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RAJ NANDY Nov 2015
GREAT ARTISTS & THEIR IMMORTAL WORKS :
CONCLUDING ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IN
VERSE.  -  By Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Dear Readers, continuing my Story of Western Art in Verse chronologically, I had covered an Introduction to the Italian Renaissance previously. That background story was necessary to appreciate Renaissance Art fully. Now, I cover the Art of that period in a summarized form, mentioning mainly the salient features to curb the length. The cream here lies in the 'Art of the High Renaissance Period'! Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.

                          INTRODUCTION
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, &
  Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
                                                        – Leonardo Da Vinci
In the domain of Renaissance Art, we notice the
enduring influence of the Classical touch!
Ancient Greek statues and Roman architectures,
Inspired the Renaissance artists in their innovative
ventures!
The pervasive spirit of Humanism influenced
creation of life-like human forms;
Adding ****** expressions and depth, deviating
from the earlier stiff Medieval norms.
While religious subjects continued to get depicted
in three-dimensional Renaissance Art;
Portraits, **** figures, and secular subjects, also
began to appear during this great ‘Re-birth’!
The artists of the Early and High Renaissance Era
are many who deserve our adoration and artistic
due.
Yet for the sake of brevity, I mention only the
Great Masters, who are handful and few.

EARLY RENAISSANCE ARTISTS & THEIR ART

GITTO THE PIONEER:
During early 13th Century we find, Dante’s
contemporary Gitto di Bondone the Florentine,
Painting human figures in all its beauty and form
for the first time!
His masterwork being the 40 fresco cycle in the
Arena Chapel in Padua, depicting the life of the
****** and Christ, completed in 1305.
Giotto made the symbolic Medieval spiritual art
appear more natural and realistic,
By depicting human emotion, depth with an
artistic perspective!
Art Scholars consider him to be the trailblazer
inspiring the later painters of the Renaissance;
They also refer to Giorgio Vasari’s “Lives Of
The Eminent Artists,” - as their main source.
Giotto had dared to break the shackles of earlier
Medieval two-dimensional art style,
By drawing lines which head towards a certain
focal point behind;
Like an illusionary vanishing point in space,
- opening up a 3-D ‘window into space’!
This ‘window technique’ got adopted by the
later artists with grace.
(
Giorgio Vasari, a 16th Century painter, architect & Art
historian, was born in 1511 in Arezzy, a city under the
Florentine Republic, and painted during the High
Renaissance Period.)

VASARI’s book published in 1550 in Florence
was dedicated to Cosimo de Medici.
Forms an important document of Italian Art
History.
This valuable book covers a 250 year’s span.
Commencing with Cimabue the tutor of Giotto,
right up to Tizian, - better known as Titan!
Vasari also mentions four lesser known Female
Renaissance Artists; Sister Plantilla, Madonna
Lucrezia, Sofonista Anguissola, and Properzia
de Rossi;
And Rossi’s painting “Joseph and Potiphar’s
Wife”,
An impressive panel art which parallels the
unrequited love Rossi experienced in her own
life !
(
Joseph the elder son of Jacob, taken captive by Potiphar
the Captain of Pharaoh’s guard, was desired by Potiphar’s
wife, whose advances Joseph repulsed. Rossi’s painting
of 1520s inspired later artists to paint their own versions
of this same Old Testament Story.)

Next I briefly mention architects Brunelleschi
and Ghiberti, and the sculptor Donatello;
Not forgetting the painters like Masaccio,
Verrocchio and Botticelli;
Those Early Renaissance Artists are known to
us today thanks to the Art historian Giorgio
Vasari .

BRUNELLESCHI has been mentioned in Section
One of my Renaissance Story.
His 114 meter high dome of Florence Cathedral
created artistic history!
This dome was constructed without supporting
buttresses with a double egg shaped structure;
Stands out as an unique feat of Florentine
Architecture!
The dome is larger than St Paul’s in London,
the Capitol Building of Washington DC, and
also the St Peters in the Vatican City!

GILBERTI is remembered for his massive
15 feet high gilded bronze doors for the
Baptistery of Florence,
Containing twenty carved panels with themes
from the Old Testament.
Which took a quarter century to complete,
working at his own convenience.
His exquisite naturalistic carved figures in the
true spirit of the Renaissance won him a prize;
And his gilded doors were renamed by Michel
Angelo as ‘The Gates of Paradise’!
(
At the age of 23 yrs Lorenzo Ghiberti had won the
competition beating other Architects for craving the
doors of the Baptistery of Florence!)

DONATELLO’S full size bronze David was
commissioned by its patron Cosimo de’ Medici.
With its sensual contrapposto stance in the
classical Greek style with its torso bent slightly.
Is known as the first free standing **** statue
since the days of Classical Art history!
The Old Testament relates the story of David
the shepherd boy, who killed the giant Goliath
with a single sling shot;
Cutting off his head with Goliath’s own sword!
Thus saving the Israelites from Philistine’s wrath.
This unique statue inspired all later sculptors to
strive for similar artistic excellence;
Culminating in Michael Angelo’s **** statue of
David, known for its sculptured brilliance!

MASSACCIO (1401- 1428) joined Florentine
Artist’s Guild at the age of 21 years.
A talented artist who abandoned the old Gothic
Style, experimenting without fears!
Influenced by Giotto, he mastered the use of
perspective in art.
Introduced the vanishing point and the horizon
line, - while planning his artistic works.
In his paintings ‘The Expulsion from Eden’
and ‘The Temptation’,
He introduced the initial **** figures in Italian
Art without any inhibition!
Though up North in Flanders, Van Eyck the
painter had already made an artistic innovation,
By painting ‘Adam and Eve’ displaying their
****** in his artistic creation;
Thereby creating the first **** painting in Art
History!
But such figures greatly annoyed the Church,
Since nudes formed a part of pagan art!
So these Northern artists to pacify the Church
and pass its censorship,
Cleverly under a fig leaf cover made their art to
appear moralistic!
Van Eyck was also the innovator of oil-based paints,
Which later replaced the Medieval tempera, used to
paint angles and saints.

Masaccio’s fresco ‘The Tribute Money’ requires
here a special mention,
For his use of perspective with light and shade,
Where the blithe figure of the Roman tax collector
is artistically made.
Christ is painted with stern nobility, Peter in angry
majesty;
And every Apostle with individualized features,
attire, and pose;
With light coming from a single identifiable source!
“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,
and unto God things that are God’s”, said Christ;
Narrated in Mathew chapter 22 verse 21, which
cannot be denied.
Unfortunately, Masaccio died at an early age of
27 years.
Said to have been killed by a jealous rival artist,
who had shed no tears!

BOTTICELLI the Florentine was born half a
century after the Dutch Van Eyck;
Remembered even to this day for his painting
the ‘Birth of Venus’, an icon of Art History
making him famous.
This painting depicts goddess Venus rising out
of the sea on a conch shell,
And the glorious path of female **** painting
commenced in Italy, - casting a spell!
His full scale **** Venus shattered the Medieval
taboo on ******.
With a subject shift from religious art to Classical
Mythology;
Removing the ‘fig-leaf cover’ over Art permanently!

I end this Early Period with VERROCCHIO, born
in Florence in fourteen hundred and thirty five.
A trained goldsmith proficient in the skills of both
painting and sculpture;
Who under the patronage of the Medici family
had thrived.
He had set up his workshop in Florence were he
trained Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, and other
famous Renaissance artists alike!

FOUR CANONICAL PAINTING MODES OF
THE RENAISSANCE:
During the Renaissance the four canonical painting
modes we get to see;
Are Chiaroscuro, Sfumato, Cangiante and Unione.
‘Chiaroscuro’ comes from an Italian word meaning
‘light and dark’, a painting technique of Leonardo,
Creating a three dimensional dramatic effect to
steal the show.
Later also used with great excellence by Rubens
and the Dutch Rembrandt as we know.
‘Sfumato’ from Italian ‘sfumare’, meaning to tone
down or evaporate like a smoke;
As seen in Leonardo’s ‘Mona Lisa’ where the
colors blend seamlessly like smoke!
‘Cangiante’ means to ‘change’, where a painter
changed to a lighter or a darker hue, when the
original hue could not be made light enough;
As seen in the transformation from green to
yellow in Prophet Daniel’s robe,
On the ceiling of Sistine Chapel in Rome.
‘Unione’ followed the ‘sfumato’ quality, but
maintained vibrant colors as we get to see;
In Raphael’s ‘Alba Madonna’ in Washington’s
National Gallery.

ART OF HIGH RENAISSANCE ERA - THE
GOLDEN AGE.

“Where the spirit does not work with the
hand there is no art.”- Leonardo

With Giotto during the Trecento period of the
14th century,
Painting dominated sculpture in the artistic
endeavor of Italy.
During the 15th century the Quattrocento, with
Donetello and Giberti,
Sculpture certainly dominated painting as we get to
see!
But during the 16th century or the Cinquecento,
Painting again took the lead commencing with
the great Leonardo!
This Era was cut short by the death of Lorenzo the
Magnificent to less than half a century; (Died in 1493)
But gifted great masterpieces to the world enriching
the world of Art tremendously!
The Medieval ‘halo’ was now replaced by a fresh
naturalness;
And both Madonna and Christ acquired a more
human likeness!
Portrait paintings began to be commissioned by
many rich patrons.
While artists acquired both recognition and a status
of their own.
But the artistic focus during this Era had shifted from
Florence,  - to Venice and Rome!
In the Vatican City, Pope Julius-II was followed by
Pope Leo the Tenth,
He commissioned many works of art which are
still cherished and maintained!
Now cutting short my story let me mention the
famous Italian Renaissance Superstar Trio;
Leonardo, Raphael, and Michael Angelo.

LEONARDO DA VINCI was born in 1452 in
the village of Vinci near the City of Florence,
Was deprived of a formal education being born
illegitimate!
He was left-handed, and wrote from right to left!
He soon excelled his teacher Varrocchio, by
introduced oil based paints into Italy;
Whose translucent colors with his innovative
techniques, enhanced his painting artistically.
Sigmund Freud had said, “Leonardo was like a
man who awoke too early in the darkness while
others were all still asleep,” - he was awake!
Leonardo’s  historic ‘Note Book’ has sketches of a
battle tank, a flying machine, a parachute, and many
other anatomical and technical sketches and designs;
Reflecting the ever probing mind of this versatile
genius who was far ahead of his time!
His ‘Vituvian Man’, ‘The Last Supper’, and ‘Mona Lisa’,
Remain as his enduring works of art and more popular
than the Leaning Tower of Pisa!
Pen and ink sketch of the ‘Vitruvian Man’ with arms
and leg apart inside a square and a circle, also known
as the ‘Proportion of Man’;
Where his height correspondence to the length
of his outstretched hands;
Became symbolic of the true Renaissance spirit
of Man.
‘The Last Supper’ a 15ft by 29ft fresco work on
the refectory wall of Santa Maria, commissioned
by Duke of Milan Ludovic,
Is the most reproduced religious painting which
took three years to complete!
Leonardo searched the streets of Milan before
painting Judas’ face;
And individualized each figure with competence!
‘Mona Lisa’ with her enigmatic smile continues
to inspire artists, poets, and her viewers alike,
since its creation;
Which Leonardo took four years to complete
with utmost devotion.
Leonardo used oil on poplar wood panel, unique
during those days,
With ‘sfumato’ blending of translucent colors with
light and shade;
Creating depth, volume, and form, with a timeless
expression on Mona Lisa’s countenance!
Art Historian George Varasi says that it is the face
of one Lisa Gherardini,
Wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant of Italy.
Insurance Companies failed to make any estimation
of this portrait, declaring its value as priceless!
Today it remains housed inside an air-conditioned,
de-humidified chamber, within a triple bullet-proof
glass, in Louvre France.
“It is the ultimate symbol of human civilization”,
- exclaimed President Kennedy;
And with this I pay my humble tribute to our
Leonardo da Vinci!

MICHEL ANGELO BUONARROTI (1475-1564):
This Tuscan born sculptor, painter, architect, and
poet, was a versatile man,
Worthy to be called the archetype of the true
‘Renaissance Man’!
At the age of twelve was placed under the famous
painter Ghirlandio,
Where his inclination for sculpting began to show.
Under the liberal patronage of Lorenzo de Medici,
He developed his talent as a sculptor as we get
to see.
In the Medici Palace, he was struck by his rival
Torregiano on the nose with a mallet;
Disfiguring permanently his handsome face!
His statue of ‘Bacchus’ of 1497 and the very
beauty of the figure,
Earned him the commission for the ‘PIETA’ in
St Peter’s Basilica;
Where from a single piece of Carrara marble he
carved out the figure of ****** Mary grieving
over the dead body of Christ;
This iconic piece of sculpture which along with
his ‘David’ earned him the ‘Superstar rights’!

