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  #311  
Staro 19.11.2006, 08:01
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And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.


--- Ezra Pound
  #312  
Staro 19.11.2006, 08:23
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Instant Fish

Instant Fish
by Phidias!
Add water
and they swim.

-- Peter Porter


ps: Phidias je bil grski kipar katerega kipi so bili tako realisticni, da so izgledali zivi
  #313  
Staro 19.11.2006, 23:27
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Obsedenec
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I miss You both
  #314  
Staro 20.11.2006, 02:57
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...timal

...se ena od Ezre Pound

Salutation

O generation of the thoroughly smug
and thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth
and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
  #315  
Staro 20.11.2006, 03:01
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When the heart
Is cut or cracked or broken
Do not clutch it
Let the wound lie open
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt

Let a stray dog lick it
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell
And let it ring
Let it go. Let it out.
Let it all unravel.
Let it free and it can be
A path on which to travel.



--- by the Australian writer, poet, cartoonist,
philosopher, Michael Leunig

Nazadnje uredil paradox : 20.11.2006 ob 03:07.
  #316  
Staro 20.11.2006, 03:10
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There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.



... (from Childe Harold, Canto iv, Verse 178)
--- Lord Byron
  #317  
Staro 29.11.2006, 09:00
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Music is most sovereign because more than anything
else, rhythm and harmony find their way to the inmost
soul and take strongest hold upon it, bringing with
them and imparting grace.
—Plato, The Republic


Saturday Night

by Alicia Ostriker


And here it comes: around the world,
In Chicago, Petersburg, Tokyo, the dancers
Hit the floor running (the communal dancefloor

Here, there, at intervals, sometimes paved,
Sometimes rotted linoleum awash in beer,
Sometimes a field across which the dancers streak

Like violets across grass, sometimes packed dirt
In a township of corrugated metal roofs)
And what was once prescribed ritual, the profuse

Strains of premeditated art, is now improvisation,
The desperately new, where to the sine-curved
Yelps and spasms of police sirens outside

The club, a spasmodic feedback ululates
The death and cremation of history,
Until a boy whose hair is purple spikes,

And a girl wearing a skull
That wants to say I’m cool but I’m in pain,
Get up and dance together, sort of, age thirteen.

Young allegorists, they’ll mime motions
Of shootouts, of tortured ones in basements,
Of cold insinuations before sex

Between enemies, the jubilance of the criminal.
The girl tosses her head and dances
The shoplifter’s meanness and self-betrayal

For a pair of stockings, a scarf, a perfume,
The boy dances stealing the truck,
Shooting his father.

The point is to become a flying viper,
A diving vulva, the great point
Is experiment, like pollen flinging itself

Into far other habitats, or seed
That travels a migrant bird’s gut
To be shit overseas.

The creatures gamble on the whirl of life
And every adolescent body hot
Enough to sweat it out on the dance floor

Is a laboratory: maybe this lipstick, these boots,
These jeans, these earrings, maybe if I flip
My hair and vibrate my pelvis

Exactly synched to the band’s wildfire noise
That imitates history’s catastrophe
Nuke for nuke, maybe I’ll survive,

Maybe we’ll all survive. . . .

At the intersection of poverty and plague
The planet's children—brave, uncontrollable, juiced
Out of their gourds—invent the sacred dance.
  #318  
Staro 30.11.2006, 05:00
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A DAY IN THE CEDARS

The little boy fountain
perpetually pees into
an overgrown flower pot,
his trickle splashing the deck.

A soft, effortless sound.
Streams lollygag under the house.
The lake swallows them
and clears its throat.

Squirrels chirp madly
from the forest canopy
in an aerial race
that’s more clatter than show.

Then the thunder,
spontaneous as a swarm
of black-capped chickadees,

as if I didn’t matter
and the world
were dying from the hush.

Soon the gutters heave
like a broken main,
the galloping sky,
the quieted squirrels.
It will rupture the day,
scatter dragonflies,
sputter the hot grill.

But the little boy
with one hand on his hip,
the other on his penis,
never fills the pot.


---Malcolem Stuhlmiller
  #319  
Staro 30.11.2006, 05:11
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CROWS IN SNOW

The crows don't mind,
swooping low
over rooftops, looking for a scrap
of flesh or vegetable or grain
while wind-driven flakes
streak the sky
pummel tree branches
carry off houses.
A dozen crows take off,
dark shadows, large black wings,
riveting in the black/white landscape.
They are intent,
oblivious, or perhaps, aware
of the strking picture they make.
Everything, everyone else,
still, marooned
in their narrow beds. The crows roam widely,
have the world to themselves,
glide on air,
plunge and rise, create their own art,
follow the Tao of Crow
black/white; black/white; black/white...

---SHANNON KING
  #320  
Staro 30.11.2006, 05:23
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PEACHES (Claude Monet)
"Only an eye but God what an eye . . ." Cézanne on Monet





One learns to recognize the grove's green
sound in the leaves, but there's more to it,

more than light flung down on a table
across a spill of fruit, more than learning to see

immortality or abundance on their fair red cheeks.
Peaches of the mind. The weight of them.

Ripened in summer sun. Touched by the erotic.
What a fire he's made, capturing the moment

when dull oil paste turns into luminous fruit
as he says what's unsayable, says it

with a scruffy mess of glints and tangles,
brushstrokes that lift and swivel, twist and turn,

says it over and over again until painter and painted are one
and the fruit's sweet flesh comes alive in your hand.


---FRANCINE STERLE
 

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