Beethoven

piano’s essence is a molten sacrifice
defaced with the basswood timbre,
black spring consuming white winter
in its most terrible and bright moment –

the massacre of any distraught flare
at the core of forte’s solemn mass
clings closer to a porcelain heart
than dove’s devout eyes sky-fixed.

basic are lowest octaves, sotto voce,
when the hammer stirs a frail string
and tremulous ivory sighs in chords
to reshape even the sheltering high –

for a vibrating wire and faint ruins
that slam on the cartesian world
the keys fever cadence after cadence,
shard after shard – tempered hectic.

C minor-edged on a nowhere’s pyre
the bleeding note speaks obsidian,
emotion as a dim archaic shimmer –
and the galaxy’s glazed bare, wingless.

if you kiss this fractured reverence
while adagio turns presto agitato,
toss feathers into a perfect catastrophe,
bless it with your abysmal geometry

you can fly.

.

.

.

(repost for A)

 

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diary5396

(…and when birds wear the dark indigo of night, low clouds touch the tender pools of a mountain valley. moonlight has its own sound: subtle musings of a cello in the arms of a slow fragrant wind, glowing with deep poetry of shadow blessings, sweet with essence of unspoken spheres. and when a quiet rain comes, it stirs Orion into west, joy into harmony, hours into peace…)

Joan Miró – Empty spaces

beautiful~

smile dust

ban“The spectacle of the sky dazzles my mind.

When I see the sun or the crescent of the moon in the immense sky, I am absolutely overwhelmed. In my pictures, besides, there are many small forms in vast empty spaces. Empty spaces, empty horizons, empty plains, everything that is bare and empty always impresses me.

I get my ideas from the simplest things. […] For me, an object is something alive. A cigarette, a matchbox have a life that is much more intense than that of certain humans.

When I see a tree, I receive a shock, as if a tree were something that breathed, that talked…” – Joan Miró (Spain, 1893-1983)


Notes:
Art: “Bañista,” Joan Miró (Spain, 1893-1983), dated 1925 – Via Collection Michel Leiris, Paris.
Text: Extract from the preface of “Miró,” Leon Amiel Publisher, NY 1974.

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mountains

elven soft, the scent of valleys upon the breeze. whimsy sun hides in our hair, air full of each beautiful thing along the way. there is no name to heaven of his eyes, there is no name to a gentle understanding when he unfolds the whole world from his hands. breathful at the touch of the wild, into his arms i fall and fly, fall and fly. from hidden ravines mellow shadows spread, embraced by the aura of clouds. thank you, sky

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quote

‘If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.’
Ray Bradbury

éternité

(…tea shine, softly ebbing in cool air. grace of a proud willow, featherwhisper in the dusk of opaline birches. and how delicate is a chime trembling, the music of a berry path, a meadow’s  resonance, the ancient quiet of candle fire, that calm arrival, dusk pastels of the embrace by a lighthouse, the pulse of a dawn’s blossom…)

she was watching
the fall of leaves
landing on a lake
lit with cyan
moon

when he took
her hand
and told
it was
June

Vian

worn yet moving
to urban hum

nights estranged
and brine of wild

the sacred Vingilot
in starblue june

marvels of moontides

of a soft body yearning

of rainforest water
brimming with sky heat

a velvet feeling
in reverie motion
across the mauve dark
of cold hotel rooms

shaped to life