Robert Ryman

I permanently wait for your voice -

coming down from telescopes,

from the stars, from the cloudiest or

the sunniest  skies, through mirrors,

through tunnels, through light pannels,

through leap years, it could come.

From anywhere, from every marvel of the world,

From a miracle, unrecognized, unseen.

From the lips I kiss, from time to time,

even from the voice that says:

“I miss You”. Absolutely. From every silence,

from every moment, it could come.

From everywhere. Through sonatas, through thunders

and terrible storms. Through birds chirruping.

From every music and from your breathing…

Memory by Hye Jin Chung

Clothing

Take off my clothing,
features and pictures,
I don’t want you to see me,
masked as another,
always a daughter of someone

or something. I want you

to see me pure, free

and irreducible: me.

My darling!

I know when I call you,
among all people in the world,
that only you will be you.
And when you ask me
who is calling you, 
who waits for you…

My darling!
I bury nouns, pronouns,
labels, history. I tear apart
all they threw on me
even before I was born.

And finally back in the eternal
anonymity of nakedness,
like a black stone throwned and lost

in the gigantic world,
I will always tell you:
“I love you. Yes, I am the one.”

My darling!

Claes Oldenburg - Free

THERE

There,

inside the soft cavity of my body,

you burn.

There,

in the space  where the night reigns,

you tremble.

There

in the depth of the broken dream,

you appear.

There

in the name of an ancient God

you beg.

There,

where oblivion arrives in ragged clothes,

I know you.

There,

where our memory has no peace,

we exist.

There,

where our bewildered souls binds one to another,

we lie.

There,

where the thinness of my silence questions you,

we embrace.

There,

where I press my heart

before the flood of words,

we persist.

Si grand soit le silence

sur nos lèvres 

et nos corps enlacés

qui jamais ne seront monotones

Flor Garduno - Still Life

Nights

At home in the lamplight,

Time seems frozen and evenings

are lenghtening.

I resemble a little divine statue

and the light includes me only

through the night.

And it is difficult to speak

of the lonely night -

this dark absence of you

to turn away into as if tenderness

didn't tire or die and the crease

in our crumpled sheets

with the familiar place of my sole body.

Damien Hirst, Unique Red Butterfly, c.2008