Michel Angelo’s **** ‘DAVID’ weighed 6.4 tons
and stood 17 feet in height;
Unlike the bronze David of Donatello, which
shows him victorious after the fight!
Michel’s David an epitome of strength and
youthful vigour with a Classical Greek touch;
Displayed an uncircumcised ***** which had
shocked the viewers very much!
But it was consistent with the Mannerism in Art,
in keeping with the Renaissance spirit as such!
David displays an attitude of placid calm with
his knitted eyebrows and sidelong glance;
With his left hand over the left shoulder
holding a sling,
Coolly surveys the giant Goliath before his
single sling shot fatally stings!
This iconic sculpture has a timeless appeal even
after 500 years, depicting the ‘Renaissance Man’
at his best;
Vigorous, healthy, beautiful, rational and fully
competent!
Finally we come to the Ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel of Rome,
Where Pope Julius-II’s persistence resulted in the
creation of world’s greatest single fresco that was
ever known!
Covering some 5000 square feet, took five years
to complete.
Special scaffoldings had to be erected for painting
scenes from ‘The Creation’ till the ‘Day of Judgment’
on a 20 meter’s high ceiling;
Where the Central portion had nine scenes from
the ‘Book of Genesis’,
With ‘Creation of Adam’ having an iconic significance!
Like Leonardo, Michel Angelo was left-handed and died
a bachelor - pursuing his art with devotion;
A man with caustic wit, proud reserve, and sublimity
of imagination!

RAFFAELLO SANZIO (1483-1520):
This last of the famous High Renaissance trio was
born in 1483 in Urbino,
Some eight years after Michel Angelo.
His Madonna series and decorative frescos
glorified the Library of Pope Julius the Second;
Who was impressed by his fresco ‘The School
of Athens’;
And commissioned Raphael to decorate his
Study in the Vatican.
Raphael painted this large fresco between 1510
and 1511, initially named as the ‘Knowledge of
Causes’,
But the 17th century guide books referred to it
as ‘The School of Athens’.
Here Plato and Aristotle are the central figures
surrounded by a host of ancient Greek scholars
and philosophers.
The bare footed Plato is seen pointing skywards,
In his left hand holds his book ‘Timaeus’;
His upward hand gesture indicating his ‘World
of Forms’ and transcendental ideas!
Aristotle is seen pointing downwards, his left
hand holds his famous book the ‘Ethics’;
His blue dress symbolizes water and earth
with an earthly fix.
The painting illustrates the historic continuance
of Platonic thoughts,
In keeping with the spirit of the Renaissance!
Raphael’s last masterpiece ‘Transfiguration’
depicts the resurrected Christ,
Flanked by prophets
laura Oct 2018
Piano and guitar playing light songs
soft tape, fresh rain, streets oblique
christmas lights on her walls like she
lives in a dorm, eucalyptus smelling
fresco paintings with 666s on them
bring on the full Fall, dim cars
outside and their alarms or engines
in the pause of our sleepy conversations
we go in deep when we’re satisfied with
the noise we’ve made
Kamaruzzaman Apr 2010
Abandoned
And befallen - gods
Trespass the moon
So black
- in a fresco of silence
Like a solo drop
Of dusk - godly foibles
As if dying
In lowly fables
- shredded
And camouflaged,
Nocturnal truth
Of infernal desires speaking
At a remove
From the earthly soil

Thus spake
The spell of oracular lies
As the gods fumbled
In celestial fuss to reverberate
In teardrop shadows
- unfettering hundreds of lives
From the fiasco
Of unholy war as lowly
As godly disdain
Forbidden far from the heaven

Thus -
As the fresco of silence
Smacking
- of an epic delusion
Dies a demise
Of godly death
And the fiasco ends there
In godly foibles
And in godly disdain...
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes  that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
Chapter XXI
Hegira to Patmos

They dropped their moorings from Cala Cogone early, when the tide seemed to be separated from the waters like a head distanced from its body. On a lavish and romantic day they went to Genoa, to continue the logistics of the trip to Piacenza. During the trip Etréstles was stretched out in the bow under a Sun that seemed to be fearsome as it was a digestive task that would make him ingest his own dream, which perhaps he aspired to be more than a journey. While he slept, at the helm Etréstles dressed in a black robe and the comrades also sleeping with dreams that they painted with sign gestures on their faces.

Dream of Etréstles: "With the memory off-center ..., I was still in Izzana, dancing by the clouds on gray tulles of the layers of the sky that tried to stop being a Kingdom without a Crown and Sword". They glimpsed the stones melting and turning into gauze juxtaposed to the aerosolites that unfolded from the Sorcery, landing on the hands and heads of Vernarth and Himself. As he continued his dreamy journey, he dialogued with the auxiliary legate of his own dream. “He tells her that he sees them beyond where their liturgies collide. They cross eroding the vanished and itinerant reason”. He gets up and takes the moorings of the ship and ties them to his neck. Then everyone cooperates to walk along the edge of the ship, which all moved barefoot. This is how I would wake up!

Vernarth tries to wake him up, shakes him, but doesn't wake up. And when he tried to avoid him from sleep, he saw that he had the moorings around his neck, along with two Unicorns who were escorting him and were looking towards infinity, auspicious that Genoa was already coming in front of their horns. The others began to wake up and ate reclining, almost as if without any desire to get up from the deck full of self-sliding linen, which allowed everyone to pass their own meals, including those that were semi-consumed rolling on the deck. Etréstles,  transferred the dream to Vernarth, once he went to his bedroom to rest before they touched the roadstead at the foot of the homonymous promontory, 36 km from Genoa.  Portofino, close to the hydro form of the Portofino Regional Natural Park.  Being able to find different entrance doors through S. Rocco, Portofino Vetta and Nozaregoino  that led you to paths with different levels of accessibility and landscape. On the route of the path that traveled from Northwest to Southwest on the same promontory, he received the full beauty of the Mediterranean vegetation, with its beautiful pines, bluish and clean waters of the Mediterranean, which filled his lungs and especially his stem, which silenced of peace to those who accompany you through this interesting and beautiful Natural Park with deep blue eyes.
Vernarth is wrapped with two layers of linen and stands in between eclipsing each of the Unicorns. They pass her horn through her pectoral, as if wanting to insinuate affection. But her propitiated gesture was to crown her with the Power of her phalanx, the impetus in Gaugamela, an Onyx Crown, to lighten the burden of sleep and wake up before reaching the shores of Genoa.
Calling in Genoa, they all descend in a separate part and say goodbye from afar, gesturing with their hands. Their ramblings revealed multi-level radiographs of the resolved aura that invited them to an enclave hostel, to re-enter the world of their daily chores. The Unicorns who would return back to Sardinia stayed on the ship that was in the blue bay. They positioned themselves at the bow one and at the stern the other, to lighten the sails and return to Izzana.

Vernarth and Etréstles walked with their bags, letting go of their feet towards La Via ** Settembre, they travel in an east-west direction, next to Corso Italia, the promenade that runs along the promenade, which is one of the favorite places to reform the destination of Piacenza. From this road they moved near the adjacent carriage station to the Caruggio neighborhood in Sottoripa. Here they entered an inn to eat and drink liqueurs made from natural herbal recipes and sweet citrus, some fish with bread, sauce and Genovés sourdough. to satisfy their hunger.
They had dinner and opened the exit to the terminal. Before, they went to the Ponte Monumentale where the church dedicated to Santa Rita is, called Iglesia de la Consolación, whose entrance, at the level of the old streets, is slightly lower than the current street. They pass a porch and enter. "Almost like a grand cloister sensation they perceived during their stay, as if centuries had passed, but which never ended in the wanderings of any secular period. It was the impression once entered and soaked on this road, which still remains active. From this original cloister, the invocation of images on the sides placed towards the church towards Via ** Settembre, as well as the closed portal in the market access plaza on Via Galata, recur, while the other two sides are they completed attractions to admire when the eastern market in Genoa appeared before them ”.

When they entered, the masks were passed over the bones of their faces, indulgent towards both faces of the visitors, under a freshness of gravitational atmospheric fragrance, perhaps from the connected baptismal font or the lateral nave or the three naves separated by square pillars illuminating them. This is where Vernarth places his right hand on his forehead and his mouth, as a sign of catechesis detached from The Vault, the central nave and the counter-facade that were painted in fresco in 1874 by Giuseppe Isola, after reading about the intertextual verifying thus Vernarth. (Visioni dell'Apocalisse, Gloria di Nostra Signora della Consolazione and Giuditta rientra trionfante in Betulia), while Etréstles frenziedly admitted the frescoes through the side aisles that are the work of Giovanni Quinzio at an angle close to him. Observing everything, he was already indoctrinating to reprint new vigor to enter Piacenza triumphantly and head to the Region of Patmos. Giuseppe Isola's fresco was the great motive that struck his reason for being where he was to continue the threads upon threads of his lineage as the great Commander of the troops of Gaugamela and his Phalanges. Here is the church in its first tune with the duty of limitlessness before its steps to dominions that will make it recover their powers, from where they were first seen dressing in the clothes of an innocent child.


In the apse, there was the choir singing baroque pieces, and followed by elaborate wooden stalls from the 17th century. In the Altars on the left, on the Fifth Altar, Etréstles, captures a simultaneous vision. From that moment when it was the disappearance of this Santa Maria della Pace church, which could have been one structure on top of the other, perhaps in ruins but if the columns could go further from where their originals are born. Until then both had separated from each other, and they would meet again here in the apse, where they never lose sight of each other again, to turn towards the exit that required them to leave the sacred precinct. In the terminal, a grayish float awaited them, with silver trim on the edges of the structure, at the top of the front roof it said "Where you must never go and be". It was just the transport of an allegorical float. They were theatrical traveling artists, who had places available for travelers to Piacenza. The one that they just approached to move to the home, where they had to register at their own will and rejoin this excellent session "Parapsychological Regression".The Trebbia valley, a few kilometers from Piacenza. Vernarth noted that a shaft of the chariot made a strange sound. To which he notified the driver, telling him what he caught on the rear axle of the carriage. They go down to inspect all; not being able to detect anything that it would suppose would be an anomaly of filming of the instrumental east. Etréstles sees that some steeds were grazing on some meadows and he tells them all. Vernarth warns him and immediately heads to them. It reaches only a sorrel that was running its tongue over its hoof. The others flee. Vernarth approaches, and notices that he had a wound in his left hoof, noticing that in the center there was a strip of Green color, He takes his leg, and examines it. He takes out his dagger and begins to remove the stake that was inserted into his damaged leg. The others were gone, restarting the trip to Piacenza. Etréstles managed to climb a steed, and followed him - The float remained without them supposedly to arrive safely at Piacenza. But at 5 km, before reaching the city they are struck by a lightning bolt from a sudden storm. What misdirects his route - the passengers were left intact, only fatally suffered the loss of the driver. (It was verified by Vernarth when he arrived at his home in Piacenza).   As  Vernarth rode fast in the storm, trying to catch up with the carriage. Stress them towards the same to reach their brother. They rode propagating the pastures that passed near the forests of Val Trebbia. When the storm intensified instantly, it was wise to take refuge and wait for the flood to decrease. They were always close to each other. Etréstles about 18 km from Vernarth, they did not know it, but the horses sensed each other. They already distinguished, that they were close to each other, but it was necessary to take care of the horse, and have to check its hoof again. He checks it and notices that it had a green stripe in the four parts, like a pigment already placed concentrically in the middle of each hoof.


Ellipses Gaugamela - Final War
Vernarth bids farewells farewell. Once the Achaemenides are surrendered, he prepares to review them. Walk with Alikanto across the ****** plain. Reviewing his five hundred dead and three thousand wounded, he goes to recirculate in the footsteps of the attack, manages to see lead as a sentinel gathered wounded horses, but not serious. He approaches him and says Khaire; asking what unit they came from. He tells them of the Hosts of the command of Hefestion. The sentinel tells him, that he was enraptured by the fact before his eyes to see that all the horses of the line of Hefestion, Alexander the Great and Vernarth, to fascinate him that they had a green stripe on his left hoof. Wedge riders are formed, lining up the stable, towards the court of the guards and Macedonian monarchs. She dismounts from Alikanto and checks the chestnut trees, managing to insinuate that it could be Medea's ploy of the smiling charm towards her Hetairoi dancers, whose elite had bracelets on each leg on each chestnut. Also with the offensive weapon, they acted as the Macedonian's personal guard. Vernarth recalled that, before starting the offensive, with his blessed Xifos he inflicted light wounds on the left foot of his Phalanges in the act of "overtaking them before being stained by the enemy"

Vernarth says: Here is the cavalry that has received so much praise for «hammer» in the strategies, because it crushed the enemy units retained by the «anvil» or the «phalanx» that I had to command and lead the charge, intoning the riders. And even more the circumcisions that he gave them before entering combat. With the Hetairoi I was organizing squadrons of 200 to 300 soldiers, while they were checking the chestnut trees. In the campaign, they would ride the best horses, ******* or on the blanket, they were awarded the best weapons available. Each carried his long throwing spear Xyston, accompanied by a Kopis sword, for hand-to-hand combat, which in the interlude would defend his flax and bronze breastplate, with respective protective armbands and helmet, before lightly tackling his aggression . The horses were also partially protected, but not their hooves! I gave them the final instruction by decree to take them to the altarpieces and attend to them, so that they check their left hoof.Thus giving signs of great concern about the green stripe on each of its left hooves. Sentinel Hetairoi, with some of his servants, gather the animals and transport them where they have been ordered to tend and examine them. As the designs collapse over the night in gloomy litanies, Medea bursts into a great green outfit saying:

Medea: Vernarth, rancid are on my memory the potions and designs of those who want to talk about me or offer me in their lust.Where the zeal of anxiety deceives the wishful arms that welcome the victorious pleasure. Hooves are my skeptics and famous decisions, because I am weak in will but not in character. Green is the pouring of my converted powers into the veins of the horses. They were carriers in their eloquent ferocity. Instead of blood, I had sap from the magic vessels that I transferred to them so as not to doubt the doubts. Their object is that a green band was encased in their hooves as a sign of the Hipnos promontory through their Son Clovis, to plunge all the forests of the raging underworld, towards the heart of each "Valiant Hetairoi".


