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3d · 62
Song of Peace
I have trod lands of hazel glaze that called themselves lovers of Sun and Moon
From their lips of coral grove I stole thousand vices, two thousand sorrows and three thousand whishes and planted them mingled with pink seeds of tamarisk beneath the august cliffs and hollow of Parnassus
And they blossomed and ripened of grown fruit with merriment which overlept Serenity
And lily - like Pain reached for sweetness whom she bore and at touch worlds drew at peace
Sep 17 · 53
Song of Dreams
My darling boy, my blazing maiden.
I shall dine on a field of daffodils, and my heart will rise. We will beat beneath the sky of lightest azure, in a sea of golden white. I will kiss your mouth with the fruit of raspberry, to light you in the form of wildest scarlet - my blood will boil on your youthful skin, stained now for ever. As we muddle our hands and eyes, the great stars will rise and with their rising wake from seas the dragons of our dreams. We will watch as they explode in bright cover of the moon; their divine shapes will crash and break and silence the world.
Let us be one with our vision, let us ease our minds.
Sep 13 · 94
Song of Growth
The lights of ruby, emerald and opal burned the city in their shaking sparkle and illuminated deep violet of September evening - tinkling little jewells (one was bound to remember their illumination) - they connected it all ; rib - like, of such symetric form - with so wide a scope - dreamy little candles, dreary little eyes - what have they made of all the rest? Then, suddenly, a pen broke it all, drew a crack in the city, broke it in half - but the lights lost little of their beauty - like a wild berries ready to be eaten - a voice cried in unfamiliar tone - how could you ever let it all go, look up for a sparrow, a thrush, a bee, rest your eyes upon a child's grave, how will you leave fae queen? By these dear lights I will find my way through thick leaves and bushes and grapevine, soon I will be out to reach for unknown things, alone, with the brightness of dark, as it will illumine the face of all known.
I will know what there is to know.
I will dazzle in the light.
I will rest in the shadow.
The words will cover me with no fright.
Sep 5 · 100
Song of Ache
I bend my head along the silver line of tree
As the branches raise to converse with the sky
As the snowdrops raise from deep flavoured womb to pierce the earthly face
For they come of Dragon's song
And he is the heart of fire soiled world
Harp Lord and Selenite God
From his stone dripping tears
Life is burned in a spectre of ultramarine
Ghost like and dreamful
A cool ivory of scarlet eye
Quievering rosebud and peony
Bleak and barren of sorrow
In a flame of exquisite and grotesque
Aug 22 · 113
Past and Present
Or Dreaming Edwardian

In the minds, as in houses, linger ghosts. They connect the passages of one's life and complete it. We dwell upon their sweet - sad tones and improve ourselves on their behalf. For not only do they erase the veil of ages, but of our inner worlds, too. They enable us to pass though times and live more fully - we tiptoe amongst people long gone. As they wake from their shadows and emerge in daylight again - to live and enjoy the life gifted anew. It is entirely upon ourselves to choose how many steps to go back and whom to grant the privilege. It may bring us much sorrow and pain, but we still expose ourselves entirely to their influence. What is that dreadful force by which we shape our inner worlds? It is utterly demanding, incessantly persistent, and so very evergoing. Some fancy calling it imagination, but it is rather inappropriate name. As we shape words daily, we forget to name important things. Try as we might, there is a great discrepancy in the field of artful philosophy. Some think our predecessors knew better - Victorians or Edwardians, for example - if they trust Wilde or Forster. A view of Howards End cottage may alter the senses of one's thoughts, and bitter herbs of De Profundis sanctify our incomplete expression, and we exclaim "Oh how beautifully they lived!", and stumble. For who shall guide us through the moors of our minds, as we have lost their art of graceful trod. Who will welcome us at the end of our walk in the warm Hall of Whickham Place? The house seems abandoned, even with their help. Could the reason be that their past was also their present, and future but an illusion? If it really were so, how did we invert the two? Should we go back? How do we resume from the changing point?
Aug 16 · 194
The Strings of Nineveh
The honey lipped glaze of sand passed over the blue shadows
Through the Plain of Moon and covered the Land in dephts of Gold and Indigo
And star horns pressed upon it
No thing grew but granite
Who in its dark blossomed from Scorpio
And all the light went from Nineveh
As the waves of a radiant goddess scribed its fate
To spun and love and prey
The man cried for Nineveh
And she closed her lids from him
An Observation

