remote a thing. It is a field

of the wild carrot taking

the field by force; the grass

does not raise above it.

Here is no question of whiteness,

white as can be, with a purple mole

at the center of each flower.

Each flower is a hand’s span

of her whiteness. Wherever

his hand has lain there is

a tiny purple blemish. Each part

is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibres of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,

until the whole field is a

white desire, empty, a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over—

or nothing.

William Carlos Williams, “Queen-Anne’s Lace” from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume I, 1909-1939, edited by Christopher MacGowan. Copyright 1938, 1944, 1945 by William Carlos Williams. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.via sketchofthepast
image:melancholynotes:

Tbilisi, Georgia by Mariam Sitchinava

(via growing-orbits)

Something.

I believe that most people have some degree of talent for something - forms, colors, words, sounds. Talent lies around in us like kindling waiting for a match, but some people, just as gifted as others, are less lucky. Fate never drops a match on them. The times are wrong, or their health is poor, or their energy low, or their obligations too many. Something.

Wallace Stegner, Crossing

here

a last door

Édouard Boubat, Paris, France, 1970. From Édouard Boubat: A Gentle Eye.

“I was running, as the silks rustled, through room after room without stopping, for I believed in the existence of a last door.”

—	Czeslaw Milosz, from “City Without a Name” in New and Collected Poems, trans. Milosz, Robert Haas, Robert Pinsky, and Renata Gorczynski (via proustitute)  image: here