Outside ellipsis / near Piacenza
Vernarth and Etréstles in a post-storm clearing, a soft breeze greets them and they meet again, they greet Khaire! And together they reroute to the empty pastures, which would gradually begin to venture them through the farthest forests of the Val Trebbia. On some brown plains with poor colors that visited him falling as they faded on his mirage. From this unusual crossroads they will supremely perceive the closeness of Piacenza in their breathing.
Now they are in the vicinity of the Cimitero de Piaceza. Then they will have to go home on the Via Giovanni Codagnello, on the calendar of January 2020. The Parapsychological Regression continues.


Piacenza Cemetery, January 20, 2020
Vernarth and Etréstles entered the necropolis long before sunset. They were carrying a cake to celebrate Vernarth's birthday. Night Patrol joined the visit. In particular, they followed a night watch service that was active, trusting their guide Piacenza or the surrounding area, with 3 internal night patrol passages 365 days a year, for the rest of lives beyond all material life, perhaps turned into marble statues.
They hired a special service dedicated to the approved service for 2 people .; They were active during the caretaker's office opening hours (the same opening hours as the cemetery). With this service they overcame difficulties to walk after so much traveling. They leave the green-hoofed horses, now turned into statues. They request authorization from the entrance cemetery offices, to honor their belonging and to please those who visit them on their behalf. In Genoa, after having passed through the exterior without entering, they were ecstatic with the Staglieno Cemetery in Genoa (the most monumental in Italy).But if they enter the Piacenza, where the sanitary monumentality passed through the real function of such an enclosure in the contingency. It was commented by the neighboring offices that the migration of corpses from Bergamos were moved to Modena, Acqui Terme, Domodossola, Parma, Piacenza to carry out the respective ceremonies. Due to the great Viral Pandemic that decimated a great majority of Italian citizens in these areas. Vernarth became aware of the current reality, saw how a gravedigger conversed with the crowds, there was a nurse, a doctor and a prodigal man who concentrated on uploading moods to those who were there, almost like a caster, to relieve them of this transitory despite humanity.
They continue past the pyramidal pines, to the central pavilion. They sit on the edge of some flagstones, and take the cake to celebrate their birthday. They sing a hymn and they both enjoy it lovingly. Etréstles saw that he had a little cream left on his nose and cheekbone, running his hand to remove it. In the instant, the guard calls them; it was time to go because it was time to close the compound. They say goodbye with a monumental hug paying tribute to their brother!


Etréstles says: Honors Vernarth, for your immeasurable Valor! It is a great contribution that we divide our work and commitments. From here I go to the Messolonghi Cemetery. I will only wait for the crescent moon to meet the Charioteer, then leave with him and my beloved Drestnia. My Xifos Sword in my right hand and the head that I cut off in my left hand, in Gaugamela before that rugged fate! Khaire, My honors Commander Etréstles!. It remains in the shadow of some pyramidal pine trees of this sublime night, and then they distance themselves. Vernarth leaves the compound heading towards his house relatively close to the cemetery, on the Via Giovanni Codagnello.


Final session in Vía Codagnello, Piacenza:
Vernarth enters opens the door and everyone is waiting for him. Huge groups of friends, work colleagues, family, their pets, and especially the Parapsychologist, who had commanded this whole great session. They all approach her and in the instant, Vernarth awakes abruptly from the parapsychological session. They stabilize it and check your vital signs. There were many days of this odyssey. His awakening was mediatic, since they were attentive to him to question him and confess everything, but he was clear that his purpose would lead him to the confines of Patmos along with Raeder and Petrobus. It remained only to wait for the tenuity of a simple immortal warrior to assist in the services of John the Evangelist. The parapsychologist says you have to wake up, you can no longer be AND stay here in this temporary tube!
Once he has refused to wake up, he takes the itinerary to return to Macedonia. The visibly worn and stunned parapsychologist demands that he give up and obey his command. The effort was unproductive, only letting himself be carried by the grip of his right hand, taking his other with great vigor to remove it from shamelessness, from whom he does not suppress his pride to who still remains wounded by the swords that bleed his soul in Gaugamela. "Everyone is amazed and resigned !, pointing out that he must have always been in the surroundings of his beloved Macedonia, cutting the bursts of succulent insolence on the same temperate cliffs, where some variation of the sounds of the wind would make him saddle his Alikanto to acclaim the gods who came looking for him ”

Vernarth is engulfed in ambivalence, almost celebrating his birthday and waking up from his parapsychological journey. Both will take place, but the session will continue irrevocably. After a few days close to the first day of the crescent moon, he greeted him from a privileged place on his house Etréstles de Kalavrita who was with the Charioteer in his car and Drestnia, they went in that masterful car to join the chores of the Koumetrium Messolonghi (Editorial Palibrio - USA) .So returning to Messolonghi, to meet his disciples and essences of the foundation of his naturalness.


Hegira to Patmos
On a gray day in July 1820. Piacenza slept under the ambush of the revolution, in Italy there was a situation similar to that of another European nation. Vernarth was preparing his last details with the parapsychologist, to undertake his Hegira to Patmos, since he was a revolutionary and this was of great motivation to emigrate from this constant stage of Wars and sociopolitical processes. Manage to be a participant in this revolt in the Piedmont area. Its ideological axes were liberalism and nationalism. Given that the most affected countries were those of southern Europe (episodes from other areas, such as Germany or France, were much less important), with Spain as epicenter of a movement that extended to Italy and Portugal, and on the other hand Greece; It has been called the Mediterranean cycle as opposed to the Atlantic cycle that had preceded it in the previous generation (the first liberal revolutions or bourgeois revolutions, produced on both sides of the ocean: the Independence of the United States -1776- and the French Revolution -1789- ). As compromised great principalities of much of Europe were banned, it participates in great dissolution of collisions and invasions that involved it. In this way he would liberate his Homeland, especially his province of Piacenza.

Although the "Kingdom of Italy" as such did not exist, there were two great kingdoms that participated in the Revolutions of 1820: the Kingdom of Naples and the Kingdom of Piedmont. However, most of the revolutionary movements were driven by secret societies, such as coal. The Kingdom of Piedmont was also one of the most affected, since it was at the epicenter of Italian nationalism. It was controlled by Víctor Manuel I, member of the House of Savoy and defender of the Old Regime. The monarch had only been on the throne for 6 years, since he returned to Turin in 1814 due to the defeat of Napoleon. Since his return, various factions within the country advocated for a unification of all the Italian kingdoms. The unstable situation of its neighbor, the Kingdom of Naples, caused the carbonarians within Piedmont to revolt in March 1821.

Conclusive Hegira ellipsis to Patmos:
After this great conflict, he orders his parapsychologist to resume his final session in Patmos; he begins the procedure for the era that he had to trespass anachronistically, returning to the era of the Macedonian Empire. The parapsychologist asks him time, place, dates, clothing, customs, and manages to meet his request. He enters the portal, and in the backwaters of Messolonghi he meets Raeder and Petrobus. They were close to this heroic land, Messolonghi in the Gulf of Patras, the capital of Aetolia-Acarnania. Nothing less than in the land of his Brother Etréstles "Koumeterium Messolonghi".


"They all approach the vicinity, pray three times to heaven, and manage to be abducted to the underworld of Messolonghi. When they were snooping through the catacombs, they make out the surroundings of a luminous vault, thus distinguishing a woman passing by with others. It was the beautiful nymph Eurydice inaugurating The Constitution of a new Government”.
Eurydice and the gravediggers worked for the new government to be instituted. They were reviewing the last ground plans that converged on the tenth cemetery.
Eurydice ...: with the absence of Etréstles and Drestnia we will make her awakening continue, whose awakening phase closely relates to her wife.
Grave ...: Where do we start?
Eurydice ...: by the southwestern statue of Ashurbanipal, to pay tribute to Botsaris. Then, we will go up to receive the cordoned off tomb of Bramante and Ghiberti, so that the latter can advise us regarding the work to be erected.
They climb the northeast pavilion to the foundations of a mausoleum. They approach the slab of Ghiberti, who was loosening his fingers, sitting on the shore of a Pyramid-shaped cypress. Bramante vanished into the gray beams of light...

Ghiberti ...: I already know your mission. I am summoned to the Council on the day of the sailors' return. To start, they went to the mines to look for precious stones, stones to build Markos Botsaris.
Eurydice ...: Good! Well, in nine moons and nine suns they will return from the coasts of Morocco, the last docking point, so that they can then return. At the moment they are already warned.
Just back, there was a Lover with her right hand holding her chin.

Inamorada In Love ...: Five centuries ago I awaited my awakening, my lover promised to return ... with these verses...:
"I want to be different,
I want to take you my love...
and tell you that by missing you
there is no greater sadness than not seeing you ...
Forgive me for not coming back...
before my absence caused your death,
Wait for me ... I'm going to tell you ... how I miss you
Along with my immortality of feeling...!  How I miss you...!!

... He still tells me this, but from here, under the embankment of the cemetery I feel that he is far away and I can do nothing. Also, I have it in my memory and one day we will meet here. The Enamorada continues to sit and watch armies of soldiers being thrown into graves, their bodies severed. As she continues; ... there is more life here than on the surface, and the trenches replace the concave wombs, as vessels! As everything here lives, even the flowing and hallucinatory invocations are perceived from the Poets, Alchemists and Astronomers. They make the invisible go in a formidable adventure to the site of their magical hallucinations.
Eurydice ...: Stay on your stone, with your chiffon dress; here you will see the arrival of Etréstles. He will bring news from other lands to answer you. Now dispense if we delay, sadness will fall on the other beings who are being buried and transhumated. The Enamorada remained on the stone with her knees resting on her chest. Eurydice and her assistants went to their rooms. "
All this they manage to witness, and then go in search of Etréstles on the same tenth cemetery floor. Raeder and Petrobus were laughing and at the same time they were impressed, as if wanting to remember him when they have to leave directly from Messolonghi to Patmos, towards the Dodecanese region. In the meantime Vernarth was searching for his brother in all the nearby areas of the catacombs flashing penetrating light, unable to find him. He arrives at the ninth cemetery and is fascinated by a feminine image that would seem like a phantasmagorical chimera ..., it was Drestnia moistening some ferns on some crypts making gestures to see them already grown, even if they had just been planted...!

They approach her intimacy and ask her greetings, Drestnia answers them abstractedly that Etréstles traveled to Patmos to applaud the maiden ceremonies that would be wed in the spring in the nearby meadows. Being able to settle in The Monastery of Zoodochos Pigi, and who later went to the hills of Castelli, as it has been known that everything has been celebrated on a hill that many hundreds of years ago has sheltered our historical fragrances in the unity of the ethereal until the present. Such ruins among some works as well as the Temple of Apollo that will continue to survive with its prevailing mystery not revealed.
Etréstles gives them their congratulations and wraps his arms around Drestnia. They evacuate the cemetery, remaining abstracted in the internal darkness of the catacombs with fewer lights than a feasible twilight of darkness, as if immediately leaving Etréstles to be with him in the spring, shedding light on herself taking them to the Castelli hills, which they would figure in the sweetened exaltation of the pollinations of the nymphs on the maternal and ****** maidens.

They go out and spread their impulses over the promontory of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi with Raeder and Petrobus on Raeder's shoulders. Vernarth invoked the north with her staff where Alikanto would appear with her hooves with greenish stripes.