The aim of Art is to express its own self by the means of its specially codified articulation. Whether one choses to employ language, paint or plastic, as a mean of expression, it matters little in the outcome. Art has always had its way, and never failed – what has is public reception. In this day, when much craving for realism and concrete is asked for, it has embraced the shape of abstract and ideal. By opposing the modern demands of Life, it stirs us from our sensing percieving, and points to the introspecitive and intuitive. Turning to these two, which go hand in hand,  we are likely to find closely associated romanticism. The meaning of romanticism has shifted its form and rules in the past centuries, but it was always present in them. There is in Thebes the young girl professing she was born for no other purpose than to love. Amongst the reeds, there shifts the nymph into the laurel tree, its bark swollen by sweet – liped god's tears. On the island of Albion the king passes into the shadow of Avalon. Back in Italy, the maiden pots her lover's head with basil and mourns for her life. The young prince in the North sacrifices his life in attempt to avenge his kingly father. The doctor's wife ruins herself and her family, to end her life in sorrow and agony. The modern Narcissus achieves eternal youth for the price of his soul. We feel a certain deterioration from this image in the time that came afterwards, which may be attributed to the external circumstances that spun our beliefs, culture, taste and thought. Something deeply changed grew within the contemporary thought, and through Life realises itself by strict exactness. Through Art, it realises by fluid abstractness. As a result, many refuse it, some agree with it, while the minority strives to feel it. The good question to ask oneself, when facing the contemporary Art, would be how to reach for the meaning with what is present in front of one. For, very so often, we might feel an isolated vagueness scratching at our minds and emotions, and turn away from it. The starvation in the incomprehensible frightens us, because it is the answer to the strict exactness – for which we haven't asked a question. In this light and its shades, we search for the long lost ideal of romanticism. „Romanticism is always in front of life“, Oscar Wilde stated in The Decay of Lying. In the past century we have witnessed a few attempts of applying it to the modern Art, but in vain.  Where Marsyas once used to cease in his song, in his being, there came an ever – fulfilling silence. It is not uncommon to see young readers or admireres of Art returning to the old masters nowdays, and it delights their teachers to see so. What should disturb us, is their lack of notice for their contemporaries. It simply urges us to refine our methods, reach for the pure and unbroken visions – untouched - and confront our self – restrictions. We have become overfocused on self – protection and preservation from crude attacks, imposed by the fashion of our time. What is needed, much as ever, is to embrace the emotions, purified by their sense of rawness. This comes to be the vital substance of all creation. Without it how much longer are our inner worlds to endure?

Oh, give us complex beauty, tender beauty, distant beauty – but always, always – our cry is for beauty.
Aug 5 · 277
The House of Purple
There lieth the one of marble limbs

