dimanche 17 juillet 2016

Monologue at 3 a.m.

Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch,  carpet,  floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,

than to sit mute,  twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said,  trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool,  thus wrenched  from
my one kingdom.

Sylvia Plath
Brian Kosoff

Soliloquy of the Solipsist

I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.

Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh,  kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.

When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue,  and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods,  I hold
Absolute power
To boycott color and forbid any flower
To be.

Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All your beauty,  all your wit,  is a gift,  my dear,
From me.

Sylvia Plath

samedi 16 juillet 2016


Among orange-tile rooftops
and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
gray as rats,

while on spotted branch
of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
and darkly glare,

watching for night,
with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,

in Collected Poems,  1956, Sylvia Plath

vendredi 8 juillet 2016

Romualdas Pozierskis
as horas estancam
na represa
da já lassa rotina

o Tempo tem dilatações únicas
quando te acaricio

samedi 2 juillet 2016

Poplar Trees, Fucino, Abruzzo, Italy. 2016
©Michael Kenna
les vents fous sont déchaînés -
tout comme nos hautes montagnes,
nous leur résistons

Martin Parr

vendredi 1 juillet 2016

les humains ressemblent à leurs objets -
avec le temps, ils s'effritent, s'affadent,
se rompent, s'abîment, se cassent

Ceal Foyer, Mirror Globe, 2014
le pèlerin parcourt des milliers de kilomètres
jusqu'au temple sacré  - à son arrivée,
le temple est fermé pour travaux