Raeder says:  Let's go. On those warm currents to follow we will not unite you Vernarth. Smiling, the fantastic boy danced, forming figures that enlivened him to hold on to the legs of Petrobus. They both stared at Vernarth and raised high above the warm clouds. Beneath the Messolonghi miniature, she had Vernarth's sights on them; she was putting reins and her Hoplite tunic, to mount Alikanto. He looks around and makes a big sign to Raeder to follow him to where he was, they suspend themselves and manage to go back to the highest mass of misty airs that would take them against the clock towards Patmos to meet Saint John and Etréstles.
HEGIRA TO PATMOS  /  COPYRIGHT
The rosy-green flight
Of hills and ramps
Blurred in twilight
By a soft lamp

Golden valleys darken
Red in the breeze
Small birds harken
In headless trees

The sadness fades
In my mind’s medium
These autumn shades  
Shatter the sky’s tedium
Translation of Bruxelles – Simples Fresques I by the French poet Paul Verlaine.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
some people forget that writing into excess is never a modern sign of wavering... it sometimes means that there's enough for it to be exhumed... call it instant-archaeology... it's not about other people's conversation, it's about their company, and that far from being reached let alone being riddled...*

a letter to a lovely Ms. ***.:

hey! stop exposing your Nancy like a nun and poke back with a conversation - i'll sooner be dead than a monologue.... Florence Nightingale hear my plea - i love how the following "strings attached" gets attached... 3 thousand miles away, living in a cultural ferment of only youth included / exposed content... but no otherwise: curb the chances of oath and here plops a plumb punch... never heard of 5 o'clock shadow with such an explanatory shortening expressed with the least bereft: or right twitching buttock for a enamoured heart-attack heart: a clamouring clown said: if someone painted a Mona Lisa on my face... if someone... i'd ditch the circus and the claustrophobia antidote trick... so ** and no Santa... and ha and still no Santa... it.... it? it?! hey! hey presto al fresco! god, and i wrote this and i wasn't even fifteen readied for a cougar and: she's his p.r. / publicist... whatever the **** that means... they can and can like the wold and the three guinea pigs;
p.s. the wolf's advances are heaving packed, sure, but asthmatic: or three nights in Paris. you'll never write a book in London: everyone is being prescribed eternity with a timescale of 100 years max... and i do mean that retaliation to the question in Icelandic terms: test your d.n.a. sequence, stop frolicking over forced saints taking care of retards... or ditch the whole Darwinism; how many down syndrome kids does it take it take to chop a tree into firewood? one **** and a whip. see how far the joke goes? me Chimpanzee, me Panda, me me! forks and up yours! build that building of royal surgeons and public opinion -
autumn always auburn, chequers auburn with oak -

kingly European - that coming of winter -
                    Czech and the Carpathian mountains -
oh sure... now the Romance...
the Romance... now gone... fish 'n' chips...
                       i lived in England 20 odd years
the most romance i ever received was an A
at A-level history.
                                             i'm still asking you about
the sort-**** resolve though...
                                             i'll start laughing
when you get off the *** of rocking that
bellybutton girdle or curbbing.
                **** me, Hindu cows of ethnicity in
former Empire bound villages entrapped
by nostalgia;
                 sounds like the perfect breeding ground;
and it is, given the ultra glass like people
who feel the stamping of a mosquito dead
like they might feel a Serbian insurrection
into tonguing Ottoman:
but of course the English man engages:
because he "knows"...
                              just as long as he learned
the cabbies ref. i'd be
fine                            in championing
him on every turn...
                                   chappy ain't no
chappy to be a happy lad... so what
does that matter? i'm quasi 21st century
but actually trapped in 20th century.

                                                 i do love that
it's all happening in H'america...
                                                         makes the trivia
questionnaires a lot shorter...
                                           every time i think of
eating i think of a H'amburger rather
than              a H'entucky -
                                            because the inflatable
Juan with draw-on stubble
                 married a Chasing the Dolly wife -
                    and never mentioned Mozart once...
FAME = P + CANON
                        Pachelbel's Canon -
or... the nuance of the millionth plumber:
   y'er toilet made e burp?
                           hence the maiden at the aisle
and the ******* in the cot...
                    and the serenade of the Cotswold runny...
flapping flapping furore -
                         or the chicken grease off my cheek
in fully glaring applause: rather than i tattoo
a knuckle on some ponce Netherlander
spitting onto a Polish girl's cheek and some pseudo
Irish tells me that i need psychiatric help.
ENGLAND!
                         *******!
Handel grew fat and you grew slim...
                       Shakespeare wrote and you demanded
Emoticons!
                          Emoticons rather than emotions!

you can try to escape Europe, you really can,
but trying to submerge Poland as a colonial
country akin to the Africans will only demand a greater
rift in your little delusion,
                                   by god my heart is a kindred Scot,
nationalist...
                          and i will rip that bloodied cheek off yer
******* cheekbone the minute you say yer-nay-own...
                          play chequers an' tartans wit ye!
i'll make Jack into a stripper and the union into
haemorrhage George and jolly Andrew...
                           you make me into your little
Ethiopian herder i'll make sure that little
emblem of tourist insignia dies with it...
                        Spain is cheap... given the English standard...
Greece is too...
                                  the Alps are a cheap middle-class
**** and the Carpathians are Dracula...
                                          whoever gave these wankers
the Greenwich compass thought twice about the same
wankers... contemplating a trip to Mars..
                oi!
                              glaciers!
                 oi!
                                        the Mariana Trench!
oi!
                             ah, **** it...
oi oi... toe foe un luv 2 twin bananas!
*** yer bananas!
                                             yes, we employed a few
of those specimens to straighten the problem out:
none returned, all remaining became classified as:
with cannibalistic tendencies:
                                          stimulants increasing
deviating behaviour? synonymous rhyming:
                        crime
                                         slime
2 + 2 = bonkers...
                                  cannibalism
     altruism
                                   hedonism...
               soothsayer's saying:
                                if not a limb, at least a thought;
yum yum yummy.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes  that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
Donall Dempsey Jan 2020
THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray of the Pools )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."
***

From the Italian, literally translated as 'in the fresh'. In English, used to mean either 'in the open air' or, where specifically related to mural painting, 'on fresh plaster'.

Almost always, it is used in relation to dining alfresco, that is, eating outdoors.

Both meanings have been in use in English since at least the late 18th century; for example, in Mrs. Eliza Haywood's History of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, 1753:

"It was good for her ladyship's health to be thus alfresco."

The lines quoted are from the end of Madame Bovary who expires as the Blind Man sings them in a raucous voice. They are from a  Restive de la Bretonne poem from his"The Year of the National Ladies" way back in 1791. He who was so much into women's shoes that his very name became as one with this particular peculiar fetish..Retifism

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour
Fait rêver fillette à l’amour.

Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"Maids in the warmth of a summer day,
Dream of love, and of love always. . ."

"The wind is strong this summer day
Her petticoat has flown away."
judy smith Sep 2016
Paris has traditionally been the city where inter­national designers – from Australia and England to Beirut and Japan – opt to unveil their collections. However, Karen Ruimy, who is behind the Kalmar label, chose the runways of Milan Fashion Week for her debut showcase in September.

The Morocco-born, London- based designer hosted an intimate al fresco event in a private palazzo to launch her holiday line of fine cotton and silk jumpsuits, breezy kaftans, long skirts, playsuits and off-the-shoulder tops in tropical prints.

Ruimy had a career in finance before moving into the arts – she owns a museum of photography in Marrakech – and has become increasingly involved in fashion and beauty, thanks to her personal interest in holistic therapies.

These are clothes, she explains, that marry luxury and wellness, and are the things she would wear when she wants quality time by herself. The fact that they are made in Italy, convinced her that Milan was the right place for her debut – where she showed alongside the likes of Gucci, Prada, Verscae and Marni.

On fashion calendars, Milan has conventionally been the place where the runways confirm the trends and themes hinted at ­earlier, in New York and London. However, this season, the Italian designers did not speak with one voice, making Milan Fashion Week all the more refreshing for it.

Often, there might be an era or style of design that dominates the runways during a particular season, but for spring/summer 2017 in Milan, there was a standout showing of techno sportswear and techno fabrics employed in updated classics such as coats and box-pleat skirts, or with references to north African and Native American themes.

The Italian designers sent looks that would appeal to everyone, from the haute bohemian and athletic woman, to the cool sophisticate and the art crowd, as well as – as in the case of Moschino – to the iPhone generation.

Only three seasons ago, Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele was lauded for his complicated maximalist styling. Yet in Milan, Gucci channelled a dreamlike vibe with Victoriana, denim, athletic apparel and oversized accessories, thrown together in delightful chaos, making it difficult to predict the direction Michele is taking Gucci in.

Currently he seems to be in a holding pattern, hovering at once over 1940s Hollywood glamour, 1970s flared pantsuits, and ruffled party dresses from the 1980s, in a cacophony of ­colours and fabrics.

The feeling of joyous madness continued at Dolce & Gabbana, where street dancers emerged from the audience to start the party in the designers’ tropical-themed show. The clothes used some of their familiar tropes, such as military jackets, corseted black-lace dresses miniskirts. New, however, were the baggy tapering trousers redolent of jodhpurs, and the lavish and detailed embellishment the designers used to sell their story.

Wanderlust dominated the moodboards at Roberto Cavalli – rich patterns, embroidery and patchworks inspired by Native Americans – and Etro with its ­tribal themes on kaftans, duster coats and Berber-style capes.

Giorgio Armani, Agnona Tod’s, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo – with its stylish twisted leather dresses and crisp athletic sportswear designed by newcomer Fulvio Rigoni – all answered the call of women who want stylish but undemanding clothes.

Marni would appeal to the art world for its graceful, pioneering ideas. The label’s finely pleated dresses displayed a life of their own, and its micro-printed dresses were gathered, folded and distorted to walk the line between stylish and quirky.

In contrast, the sportswear at MaxMara and Donatella Versace targeted the dynamic generation of athletic women, with sleek leggings, belted jackets, power suits and anoraks. Versace has made it clear that she thinks this is the only way forward. She may be right, but there’s always room for the myriad styles displayed at Milan Fashion Week in all our wardrobes.

It was feathers with everything at Prada. Silk pyjamas, boldly coloured and mixed checks, cardigans and wrap skirts with Velcro fasteners show Miuccia Prada reinventing the classics. Most glamorous was the series of evening dresses and pyjamas with jewelled embroidery and feathers, worn with kitten heels that married sporty straps with heaps of crystals. Prada’s must-have bag of the season is a bold clutch with a long strap fastener, that comes in a multitude of geometric and daisy patterns.

Versace

Over the past three seasons, Donatella Versace has been carving out a new image for her brand – a shift from the luxe glam of red carpets and superyachts, although the inhabitants of that world will be sure to buy into the new Versace vibe. Donatella’s girls are both glamorous and empowered. The sporty look is tough, urban and energetic, judging by the billowing ultra-thin high-tech nylon parkas and blousons, stirrup trousers and dresses (the shapes of which are manipulated by drawstrings). Dresses, skirts and tops are spliced at angles and studded together. Swishy pleated dresses and silky slit skirts gave energy when in movement, and were as soft as the look got.

Bottega Veneta

Model Gigi Hadid and veteran actress Lauren Hutton walked arm in arm down the Bottega Veneta runway, illustrating the breadth of the Italian maison in Tomas Maier’s hands. This was a double celebration of the Bottega’s 50th ­anniversary and Maier’s 15th as its creative director. Menswear and womenswear were combined, and the focus was on easy, elegant clothes in luxurious materials, such as ostrich, crocodile and lamb skin for coats; easy knits and cotton dresses worn with antique-style silver jewellery; and wedge heels. Fifteen handbag styles debuted along with 15 from the archive.

Fendi

Silvia Venturini’s new Kan handbag was a star turn at Milan. The stud-lock bag dotted with candy-coloured studs, rosette embroidery and floral ribbons couldn’t help but charm every woman in the audience. It was the perfect joyful accessory for Karl Lagerfeld’s feminine vintage romp through the wardrobe of Marie Antoinette, with sugary colours, bows, big apron skirts and crisp white embroidery juxtaposed with sporty footballer-stripe tops – effectively updating a historical look.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
tangshunzi Aug 2014
Un giorno zeppo -a - blocco pieno di matrimoni di Erich McVey è una buona giornata nei nostri libri .Il suo lavoro è arte .pura e semplice .Da Londra a New York e ora Southern California .stiamo approfondendo una vicenda che mescola la ariosa .bontà scoperta di mangiare all'aperto con fiori organici di Stacey Fitts e la vera bellezza della vecchia architettura spagnola di La Villa San Juan Capistrano .Tuffati nelle immagini di Erich .poi dare un'occhiata al film realizzato dalla moglie di talento .Amy McVey sotto .

Si prega di aggiornare il tuo browserShare questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsFallSettingsHistoric VenueStylesAl Fresco

Da Sposa.Steven e mi è piaciuto molto l'idea di avere una sensazione organica naturale nel cuore antico di architettura California spagnola .La villa in San Juan Capistrano ( una città che ha una missione spagnola dal 1776 ) si adattano perfettamente l'immagine .Dal momento che il locale aveva tante bellezze naturali .( alberi .pietre.legno) ci wasnè ètanto che abiti da sera lunghi abbiamo bisogno di fare per far risplendere locale.La nostra visione finito per essere una sensazione di fresco.pulito e organico con tavoli in legno naturale e lenzuola di tela .

Ci sono una quantità illimitata di fai da te che una coppia può fare per il loro matrimonio .Noi didnè èvogliamo spendere troppo tempo su numerosi progettiècosì abbiamo fatto un paio di piccoli oggetti che hanno avuto pochissimo tempo



.
Le prime voci erano mano stenciled / cuscini dipinti .Abbiamo comprato alcuni grandi cuscini e le coperte in un materiale di tela di lino .Abbiamo poi stampato su varie frasi ( Mr. \u0026 Mrs. .10.12.13 .Amor che significa amore in spagnolo) in uno dei nostri font preferitièBombshell Pro .Questo è stato poi rintracciato sulla carta di cera che viene tagliato con un coltello X - acto .stirato sul cuscino e poi dipinto .Per un tocco in più .il signor cuscino aveva un farfallino messo su di esso e la signora aveva un fiore .

Il secondo reca alcuni dei nostri articoli di carta .Il mio computer marito esperto è in abiti da sera lunghi grado di creare carte di nome .i numeri di tavola .menu e tag coperta che hanno abbinato la nostra suite invito.Tutti gli articoli di carta stampata ha contribuito a mantenere bassi i costi dal momento che didnè èavere il nostro calligrafo loro fare ( 130 + articoli possono essere costosi ) .