with crystal sealed eyes

on the porphyry bed

with Syrian nard upon her feet

and pomegranate flowers in her hand

the queen of star land

in the House of Purple

the centuries grow on her back

with colours ever flowing

through her darling palace grotesque

where muddles the Form and Time

in exquisite shape she is there

the poppy queen

sweet tasting lover of the Death

with brittle passions she has build

the gardens of tusk like stalactite

in her ever jewelled chalice

the Sphinx drinks of Lethe's wine

and penetrates with odour

of the Acheron

in the purple corridors

there is joy of silk and pearl and azure

and moon marble monolith

she will kiss thy lips Adonis

in the rosewood path

she will milk thy heart Antinous

amongst the first  spring buds

she will drink your eyes Helen

in her waterlily bed

she will rip your body Daphne

in her night veiled labyrinth

the Land and Sea and their Lords all

have bowed their rose gentle heads

in her land of liquid

to the queen of New and Old
Jul 29 · 309
Summer Fruits
Below the sword - sharp land
teary stars creep through grass
and melt as avalanche midst buds to wreath and knight
Lamp of dew glistens at the dusk lined lips of leathery tendon and fragrants the audible time of solemn growth
Embalmed by earthly delights the deep fruits curve and colour in shades of land and sky
Jul 24 · 109
Amidst the star - land islands melt into amber lanterns
Deep under the snowy glitter that encircles the vast sphere of the world
Like inkpot spilling it's misty spell
Foggy ants creep and devour golden earth
Quietly, softly
The budding breast of the sky overflows in tinted notes to observe and silence
Jul 17 · 109
Hidden flower pools and star gardens
Ash - scented foliage imbued with spiders and crimson caterpillars forever burning in time and space
Never to stop earthly metamorphosis
For mercy of humankind
Let the Vulcan rip all lands and swallow the seas
Giants arise from clinking caverns to wash our mother of all things green and light
Rocks will rain on this wasteland
And leave her pure and white
Jul 11 · 325
Moon, Stars & Earth
My fingers have tasted the moon, and my mouth is sealed with hyacinth
Whiter than the skin of pomegranate stars purify with bitter herbs, set alight by the bright face of morn
World's light membrane burns on drought, for our milk tears are insufficient to cleanse and make it whole
Extend your hand and pass through wind's light hairs.
Brush against the lump of a cloud and listen how it speaks of absence, its power upon the mind.
It is the revelation to solace you in the womb of water - the freedom of our kind.
Jun 29 · 163
Heart of Almond
The colour of rose shines through layers of dust on the glass, table, book, pen and twists itself upon the sheets to become purple. If the touch of sunset rests on my eyes, let the inward worlds grow. For the light is here to made and remade, brushing  shadows. Cover the veil blue and mesmerise the senses. Augment the quickness in slow movements of pearly thought from the deep depth of almond core.
Jun 23 · 115
Mindful Summer Chaos
The sweetness of cheery springs from Sun. Sharp rays spread out to the world, lightly tipping, gently dipping into the spacious glass and reflect in the graveness of dark, the beauty of beam. This is the modest delight of a fae song, which divides into many a piece of rose - shaped star, all lightfull and lifefull. So the love letter to a painting stated (with sympathies never returned) back in the Eastern Lands of Winter White. And by the tinkling lights of these sharp rays, for that love we won't mourn.
Jun 17 · 144
De profundis
There is no such a thing as universal, for everything – in form and content – differs, and by no means there is a possibility of grasping one's meaning. For words are faithless and shallow, sights insufficent to express or perform. Then how to think, talk, or go about? One might name this the absence in its entierty, but it is rather the fullness of matter. This congested state burdens the mind, and we are formed in silence, which materializes the images, by which we drive all kinds of affection and call it in unity – love. We fill this word with the utmost importance, because we believe it is the only possible thing that may connect us with the others – and  in fact – it is quite so. But, as other things, this led many to believe love had a form, and a specific one – strictly defined and socially coded. So, one has a right to ask, how anyone should dare to reach for the unspeakable, natural cause of creation; the only mean of connection? For to define is to break, and to force is to destroy. It has been called morality, because the brutes did practice it, and still do so. What does stimulate the inhuman violence upon the soul? To cease the senses which enable us to feel, and shut the heart seems to be our cause of a long time. How did this fault befall us? What drove the man to **** his mean? We may stand differently, more truly to ourselves, if only we would allow to admit our own indivduality.  Histerical cry for social unity is unnatural and ******: γνῶθι σεαυτόν. As there was a more natural state of yore, might inspire us to create a subsequent one. The world will change, and we will not break.
In memoriam Oscar Wilde
Jun 11 · 157
Thought in Red
Sun stained blood and blood stained sun to me akin, awoke the lines forever lean, in the perpetual movement of ever raising moons of the mindful eye, opulent with many a sight of strange and secret that resides and does not perish, as long as thought can grasp and pen stroke pass.
Jun 5 · 153
Cleaved Recollections
In childhood Love came to me purple entwined with yellow, in a strength of movement, and I wanted to resemble it
Through dance the soul grew material
And from matter back to transcedance
Of swift colours and tingles
How strange it is to have a body of your own
For we still perceive this life as a dream of senses, and laugh it away with thoughts such as
There is a need for a teapot big enough for me to fit in and swim amongst the tea leaves
Or whether there ever was a difference between ginger core and spongy bone
And in the end, I run away from it all, and hide in the ripe rye and corn
May 30 · 122
Early Impressions
In the mellowest light of lilac hours
Dewed branches glimmer in lifefull spectre,
Nurture the sight and feed the body
Rose - clinking hushes the early morning's
Insect hustle and shuts down the micro - worlds
It is time for us to repose
Nature wreaths the mind in million lighted
Colours of youth - lasting spring, like web
It spreads through us till we are but foam of images.
May 24 · 153
The Sacered Snakes
The sacered snakes swim through the chestnut river
Glimering heads turning upward in the light of orange - embered sun
Hissing they whisper of life in the muddy waters, tasting earthly foul
Light is their swim, the landscape vast
And so is the fear of wilde liberty
For it is a cage of its own
Fruitful and evergeen in blissful delight
Iron - stained and crooked in eternal sight
May 17 · 266
The Moor Reflection
A thought did burn upon the moor
Below the pearl - pure sheet of abundant sky
Throughly it burned from mind
With ash did feed the acrid heather
Its fragrance lulled the cloud-shell's spine
And silently one heart did tremble
In the moon - iced night
Lemon pores resemble those of human
Moon shaped skin
Thick nectar imbued beneath
This sweet cage holds back unearthly turbulence
Milky tint softens my worlds permeated with many
A crescent shell contains numerous people
Do not grasp for
The sun-eyed
May 5 · 159
On Three Paintings
Carnation-faced child
A curling wave of youth
Do tell me of sea breaking, moon fishing, star milking and dream weaving
Carpaccio's knight
Let me sink into you
Handle me thy sword and armour
You may go pick a flower
Shalott's lady
Lit me your candles
Row me to the shore
The river's barley-scented song will slumber you away and wake me nay
On Carnation, lily, lily, rose ; Young Knight in a Landscape & The Lady of Shalott
Apr 29 · 187
A Vision of Light
I open my eyes as one closes them
Like apiarist tearing honeycombs
The view thickly spreads before

