Farewell
The dream seems lost…
A hug
And then
Maybe it is time
I will go back to the shore
Where
I can throw sand into the sea
Watch the singing waves
From them comes the future
And the dream
Is still far
From being lost
Countless moments in the water
Silhouettes in blue
Where the sky…
And the rings are silent
Within
The Floating Time
KRISTIAN GOLDMUND AUMANN
AUTHOR/MARCH/2011
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
‘Tis- oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
Edgar Allan Poe
Illustration by Alberto Martini
A BRIDGE TOO FAR – BY MONIQUE LUCY WEBERINK AND VICTOR M. ALONSO
NOCHE DE MARZO.
Las aves cantan en la noche,
La madrugada tierna
Que escucha el pensamiento.
Son mis sensaciones fraguadas
En recuerdos distantes
Y urdidas de presente.
Es la fragancia intensa,
Persistente, de una palabra
Valiosa, imprescindible,
Que fragua la miel del silencio.
Porque yo quiero en esta noche
De invierno en calma
Modelar tu cintura
Dame una flor y un verso,
Un fragor distinto y un beso,
Mientras guardando yo estaré tu luz
Bajo la luna.
VICTOR M. ALONSO (MARZO, 2011)
“The Way of Silence” (1900-1903) by Frantisek Kupka (1871-1957)
According to Audrey Wagtberg Hansen in her article “Cold Gods and Fatal Women. “The Many Faces of the Sphinx in the 19th Century”, Kupka’s Way of Silence was “inspired by the poem Dream-land by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), [where] we see a lone traveler on a seemingly endless road under a starry sky, flanked by two rows of stone sphinxes. A Latin text on the pedestal of the front sphinx, ‘QUAD AD CAUSUM SUMUS’ (= why are we?), again poses a life-and-death question.”
Although Kupka’s painting certainly doesn’t correspond to Poe’s Dream-land (1850) in the particulars of its imagery, its depiction of a pathway through eternity certainly captures the atmosphere of the poem’s opening stanza:
BY a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule –
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE – out of TIME
www.moniquespassions.com
source Artrenewal
IMPRESIONES (2)
BLUE PAGE
(Sobre un trabajo de Monique Lucy Weberink)
No es sólo la distancia,
Es el tiempo el que abre
El azul de la mar
Que golpea esta noche de vigilia.
Hacia qué latitudes se dirige
El pensamiento exhausto,
Esa mirada tierna
De tu alma que tiembla ?
Qué insinúa tu mano,
Qué rumbos añora trazar
En el océano racial,
Tormentoso, de la existencia ?
Es mía la sangre que moja
El rojo centro del espacio,
El piélago supremo
Que arde de nostalgia
Y urde marejadas de pasión.
VICTOR M. ALONSO
GRAN CANARIA, MARZO, 2011
“There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers’ battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain’s tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog.”
Federico Garcia Lorca
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
Dead Poet’s Society
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
Dead Poet’s Society
¿Qué misterio se esconde tras la puerta?
¿Tu corazón está sellado y triste?
La sombra que se esconde tras la luz
Evoca una nostalgia de colores,
Nostalgia de palabras que has perdido
Una tarde de invierno y de violines.
Pero hay luz que ilumina enaltecida
Tus ojos de Gioconda
Y el cerrojo de oro me recuerda
La cálida expresión de tu mirada,
Que encuentra tras la puerta
El ardor de tus labios
Esta tarde de verso y soledad.
Victor Alonso
(Febrero, 2011)
Behind closed doors
Painting by Monique Lucy Weberink
Percy B. Shelley
Painting is My Soul is an Enchanted Boat by Walter Crane .