Uno dei nostri elementi preferiti del matrimonio erano i fiori.Dato che c'era un sacco di bellezza naturale presso la sede.ci stavaè èbisogno di fare troppo per fiori .Abbiamo finito con verde fresco con i classici fiori bianchi e avorio .Rami di ulivo sono stati collocati sui tavoli come questi legami in stile California spagnola .

Un altro elemento preferito era tutti i pezzi di calligrafia che sono state diffuse in tutto il locale .Avevamo una bellissima Piantina .segni bar .guestbook .Thank You banner.legno segni signore e la signora presidente.e un segno di benvenuto .Ogni pezzo è stato completamente personalizzato per i nostri gustièanche fino alle allori dei font e foglie di olivo .Questi elementi sono quelli che terremo per sempre .Infatti.il nostro bar segno (che ha ciascuno dei nostri consigli cocktail firma ) viene visualizzato nella nostra cucina !Consigli

per le altre coppie : due cose .Primo : Alla fine della giornata .il giorno delle nozze è su di voi e la vostra sarà presto coniugeèuna celebrazione del vostro viaggio insieme attraverso la vita .Dopo la giornata è finita .tutti sono felici e le piccole cose donè èmateria .

Secondo: E ' estremamente importante scegliere un fotografo che siete entrambi a proprio agio.Durante il vostro matrimonio .questo è quello che siete ( probabilmente) trascorrere più tempo con .Poiché questo è un giorno molto nervoso per molti .sanno esattamente cosa fare per contribuire a calmare i nervi .Per noi .Erich McVey e Amy McVey erano marito e moglie team perfetto per noi .Ci siamo conosciuti su Skype ( come sono basate in Oregon) e sapevamo in pochi minuti che erano la nostra squadra .Dopo averli incontrati giù a Santa Barbara per la nostra sessione di fidanzamento solo solidificato che eravamo in ottime mani .

momento più memorabile : Eravamo seduti al nostro tavolo innamorato abiti da sposa stile impero e aveva la vista perfetta di tutti i nostri ospiti di mangiare.ridere e semplicemente divertirsi .Per vedere tutto quello che abbiamo immaginato veniamo insieme così perfettamente e guardare tutto l'amore e il flusso di felicità tutto intorno a noi è stata un'esperienza magica

Fotografia : Erich McVey | Fotografia: . Amy McVey | Planner: Michelle dalla villa di San Juan Capistrano |fiorista : Stacey Fitts | Abito da sposa: Victoria Nicole | Dolci : Jocelyn Jung con I Am The Caker | cancelleria : Alimentazione | Scarpe : Christian Louboutin | Gioielli : Pigment A San Diego | Rosticcerie : Iva Lees Catering | Hair \u0026 Makeup : 10.11 .Trucco | Calligraphy : Mon Voir ( Jenna Rainey ) | Scarpe sposo : Ted Baker | Sposi Abbigliamento: Hugo Boss | Nastro Su Profumo : Frou Frou Chic | Wedding Venue : Villa San Juan CapistranoErich McVey fotografia è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Erich McVey Fotografia VIEW
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=583
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sera-lunghi-c-56
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-stile-impero-c-11
Organic Garden Affair a San Juan Capistrano_abiti da sposa vintage
Chris Saitta May 2019
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.  
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.

The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…

The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
Titian revolutionized the style of painting that contained no landscape in his "Assumption of the ******" (circa 1515)
"cristallo" is actually a term that means clear glass, or glass without impurities, and was invented around the time of the Renaissance.
"the lion and fox" was a nickname for Cesare Borgia.
"Romagna" was his intended conquest.
"Elah" was the valley where the Israelites camped when David defeated Goliath
Bob Sterry Jul 2014
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.


The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Growing up in England a picnic was one the most optimistic things one could undertake. Hollywood picnics always seemed so unlikely.
Piramidal, funesta de la tierra
nacida sombra, al cielo encaminaba
de vanos obeliscos ***** altiva,
escalar pretendiendo las estrellas;
si bien sus luces bellas
esemptas siempre, siempre rutilantes,
la tenebrosa guerra
que con negros vapores le intimaba
la vaporosa sombra fugitiva
burlaban tan distantes,
que su atezado ceño
al superior convexo aún no llegaba
del orbe de la diosa
que tres veces hermosa
con tres hermosos rostros ser ostenta;
quedando sólo dueño
del aire que empañaba
con el aliento denso que exhalaba.
Y en la quietud contenta
de impero silencioso,
sumisas sólo voces consentía
de las nocturnas aves
tan oscuras tan graves,
que aún el silencio no se interrumpía.
Con tardo vuelo, y canto, de él oído
mal, y aún peor del ánimo admitido,
la avergonzada Nictímene acecha
de las sagradas puertas los resquicios
o de las claraboyas eminentes
los huecos más propicios,
que capaz a su intento le abren la brecha,
y sacrílega llega a los lucientes
faroles sacros de perenne llama,
que extingue, sino inflama
en licor claro la materia crasa
consumiendo; que el árbol de Minerva
de su fruto, de prensas agravado,
congojoso sudó y rindió forzado.
Y aquellas que su casa
campo vieron volver, sus telas yerba,
a la deidad de Baco inobedientes
ya no historias contando diferentes,
en forma si afrentosa transformadas
segunda forman niebla,
ser vistas, aun temiendo en la tiniebla,
aves sin pluma aladas:
aquellas tres oficiosas, digo,
atrevidas hermanas,
que el tremendo castigo
de desnudas les dio pardas membranas
alas, tan mal dispuestas
que escarnio son aun de las más funestas:
éstas con el parlero
ministro de Plutón un tiempo, ahora
supersticioso indicio agorero,
solos la no canora
componían capilla pavorosa,
máximas negras, longas entonando
y pausas, más que voces, esperando
a la torpe mensura perezosa
de mayor proporción tal vez que el viento
con flemático echaba movimiento
de tan tardo compás, tan detenido,
que en medio se quedó tal vez dormido.
Este. pues, triste son intercadente
de la asombrosa turba temerosa,
menos a la atención solicitaba
que al suelo persuadía;
antes si, lentamente,
si su obtusa consonancia espaciosa
al sosiego inducía
y al reposo los miembros convidaba,
el silencio intimando a los vivientes,
uno y otro sellando labio obscuro
con indicante dedo, Harpócrates la noche silenciosa;
a cuyo, aunque no duro, si bien imperioso
precepto, todos fueron obedientes.
El viento sosegado, el can dormido:
éste yace, aquél quedo,
los átomos no mueve
con el susurro hacer temiendo leve,
aunque poco sacrílego ruido,
violador del silencio sosegado.
El mar, no ya alterado,
ni aún la instable mecía
cerúlea cuna donde el sol dormía;
y los dormidos siempre mudos peces,
en los lechos 1amosos
de sus obscuros senos cavernosos,
mudos eran dos veces.
Y entre ellos la engañosa encantadora
Almone, a los que antes
en peces transformó simples amantes,
transformada también vengaba ahora.
En los del monte senos escondidos
cóncavos de peñascos mal formados,
de su esperanza menos defendidos
que de su obscuridad asegurados,
cuya mansión sombría
ser puede noche en la mitad del día,
incógnita aún al cierto
montaraz pie del cazador experto,
depuesta la fiereza
de unos, y de otros el temor depuesto,
yacía el vulgo bruto,
a la naturaleza
el de su potestad vagando impuesto,
universal tributo.
Y el rey -que vigilancias afectaba-
aun con abiertos ojos no velaba.
El de sus mismos perros acosado,
monarca en otro tiempo esclarecido,
tímido ya venado,
con vigilante oído,
del sosegado ambiente,
al menor perceptible movimiento
que los átomos muda,
la oreja alterna aguda
y el leve rumor siente
que aun le altera dormido.
Y en 1a quietud del nido,
que de brozas y lodo instable hamaca
formó en la más opaca
parte del árbol, duerme recogida
la leve turba, descansando el viento
del que le corta alado movimiento.
De Júpiter el ave generosa
(como el fin reina) por no darse entera
al descanso, que vicio considera
si de preciso pasa, cuidadosa
de no incurrir de omisa en el exceso,
a un sólo pie librada fía el peso
y en otro guarda el cálculo pequeño,
despertador reloj del leve sueño,
porque si necesario fue admitido
no pueda dilatarse continuado,
antes interrumpido
del regio sea pastoral cuidado.
¡Oh de la majestad pensión gravosa,
que aun el menor descuido no perdona!
Causa quizá que ha hecho misteriosa,
circular denotando la corona
en círculo dorado,
que el afán es no menos continuado.
El sueño todo, en fin, lo poseía:
todo. en fin, el silencio lo ocupaba.
Aun el ladrón dormía:
aun el amante no se desvelaba:
el conticinio casi ya pasando
iba y la sombra dimidiaba, cuando
de las diurnas tareas fatigados
y no sólo oprimidos
del afán ponderosos
del corporal trabajo, más cansados
del deleite también; que también cansa
objeto continuado a 1os sentidos
aún siendo deleitoso;
que la naturaleza siempre alterna
ya una, ya otra balanza,
distribuyendo varios ejercicios,
ya al ocio, ya al trabajo destinados,
en el fiel infiel con que gobierna
la aparatosa máquina del mundo.
Así pues, del profundo
sueño dulce los miembros ocupados,
quedaron los sentidos
del que ejercicio tiene ordinario
trabajo, en fin, pero trabajo amado
-si hay amable trabajo-
si privados no, al menos suspendidos.
Y cediendo al retrato del contrario
de la vida que lentamente armado
cobarde embiste y vence perezoso
con armas soñolientas,
desde el cayado humilde al cetro altivo
sin que haya distintivo
que el sayal de la púrpura discierna;
pues su nivel, en todo poderoso,
gradúa por esemptas
a ningunas personas,
desde la de a quien tres forman coronas
soberana tiara
hasta la que pajiza vive choza;
desde la que el Danubio undoso dora,
a la que junco humilde, humilde mora;
y con siempre igual vara
(como, en efecto, imagen poderosa
de la muerte) Morfeo
el sayal mide igual con el brocado.
El alma, pues, suspensa
del exterior gobierno en que ocupada
en material empleo,
o bien o mal da el día por gastado,
solamente dispensa,
remota, si del todo separada
no, a los de muerte temporal opresos,
lánguidos miembros, sosegados huesos,
los gajes del calor vegetativo,
el cuerpo siendo, en sosegada calma,
un cadáver con alma,
muerto a la vida y a la muerte vivo,
de lo segundo dando tardas señas
el de reloj humano
vital volante que, sino con mano,
con arterial concierto, unas pequeñas
muestras, pulsando, manifiesta lento
de su bien regulado movimiento.
Este, pues, miembro rey y centro vivo
de espíritus vitales,
con su asociado respirante fuelle
pulmón, que imán del viento es atractivo,
que en movimientos nunca desiguales
o comprimiendo yo o ya dilatando
el musculoso, claro, arcaduz blando,
hace que en él resuelle
el que le circunscribe fresco ambiente
que impele ya caliente
y él venga su expulsión haciendo activo
pequeños robos al calor nativo,
algún tiempo llorados,
nunca recuperados,
si ahora no sentidos de su dueño,
que repetido no hay robo pequeño.
Estos, pues, de mayor, como ya digo,
excepción, uno y otro fiel testigo,
la vida aseguraban,
mientras con mudas voces impugnaban
la información, callados los sentidos
con no replicar sólo defendidos;
y la lengua, torpe, enmudecía,
con no poder hablar los desmentía;
y aquella del calor más competente
científica oficina
próvida de los miembros despensera,
que avara nunca v siempre diligente,
ni a la parte prefiere más vecina
ni olvida a la remota,
y, en ajustado natural cuadrante,
las cuantidades nota
que a cada cual tocarle considera,
del que alambicó quilo el incesante
calor en el manjar que medianero
piadoso entre él y el húmedo interpuso
su inocente substancia,
pagando por entero
la que ya piedad sea o ya arrogancia,
al contrario voraz necio la expuso
merecido castigo, aunque se excuse
al que en pendencia ajena se introduce.
Esta, pues, si no fragua de Vulcano,
templada hoguera del calor humano,
al cerebro enviaba
húmedos, mas tan claros los vapores
de los atemperados cuatro humores,
que con ellos no sólo empañaba
los simulacros que la estimativa
dio a la imaginativa,
y aquesta por custodia más segura
en forma ya más pura
entregó a la memoria que, oficiosa,
gravó tenaz y guarda cuidadosa
sino que daban a la fantasía
lugar de que formase
imágenes diversas y del modo
que en tersa superficie, que de faro
cristalino portento, asilo raro
fue en distancia longísima se veían,
(sin que ésta le estorbase)
del reino casi de Neptuno todo,
las que distantes le surcaban naves.
Viéndose claramente,
en su azogada luna,
el número, el tamaño y la fortuna
que en la instable campaña transparente
arriesgadas tenían,
mientras aguas y vientos dividían
sus velas leves y sus quillas graves,
así ella, sosegada, iba copiando
las imágenes todas de las cosas
y el pincel invisible iba formando
de mentales, sin luz, siempre vistosas
colores. las figuras,
no sólo ya de todas las criaturas
sublunares, mas aun también de aquellas
que intelectuales claras son estrellas
y en el modo posible
que concebirse puede lo invisible,
en sí mañosa las representaba
y al alma las mostraba.
La cual, en tanto, toda convertida
a su inmaterial ser y esencia bella,
aquella contemplaba,
participada de alto ser centella,
que con similitud en sí gozaba.
I juzgándose casi dividida
de aquella que impedida
siempre la tiene, corporal cadena
que grosera embaraza y torpe impide
el vuelo intelectual con que ya mide
la cuantidad inmensa de la esfera,
ya el curso considera
regular con que giran desiguales
los cuerpos celestiales;
culpa si grave, merecida pena,
torcedor del sosiego riguroso
de estudio vanamente juicioso;
puesta a su parecer, en la eminente
cumbre de un monte a quien el mismo Atlante
que preside gigante
a los demás, enano obedecía,
y Olimpo, cuya sosegada frente,
nunca de aura agitada
consintió ser violada,
aun falda suya ser no merecía,
pues las nubes que opaca son corona
de la más elevada corpulencia
del volcán más soberbio que en la tierra
gigante erguido intima al cielo guerra,
apenas densa zona
de su altiva eminencia
o a su vasta cintura
cíngulo tosco son, que mal ceñido
o el viento lo desata sacudido
o vecino el calor del sol, lo apura
a la región primera de su altura,
ínfima parte, digo, dividiendo
en tres su continuado cuerpo horrendo,
el rápido no pudo, el veloz vuelo
del águila -que puntas hace al cielo
y el sol bebe los rayos pretendiendo
entre sus luces colocar su nido-
llegar; bien que esforzando
mas que nunca el impulso, ya batiendo
las dos plumadas velas, ya peinando
con las garras el aire, ha pretendido
tejiendo de los átomos escalas
que su inmunidad rompan sus dos alas.
Las pirámides dos -ostentaciones
de Menfis vano y de la arquitectura
último esmero- si ya no pendones
fijos, no tremolantes, cuya altura
coronada de bárbaros trofeos,
tumba y bandera fue a los Ptolomeos,
que al viento, que a las nubes publicaba,
si ya también el cielo no decía
de su grande su siempre vencedora
ciudad -ya Cairo ahora-
las que, porque a su copia enmudecía
la fama no contaba
gitanas glorias, menéficas proezas,
aun en el viento, aun en el cielo impresas.
Estas que en nivelada simetría
su estatura crecía
con tal disminución, con arte tanto,
que cuánto más al cielo caminaba
a la vista que lince la miraba,
entre los vientos se desaparecía
sin permitir mirar la sutil *****
que al primer orbe finge que se junta
hasta que fatigada del espanto,
no descendida sino despeñada
se hallaba al pie de la espaciosa basa.
Tarde o mal recobrada
del desvanecimiento,
que pena fue no escasa
del visual alado atrevimiento,
cuyos cuerpos opacos
no al sol opuestos, antes avenidos
con sus luces, si no confederados
con él, como en efecto confiantes,
tan del todo bañados
de un resplandor eran, que lucidos,
nunca de calurosos caminantes
al fatigado aliento, a los pies flacos
ofrecieron alfombra,
aun de pequeña, aun de señal de sombra.
Estas que glorias ya sean de gitanas
o elaciones profanas,
bárbaros hieroglíficos de ciego
error, según el griego,
ciego también dulcísimo poeta,
si ya por las que escribe
aquileyas proezas
o marciales, de Ulises, sutilezas,
la unión no le recibe
de los historiadores o le acepta
cuando entre su catálogo le cuente,
que gloría más que número le aumente,
de cuya dulce serie numerosa
fuera más fácil cosa
al temido Jonante
el rayo fulminante
quitar o la pescada
a Alcídes clava herrada,
que un hemistiquio solo
-de los que le: dictó propicio Apolo-
según de Homero digo, la sentencia.
Las pirámides fueron materiales
tipos solos, señales exteriores
de las que dimensiones interiores
especies son del alma intencionales
que como sube en piramidal *****
al cielo la ambiciosa llama ardiente,
así la humana mente
su figura trasunta
y a la causa primera siempre aspira,
céntrico punto donde recta tira
la línea, si ya no circunferencia
que contiene infinita toda esencia.
Estos pues, montes dos artificiales,
bien maravillas, bien milagros sean,
y aun aquella blasfema altiva torre,
de quien hoy dolorosas son señales
no en piedras, sino en lenguas desiguales
porque voraz el tiempo no ]as borre,
los idiomas diversos que escasean
el sociable trato de las gentes
haciendo que parezcan diferentes
los que unos hizo la naturaleza,
de la lengua por solo la extrañeza; .
si fueran comparados
a la mental pirámide elevada,
donde, sin saber como colocada
el alma se miró, tan atrasados
se hallaran que cualquiera
graduara su cima por esfera,
pues su ambicioso anhelo,
haciendo cumbre de su propio vuelo,
en lo más eminente
la encumbró parte de su propia mente,
de sí tan remontada que creía
que a otra nueva región de sí salía.
En cuya casi elevación inmensa,
gozosa, mas suspensa,
suspensa, pero ufana
y atónita, aunque ufana la suprema
de lo sublunar reina soberana,
la vista perspicaz libre de antojos
de sus intelectuales y bellos ojos,
sin que distancia tema
ni de obstáculo opaco se recele,
de que interpuesto algún objeto cele,
libre tendió por todo lo criado,
cuyo inmenso agregado
cúmulo incomprehensible
aunque a la vista quiso manifiesto
dar señas de posible,
a la comprehensión no, que entorpecida
con la sobra de objetos y excedida
de la grandeza de ellos su potencia,
retrocedió cobarde,
tanto no del osado presupuesto
revocó la intención arrepentida,
la vista que intentó descomedida
en vano hacer alarde
contra objeto que excede en excelencia
las líneas visuales,
contra el sol, digo, cuerpo luminoso,
cuyos rayos castigo son fogoso,
de fuerzas desiguales
despreciando, castigan rayo a rayo
el confiado antes atrevido
y ya llorado ensayo,
necia experiencia que costosa tanto
fue que Icaro ya su propio llanto
lo anegó enternecido
como el entendimiento aquí vencido,
no menos de la inmensa muchedumbre
de tanta maquinosa pesadumbre
de diversas especies conglobado
esférico compuesto,
que de las cualidades
de cada cual cedió tan asombrado
que, entre la copia puesto,
pobre con ella en las neutralidades
de un mar de asombros, la elección confusa
equívoco las ondas zozobraba.
Y por mirarlo todo; nada veía,
ni discernir podía,
bota la facultad intelectiva
en tanta, tan difusa
incomprensible especie que miraba
desde el un eje en que librada estriba
la máquina voluble de la esfera,
el contrapuesto polo,
las partes ya no sólo,
que al universo todo considera
serle perfeccionantes
a su ornato no más pertenecientes;
mas ni aun las que ignorantes;
miembros son de su cuerpo dilatado,
proporcionadamente competentes.
Mas como al que ha usurpado
diuturna obscuridad de los objetos
visibles los colores
si súbitos le asaltan resplandores,
con la sombra de luz queda más ciego:
que el exceso contrarios hace efectos
en la torpe potencia, que la lumbre
del sol admitir luego
no puede por la falta de costumbre;
y a la tiniebla misma que antes era
tenebroso a la vista impedimento,
de los agravios de la luz apela
y una vez y otra con la mano cela
de los débiles ojos deslumbrados
los rayos vacilantes,
sirviendo va piadosa medianera
la sombra de instrumento
para que recobrados
por grados se habiliten,
porque después constantes
su operación más firme ejerciten.
Recurso natural, innata ciencia
que confirmada ya de la experiencia,
maestro quizá mudo,
retórico ejemplar inducir pudo
a uno y otro galeno
para que del mortífero veneno,
en bien proporcionadas cantidades,
escrupulosamente regulando
las ocultas nocivas cualidades,
ya por sobrado exceso
de cálidas o frías,
o ya por ignoradas simpatías
o antipatías con que van obrando
las causas naturales su progreso,
a la admiración dando, suspendida,
efecto cierto en causa no sabida,
con prolijo desvelo y remirada,
empírica
I