There is a castle on a wheat *****

I descend from the hill top
Through the deep sharp fruited amber sea
Smell the crow embraced stems
The bee sung dream
I lay breez kissed
And ponder of the castle oyster 
Gold and grey
A happy sight
Of old and May
Apr 23 · 181
May Dream
Down the hill a procession passed
Of many a merry and gay
Of every and one I ever knew
All white and combed with garlands
Of lily, dandelion, lavander, iris and thyme
Down the hill they passed in dance and music to meet the honey-scented goddess May
Above I floated, bodiless, unseen
Against the stream
My want was in stopping, observing the sight
In first line my friend laughed and chattered, as she held her sister and sweetly kissed her
I cried
She couldn't hear
But the stream pushed and pushed me
Till they were but salty tears
Apr 17 · 215
Leaping Istanbul
In the breezy afternoon
Life shone on your face

Under the Galata bridge

As you drove on in your sailboat
I extended my hand over the sea

Under the Galata bridge

Calling for a sip, an illusion
I wanted to stir the waves and fishes

Under the Galata bridge

In my vision there was a jump
From this state to another

But you merely passed

Under the Galata bridge
Apr 11 · 133
To Love in Purple Ink
In fear of sad lines, I reach for the purple ink.

There opens a meadow on the Skye, sea-scented, growing.
A lighthouse in the distance, running fiercely, envelopes the shade.
Birds, insects, earth, grass, moist, bushes, flowers, sea, skies, clouds, sun, wind, light, shadow, view, smells, sounds, colours, touch, nakedness and body cry of happiness.

(But the lighthouse endures in silence.)

I'm happy, I'm solemn, I'm undisturbed.
Now is the only time to love the world.
In memoriam AVW
Apr 5 · 123
The Primordial
The Fortune's orange blush and light-gold face cross the pale-greeness of the stone decay. Though the crone vale and the mountains star-peaked high above, itself may rotten well, no loneliness resides in the Palace Divine; for among the chambers ruined and the bronzy-bluish of the Nile mosaic, her voice maternal, glorified; the Primordial Force, she echoes in the mind - not distant, but as if from a cloud. The Call is sweet and known from the Time when body was souless or soul bodiless, she cried: "Nature, Nature, take your part! Leave me strandless and light: I beg you; do let me be brave, alone and might! "
I wrote this after my university project on the sanctuary of Fortune in Praeneste
Mar 31 · 181
My Seeking is in Spring
My seeking is in spring.
It is when the wild cherry blossom blooms above my window that I embrace its solemnity and kiss the sweet fruit. We breath the same happy notes of youth. Dewy morning chill passes by, and leaves me cold. If I were a tree how would the cold feel? Childeren on their way to school would bite the branches to find how the blood of the tree tastes. To see it flow red, they'd dance upside down. We remain silent; language is a crule, crule tool, made for violent crowds to invoke horrible delights. Mellow touches brush my skin and I return gentility. Feed me your gentle love, even though I fear my won't be sufficient to do the same. It shakes under our weight. We will break it, it's a promise. The unpleasantness of our kin endures.

I shall fly to the mountains as a fae.

— The End —