What’s become of Waring
Since he gave us all the slip,
Chose land-travel or seafaring,
Boots and chest, or staff and scrip,
Rather than pace up and down
Any longer London-town?

Who’d have guessed it from his lip,
Or his brow’s accustomed bearing,
On the night he thus took ship,
Or started landward?—little caring
For us, it seems, who supped together,
(Friends of his too, I remember)
And walked home through the merry weather,
The snowiest in all December;
I left his arm that night myself
For what’s-his-name’s, the new prose-poet,
That wrote the book there, on the shelf—
How, forsooth, was I to know it
If Waring meant to glide away
Like a ghost at break of day?
Never looked he half so gay!

He was prouder than the devil:
How he must have cursed our revel!
Ay, and many other meetings,
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,
As up and down he paced this London,
With no work done, but great works undone,
Where scarce twenty knew his name.
Why not, then, have earlier spoken,
Written, bustled? Who’s to blame
If your silence kept unbroken?
“True, but there were sundry jottings,
Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings,
Certain first steps were achieved
Already which—(is that your meaning?)
Had well borne out whoe’er believed
In more to come!” But who goes gleaning
Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved
Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o’erweening
Pride alone, puts forth such claims
O’er the day’s distinguished names.

Meantime, how much I loved him,
I find out now I’ve lost him:
I, who cared not if I moved him,
Henceforth never shall get free
Of his ghostly company,
His eyes that just a little wink
As deep I go into the merit
Of this and that distinguished spirit—
His cheeks’ raised colour, soon to sink,
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrend-ous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman­’s latest piece of graphic.
Nay, my very wrist grows warm
With his dragging weight of arm!
E’en so, swimmingly appears,
Through one’s after-supper musings,
Some lost Lady of old years,
With her beauteous vain endeavour,
And goodness unrepaid as ever;
The face, accustomed to refusings,
We, puppies that we were… Oh never
Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled
Being aught like false, forsooth, to?
Telling aught but honest truth to?
What a sin, had we centupled
Its possessor’s grace and sweetness!
No! she heard in its completeness
Truth, for truth’s a weighty matter,
And, truth at issue, we can’t flatter!
Well, ’tis done with: she’s exempt
From damning us through such a sally;
And so she glides, as down a valley,
Taking up with her contempt,
Past our reach; and in, the flowers
Shut her unregarded hours.


Oh, could I have him back once more,
This Waring, but one half-day more!
Back, with the quiet face of yore,
So hungry for acknowledgment
Like mine! I’d fool him to his bent!
Feed, should not he, to heart’s content?
I’d say, “to only have conceived
Your great works, though they ne’er make progress,
Surpasses all we’ve yet achieved!”
I’d lie so, I should be believed.
I’d make such havoc of the claims
Of the day’s distinguished names
To feast him with, as feasts an ogress
Her sharp-toothed golden-crowned child!
Or, as one feasts a creature rarely
Captured here, unreconciled
To capture; and completely gives
Its pettish humours licence, barely
Requiring that it lives.

Ichabod, Ichabod,
The glory is departed!
Travels Waring East away?
Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,
Reports a man upstarted
Somewhere as a God,
Hordes grown European-hearted,
Millions of the wild made tame
On a sudden at his fame?
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar,
With the demurest of footfalls
Over the Kremlin’s pavement, bright
With serpentine and syenite,
Steps, with five other generals,
That simultaneously take *****,
For each to have pretext enough
To kerchiefwise unfurl his sash
Which, softness’ self, is yet the stuff
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,
And leave the grand white neck no ****?
Waring, in Moscow, to those rough
Cold northern natures borne, perhaps,
Like the lambwhite maiden dear
From the circle of mute kings,
Unable to repress the tear,
Each as his sceptre down he flings,
To Dian’s fane at Taurica,
Where now a captive priestess, she alway
Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech
With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach,
As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands
Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands
Where bred the swallows, her melodious cry
Amid their barbarous twitter!
In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!
Ay, most likely, ’tis in Spain
That we and Waring meet again—
Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane
Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid
All fire and shine—abrupt as when there’s slid
Its stiff gold blazing pall
From some black coffin-lid.
Or, best of all,
I love to think
The leaving us was just a feint;
Back here to London did he slink;
And now works on without a wink
Of sleep, and we are on the brink
Of something great in fresco-paint:
Some garret’s ceiling, walls and floor,
Up and down and o’er and o’er
He splashes, as none splashed before
Since great Caldara Polidore:
Or Music means this land of ours
Some favour yet, to pity won
By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,—
“Give me my so long promised son,
Let Waring end what I begun!”
Then down he creeps and out he steals
Only when the night conceals
His face—in Kent ’tis cherry-time,
Or, hops are picking; or, at prime
Of March, he wanders as, too happy,
Years ago when he was young,
Some mild eve when woods grew sappy,
And the early moths had sprung
To life from many a trembling sheath
Woven the warm boughs beneath;
While small birds said to themselves
What should soon be actual song,
And young gnats, by tens and twelves,
Made as if they were the throng
That crowd around and carry aloft
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure,
Out of a myriad noises soft,
Into a tone that can endure
Amid the noise of a July noon,
When all God’s creatures crave their boon,
All at once and all in tune,
And get it, happy as Waring then,
Having first within his ken
What a man might do with men,
And far too glad, in the even-glow,
To mix with your world he meant to take
Into his hand, he told you, so—
And out of it his world to make,
To contract and to expand
As he shut or oped his hand.
Oh, Waring, what’s to really be?
A clear stage and a crowd to see!
Some Garrick—say—out shall not he
The heart of Hamlet’s mystery pluck
Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,
Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuck
His sleeve, and out with flaying-knife!
Some Chatterton shall have the luck
Of calling Rowley into life!
Some one shall somehow run amuck
With this old world, for want of strife
Sound asleep: contrive, contrive
To rouse us, Waring! Who’s alive?
Our men scarce seem in earnest now:
Distinguished names!—but ’tis, somehow
As if they played at being names
Still more distinguished, like the games
Of children. Turn our sport to earnest
With a visage of the sternest!
Bring the real times back, confessed
Still better than our very best!

II

“When I last saw Waring…”
(How all turned to him who spoke—
You saw Waring? Truth or joke?
In land-travel, or seafaring?)

“…We were sailing by Triest,
Where a day or two we harboured:
A sunset was in the West,
When, looking over the vessel’s side,
One of our company espied
A sudden speck to larboard.
And, as a sea-duck flies and swins
At once, so came the light craft up,
With its sole lateen sail that trims
And turns (the water round its rims
Dancing, as round a sinking cup)
And by us like a fish it curled,
And drew itself up close beside,
Its great sail on the instant furled,
And o’er its planks, a shrill voice cried
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar’s)
‘Buy wine of us, you English Brig?
Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?
A Pilot for you to Triest?
Without one, look you ne’er so big,
They’ll never let you up the bay!
We natives should know best.’
I turned, and ‘just those fellows’ way,’
Our captain said, ‘The long-shore thieves
Are laughing at us in their sleeves.’

“In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;
And one, half-hidden by his side
Under the furled sail, soon I spied,
With great grass hat, and kerchief black,
Who looked up, with his kingly throat,
Said somewhat, while the other shook
His hair back from his eyes to look
Their longest at us; then the boat,
I know not how, turned sharply round,
Laying her whole side on the sea
As a leaping fish does; from the lee
Into the weather, cut somehow
Her sparkling path beneath our bow;
And so went off, as with a bound,
Into the rose and golden half
Of the sky, to overtake the sun,
And reach the shore, like the sea-calf
Its singing cave; yet I caught one
Glance ere away the boat quite passed,
And neither time nor toil could mar
Those features: so I saw the last
Of Waring!”—You? Oh, never star
Was lost here, but it rose afar!
Look East, where whole new thousands are!
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.
the
Chris Saitta Sep 2019
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.

For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.

But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
AW May 2018
Blank heart, blank life
Your pen leaves ink stains,
Black rivers
That seep into my palms
Drip down my hands
Stain my fingerprints
With traces of you
I sit here,
On the edge of mystery,
A thriller, open-ended
Jibberish wishes that
Stumble off my lips and listen
Only to where your music flows
Beats, blows through unsteady determination
Plaster falling from walls as
Shels from eyes
Fresco revelation
Spanish

El ancla de oro canta…la vela azul asciende
Como el ala de un sueño abierta al nuevo día.
                              Partamos, musa mía!
Ante lo prora alegre un bello mar se extiende.

En el oriente claro como un cristal, esplende
El fanal sonrosado de Aurora. Fantasía
Estrena un raro traje lleno de pedrería
para vagar brillante por las olas.

                              Ya tiende
La vela azul a Eolo su oriflama de raso…
El momento supremo!…Yo me estremezco; acaso
Sueño lo que me aguarda en los mundos no vistos!…

Acaso un fresco ramo de laureles fragantes,
El toison reluciente, el cetro de diamantes,
El naufragio o la eterna corona de los Cristos?…


              English

The golden anchor beckons, the blue sail rises
Like the wing of a dream unfolding to a new day.
                              Let us depart, my muse!
Beyond an anxious prow, the sea stretches itself out.

In the crystal clear East, Aurora's
Blushed beacon shines. Fantasy
Is donning a rare garment of gems
To wander brilliantly over the waves.

                              The blue sail
Unfolds its private oriflamme to ******…
The supreme moment!…I tremble: do I know–
Oh God!–what awaits me in unseen worlds?

Perhaps a freshly picked bouquet of fragrant laurels,
The golden fleece, a diamond scepter,
A shipwreck, or the eternal crown of the Anointed Ones?…
tangshunzi Jun 2014
In primo luogo .questa sposa è il mio eroe moda.Non solo ha roccia un abito tutto pizzo - life changingly stupenda ma commutato in due abiti più splendidi prima del giorno era finito .E se questo è ottenuto tutti verdi di invidia solo aspettare fino a vedere l' intera vicenda francese dal Knot \u0026Pop .Laetitia C e Xavier Navarro .Questa .miei cari .è uno dei libri .

Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsEstateStylesAl Fresco

Da Knot \u0026Pop .. Ayse \u0026Fred ha sposato in Provenza nel settembre 2013 .sotto i vasti cieli e le stelle tra le più belle di impostazioni francesi.Ayse è da Londra origine .ma ora vive a Parigi con Fred .dove rappresentano Artisti e gestito una galleria d'arte insieme .Con la coppia che ha solide radici in Francia .e Fred ' famiglia dal sud della Francia .hanno scelto di sposarsi in Francia la più singolare di luoghièun borgo privato pieno di arte e di curiosità che completavano alla perfezione la coppia ' amore per l'arte.Con la cerimonia legale in un piccolo municipio locale .e la famiglia immediata del 10 per assistere .Ayse \u0026Fred ha poi chiesto loro amici Valerio e Sam di agire come celebranti per la cerimonia informale a Le Grand Banc .di fronte ai loro 140 ospiti .

Sposato con vista sulle colline della Provenza .gli ospiti sono stati invitati a creare un cono coriandoli dalla Confetti Bar che ha visto splendida argenteria pieno di ***** di fiori e semi.Dopo il più divertente di cerimonie che hanno visto i due amici raccontano le storie di Ayse \u0026Fred .drink di accoglienza ha avuto luogo il bordo piscina e sul prato .con gli ospiti poi a piedi attraverso la frazione al tendone per la cena .

Per completare le impostazioni naturali.il tema eschema per il giorno mescolato una palette morbida di blush rosa.verde oliva .azzurro .argento e bianco che è stato poi il mirroring di tutti i fiori.decorazioni.cameriere guarda e table- top.Mescolato con la tavolozza .la coppia e il loro evento designer .Knot \u0026Pop pin punte ulteriori temi chiave per l'aspetto grafico che comprendeva motivi a stella per riflettere il senso delle celebrazioni che si svolgono sotto le stelle .e gli animalièin particolare gli elefantièun amore assoluto della sposa ' .

Il motivo stella è stato ripetuto in tutte le ghirlande di nastro che a cascata da archi .i lati cerimonia tendone e alberi focali .Il piano tavolo disegnato da Knot \u0026Pop utilizzato anche il disegno della stella con ghirlande che parte da un bellissimo albero di fico .che ha visto gli ospiti vengono realmente coinvolti nella scoperta delle loro sedi .Piani tavolo miste dipinte plinti stelle legno in mostra splendido fiore riempito di bottiglie d'epoca .con rametti di rami di ulivo immerso in per tovaglioli .e una stella dipinta come favoreèrosa per ragazzi.e blu per le ragazze .

A tavola i bambini era tutto sul fattore divertimento con una stampa wallpaper di marchi e matite colorare collocato fuori per tenere i bambini occupatiècontempo riflette ancora una volta la coppia e il loro amore per l'arte con la galleria stile carta da parati incorniciata .Il bar è stata ribattezzata la Star Bar con un pi argentoeata fondale.stella cocktail agitatori e cocktail su misura prende il nome la coppia a scegliere.

elefanti vernice spray argento apparsi su ogni tavolo con un cartellino attaccato spiegando che la coppia sarebbe in visita un rifugio per animali in viaggio di nozze in Kenya .dove



abiti da sposa pizzo sarebbero donare a nome dei loro invitati alle nozzeèuna bella e sentita alternativafavorire .Gli ospiti sono stati certamente sentendo la magia animale aver doned maschere di animali per una divertente sessione di photobooth prima di andare in cenare .Foto Polaroid degli ospiti sono state prese in un contesto nastro.con gli ospiti scrivendo poi un messaggio alla coppia e mettendo in una tela a forma di cuore .rendendo il perfetto keep- sake della giornata che si trova ora un posto d'onore nella coppia ' a ​​casa .Ayse \u0026Giorno Fred ' era pieno di divertimento .che riflette tutti i loro amori .con tutta la loro cari intorno a loro per celebrare nelle impostazioni più singolari .memorabili ed elegante di .
Fotografo: Xavier Navarro Photographie | Fiori : Laetitia C | Abito da sposa: Pronovias | Altri Abiti : Oh My Love | Rosticcerie : Helen Traiteur | Scarpe sposo : Hugo Boss | Vestito dello sposo : Hugo Boss | scarpe da sposa da sposa .Main Ricerca: Dolce \u0026 Gabbana | scarpe da sposa da sposa .look vintage : Dune | Abiti ragazze di fiore : Etsy .adattata dal fratello della sposa abiti da sposa pizzo | Marquee : AR Eventi | Hamlet privata: Le Grand Banc | Argenteria Auto : Knot \u0026 Pop | Abito da sposa Vintage: GabrieleVintage | abiti da sposa outlet Wedding Planner e Event Designer : Knot \u0026 PopLaetitia C. - fleurs d' atelier è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Laetitia C. - fleurs d' atelier VIEW
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Le Grand Banc Provence Wedding_vestiti da cerimonia
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche
reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).
Desireé Clarke Mar 2013
What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting my opinionated perspective
On the screen in front of me
The world
Black, White, Mexican, Asian, Mixed
In a melting *** flooded
With curry, and rice and beans, **** chicken, and goat
With hamburgers, and fries, macaroni and cheese, and granola bars
With queso fresco, crema, tortillas, and salsa verde
With Panda mother ******* Express and P.F. Changs
My mind is constantly swallowed by the odors of the foods that paint the cultures I’ve come to know
The past and the present hold each other

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Was I swimming upstream against the current
In the concrete river
People
Shadows of people wandering by
Behind me and all around
Adjusting to the light
My eyes have been closed for three years
Destroying the things my brain once knew for certain
Twirling in and out of conscientiousness
Now in front
They were rude, or I was nice
The kind of nice that is tactful and seemingly honest
What is honesty
The propulsion of my perspective patronizing the populated and political landscape
Laid out before me
I’m ******
****** about the things I cannot change
The unknown

What’s real and what’s not
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Jesus Christ
These bible thumping loath driven arrogant theists
All wrapped in the pages of a novel horribly written
By white guys
We never know if they existed
Using their paper to roll joints
The smoke is heavenly
The rapture of the earth
Jesus Christ plants that grow in the ground
Blooming with godlike odors affecting the mind
It runs slower or faster opens and closes
Slapping their wives when they return home from work
Cursing about how they’ve acted like children
Jesus Christ the congregation of family
The head of household
The hands planted in the ground
Gripping at gravel through tightened fists
Hair falling in face catching on tears
Jesus Christ

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
A blast through a door
Glass shattered on floor
Children’s wails running down halls
Walls chipped with pain
Revealing the stone
The foundation of violence
Guns don’t **** people
People **** people
Children silenced by the bang
Heavy breathing under teal blankets
Cotton and fabric torn to shreds at the sound
Blue turns red when it is exposed to air
Rivers running deep sinking through floor boards
Dripping on the faces of the family downstairs as they eat dinner
Chewing open mouthed
Licking lips in tenderness and gluttony
Painting their lips red with the blue that fell through
The ceiling

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
Hands touching lips, touching genitals, all drenched in fluid
Hearts beating
Bump bump, bump bump
And speeding with each ******
Bodies banging together
Eyes diverting, darting, dancing, anywhere but in the ones that gaze upon you
The thrusting, pumping, thumping and screaming
Putting on a show for the floor
For the walls that absorb the sound
“****, **** yeah, just like that”
The scrambling for clothes
Tripping over cans
Social lubricant        
That kept the eyes closed just enough
Or put on those goggles that somehow made you attractive

What’s right and what’s wrong
I see through the mirror of my eyes reflecting back my opinionated perspective
We only see through the eyes we own
And the eyes I own are bias
I hate parties and economic manipulation
Being a slave whipped by some man in a black or grey suit I can’t afford
Being pressed by advertisements that tell me I’m too fat to find love
Being strangled by the fiat that is determine to destroy artistic expression
Appling for education, and permits, and jobs that I may never get
Because the color of my skin is too dark
Because the sound of my voice is too light
Because I cannot stomach the lies that are perpetuated
And refuse to become part of a herd that screams
“Obama for president”
I am free
In the sense that my perspective is mangled
Changes each day
Eyes reflecting inward
Clawing at release and some small moment’s sense of comfort
Only to then breathe my last breath
To gasp one more time for air
Find enlightenment
And then die when truly
I will see through the mirror of my eyes
And it will reflect back my opinionated perspective
Jeff Stier Apr 2016
A woman whose face was found
On a fresco in the tomb of King Philip
of Macedon, father to Alexander -
She passed me in the street today,
alive and breathing roses.

She is the living memory of someone
who lived and breathed, as the
night is long, in the mountains
of northern Greece
A Long Time Ago.

She dresses in clothes that don't fit.
She has cut her hair and crosses
the street with grace.
She can see the comings and goings of people
and also
the passing of clouds from her window.
Her face,
open and almost awkward,
was discovered on a large fresco
in the tomb of King Philip of Macedon.
A 70s poem.
Marsha Singh Jan 2016
At night we were a fresco 
painted by an astronaut, our 
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory 
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.
A refurbished oldie. Feeling nostalgic.
Dopo tanta
nebbia
a una
a una
si svelano
le stelle.
Respiro
il fresco
che mi lascia
il colore
del cielo.
Llegué a confundirme con ella,
tanto ...! Por sus recodos
espirituales, yo me iba
jugando entre tiernos fresales,
entre sus griegas manos matinales.
Ella me acomodaba después los lazos negros
y bohemios de la corbata. Y yo
volvía a ver la piedra
absorta, desairados los bancos, y el reloj
que nos iba envolviendo en su carrete,
al dar su inacabable molinete.
Buenas noches aquellas,
que hoy la dan por reír
de mi extraño morir,
de mi modo de andar meditabundo.
Alfeñiques de oro,
joyas de azúcar
que al fin se quiebran en
el mortero de losa de este mundo.
Pero para las lágrimas de amor,
los luceros son lindos pañuelitos
lilas,
naranjas,
verdes,
que empapa el corazón.
Y si hay ya mucha hiel en esas sedas,
hay un cariño que no nace nunca,,,
que nunca muere,
vuela otro gran pañuelo apocalíptico;
la mano azul, inédita de Dios!
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
The Butler Model of Tourism

I come back year after year
cracked black valise, busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color,

to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tortoise shell
of his thread bare uniform, ease myself

down on a sagging mattress
wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and shuffling feet

to recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall, broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple

I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above the bed
two of them lost in a heated row

as if I couldn’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows

disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The Butler Model of Tourism”

him making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling
the thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
Gioia Rizzo Jul 2011
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”

Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.

Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”

Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”

Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”

A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”

Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Time could be hesitant
But illusion is not
Time can fly
But an illusion can turn
Fading in illusion,
I thought I was in prison
When my second was your hour
The mystery of an underworld tought me
To fly in time
For what a real illusion
Is in there...
11:01 p.m. words!
Se bebe el desayuno... Húmeda tierra
de cementerio huele a sangre amada.
Ciudad de invierno... La mordaz cruzada
de una carreta que arrastrar parece
una emoción de ayuno encadenada!
Se quisiera tocar todas las puertas,
y preguntar por no sé quién; y luego
ver a los pobres, y, llorando quedos,
dar pedacitos de pan fresco a todos.
Y saquear a los ricos sus viñedos
con las dos manos santas
que a un golpe de luz
volaron desclavadas de la Cruz!
Pestaña matinal, no os levantéis!
¡El pan nuestro de cada día dánoslo,
Señor...!
Todos mis huesos son ajenos;
yo talvez los robé!
Yo vine a darme lo que acaso estuvo
asignado para otro;
y pienso que, si no hubiera nacido,
otro pobre tomara este café!
Yo soy un mal ladrón... A dónde iré!
Y en esta hora fría, en que la tierra
trasciende a polvo humano y es tan triste,
quisiera yo tocar todas las puertas,
y suplicar a no sé quién, perdón,
y hacerle pedacitos de pan fresco
aquí, en el horno de mi corazón...!
tangshunzi Jun 2014
<p><p> Io non so voi .ma il mio calendario è pieno zeppo di occasioni speciali di questa primavera - bambino docce .lauree .matrimoni - è il nome .** intenzione di esso !Mi piace aiutare gli amici impostare i loro eventi .così ** sempre prendere nota di eventuali tutorial per composizioni floreali .Questo fresco .succulento centrotavola fai da te da Bare Root Flora \u0026 Laura Murray fotografia è esattamente quello che sto cercando !Non perdere nessuna delle graziosa nella galleria .<p> Condividi questa splendida galleria Da Robyn : Primavera offre una tale generosità incredibile di bellissimi fiori che non abbiamo potuto resistere alla possibilità di riunire alcuni dei nostri preferiti per creare un lussureggiante primavera centrotavola perfetto per i tanti incontri che accadonoin questo periodo dell'anno : docce .feste di laurea .festa <b>abiti da sposa 2014</b>  della mamma e altre occasioni speciali !<p>è? nostro preferito opacoènave ?pezzo di filo di pollo abbastanza grande da creare una forma abbastanza stretta nel vostro contenitoreè? nostra di cinque tipi di vostri fiori preferiti .Provate a variare la forma un po 'così che alcuni sono morbidi e soffici.alcuni hanno una linea più lunga .alcuni sono più grandi .alcuni sono più piccoli .alcuni sono viney in natura.Variety rende la disposizione bellissimo !Abbiamo usato peonie.lillà .rose spray.tulipani .clematis e rami apple blossom .è? Ne o due tipi di fogliame.Sentitevi liberi di foraggiare dal vostro giardino di fiori e foglie !Abbiamo usato Dusty Miller e geranio profumato .è?coltello floreale o alcuni tagliatori -no forbici!Forbici danno gambo di un fiore .che vieta da bere correttamente .<p><p> Il primo passo per qualsiasi composizione floreale stupendo è quello di preparare i vostri fiori !Assicuratevi di pulire fuori qualsiasi fogliame che cadrà al di sotto della linea di galleggiamento .Foglie in acqua incoraggeranno la crescita di batteri .che accorciare la vita del vostro arrangiamento .<p> successivo .preparare il contenitore .Piegate il filo di pollo per adattarsi perfettamente all'interno del contenitore .Il filo di pollo agisce come una griglia per tenere i vostri fiori dove vuoi .dando il vostro disegno la forma desiderata .<p> Iniziare con la raccolta e l'immissione alcuni dei vostri grandi .soffici fiori in un gruppo qui .peonie e rose a spruzzo.Dà la disposizione  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-2014-c-13"><b>abiti da sposa 2014</b></a>  un bel punto focale .Successivamente.aggiungere in alcuni dei vostri fiori lungo linea ( nel nostro pezzo abbiamo usato il lillà e tulipani ) .Utilizzare i fiori lungo linea per creare una forma giardino - esque selvaggio .Il movimento è fondamentale .lasciate i fiori raggiungere e picchiata !Darà il suo  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a>  pezzo così tanto la vita !<p> Trasforma il tuo imbarcazione in cerchio lenti come si progetta .continuando ad effettuare i tuoi più grandi.soffici fiori un po 'più basso .con i vostri fiori linea leggermente più alto .Inizia a riempire con le tue chiome .<p> Abbiamo terminato il nostro accordo con rami di mele e clematidi .La clematide viney è il tocco finale perfetto .Abbiamo lasciato la nostra sbirciare sopra le nostre altri fiori per dare al pezzo un aspetto molto selvaggio .Fotografia <p> : Laura  <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=674" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/4609935353535395473.jpg"></a></p>  Murray Fotografia | Fiori: radice nuda FloraBare Root Flora è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Bare Root Flora VIEW</p>
DIY Lush Primavera Centrotavola_vestiti da sposa
«¿Hacia dónde?» dicen todos,
«Otra vez a España?»
                                -«Al centro,
A conquistar nuevas tierras,
Listo el brazo y firme el pecho.
Río arriba, que hay un río
Que vendrá desde muy lejos.
Habrá en sus orillas oro;
Riquezas habrá en su extremo.
Ese río es el camino,
Ante nosotros abierto,
Para la fortuna. ¡Vamos,
Los que no sepáis de miedo!»

«¿Miedo? Nadie lo conoce».
Todos a una dijeron.

Y en ir y venir constante
Es grande alborozo el puerto
De Santa Marta ese día
De Abril de mil y quinientos
Treinta y seis de nuestra Era.
El Licenciado en Derecho
Don Gonzalo de Jiménez
De Quesada, airoso, erecto,
En el casco blancas plumas
Que agita el marino viento;
Con la luciente coraza
Guarnecido el noble pecho,
Y el pendón de Carlos Quinto
En la diestra mano irguiendo,
Ve ante él desfilar su tropa:
Sus hombres son ochocientos;
Y ochenta y cinco jinetes,
Y aborígenes flecheros.

Fray Domingo de Las Casas,
En el aire mañanero
Alza la mano y bendice,
Pidiendo el favor del Cielo.

Todos inclinan la frente,
Y en fila siguen al puerto.
Las lonas y cabrestantes
Aprestan los marineros,
Y cabecean los barcos
En el mar, diáfano espejo.

En carabelas van unos
Y en bergantines ligeros;
Otros partirán por tierra:
Todos de ánimo resuelto.

-«¡Adiós!» -
«¡Adiós!»...
                                    Tras fatigas
Unos, contra el mar violento
Luchando, y sus bergantines
Por ciclones, rotos viendo;
Y los otros, que en el bosque
Van despejando sendero,
En Malambo, sobre el río,
Se unen al fin. Desaliento
Profundo embarga sus almas,
Y en airada voz dijeron:

-«¿Avanzar? ¡Es imposible!
Para el mar nos volveremos».

Don Gonzalo pensativo,
Ante ese gran desconsuelo,
Le dice al Padre Las Casas,
Ante el peligro, sereno:
«Como voz terrena falla,
Habladles con voz de cielo».

En el arenal del río
Que desciende amarillento
Sobre tabla que se apoya
En recién cortados leños,
Un crucifijo se yergue,
Un cáliz y un Evangelio;
Y terminada la misa
Entre alboroto del viento
Y entre el rumor de la selva,
Dice el fraile:

                      «Llegó el tiempo
De que a los reinos de Cristo
Unamos un nuevo reino»

Y se vio trocado en gozo
Entonces el desaliento


¡Río arriba!... Unos por agua,
Otros por tierra. Al estrépito
De las voces de «¡¡Adelante!!»
Se unió el rimbombo del trueno.
Fúlgidos rayos cruzaron
El espacio ceniciento.
Borrose el sol. De las fieras,
Por entre el follaje espeso,
Llegaban roncos rugidos;
Y torrencial aguacero
Cayó de pronto. La oril la
Fue entonces pantano inmenso.
Unos subían el río;
Otros, bajo árboles, quietos;
Y la tormenta seguía
Los árboles sacudiendo.
Eran torrentes los caños,
Y entre ese fragor siniestro
Sobre las carnes de todos
Caían nubes de insectos,
Arañas, negras avispas,
Jején y tábanos fieros,
Que en encendidas ampollas
Les convertían el cuerpo.

Amarrados a los troncos
Se columbraban muy lejos
Los barcos. Y los infantes
De los raudales huyendo,
Sobre horcones cavilaban,
Mirando inundado el suelo,
Cómo esa noche podrían
El cuerpo entregar al sueño.
Charco enorme era la tierra;
Seguía el río creciendo
Y en los gajos de los árboles
Eran los aventureros
De ese día -y que muy pronto
De un mundo serían dueños-
Pájaros que disputaban
A los pájaros sus lechos.

De vez en cuando caía,
Con rudo golpe, uno al suelo:
De los audaces «chimilas»
Bajo el venablo certero.

«¿Hacia donde?» -preguntaban,
Y Quesada, duro el ceño,
A caballo respondía:
«Río arriba, que esto es nuéstro»

Y el pendón de Carlos Quinto
Erguía entre el aguacero.

Cerca un tigre. De otro tigre
El rugir se oía lejos.

Un alto al fin. En «Barranca
Bermeja»... Entre el desaliento
Estalla el tumulto, y todos
Piden hacia el mar regreso.
-«¿Para qué bellos pasajes
En desamparo y enfermos?»
Así decían. Quesada
Sin vacilar en su empeño.

Por el Opón, dos canoas
Envía Quesada. El cielo
Es viva paleta. El ánimo
Volver parece a sus pechos.
Se alza la luna. Vihuelas
Y voces forman concento:
La primera serenata
Bajo centenarios cedros
A la orilla del gran río
Que desciende soñoliento,
Llevando en sus aguas, troncos
Vivos: los saurios; y muertos
Troncos, que arrancó en la playa
La corriente con estrépito.

En tanto, Quesada sueña;
Soñando está, mas despierto.
Piensa en rejas andaluzas
Y en algunos ojos negros;
Y como es poeta, entonces
Fulge en su memoria un verso,
-¿Quién un verso no recuerda
En sus noches de desvelo,
Un verso que muchas veces
Es lágrima de otro tiempo?-
Y evocando a Santillana
Ya su «Vaqueira», un ensueño
Radioso se alza en su mente,
Visión de gloria: otro reino
Para España, que en el mundo
Habrá de extender su imperio.
«España y amor», murmura,
Y a sus ojos baja el sueño.

Y regresan las canoas:
Traen sal y  traen lienzos;
Y todos alborazados,
Delante de un mundo nuevo
Surcan del Opón las aguas,
De la gloria aventureros;
Y a las serranías suben:
Sementeras, chozas, huertos,
Cielo distinto, otros campos,
Vegas  y valles y cerros,
En donde sopla en el día
Y en las noches aire fresco
Y después, la gran llanura
Que se abre a sus ojos, lejos:
Nuevo día. Bella aurora;
Azul y radiante el cielo,
Y entre silbido de flechas,
Al frente los macheteros.
Troncos iban derribando
Que tendían en deshechos
Raudales, cual recios puentes
De infantes y caballeros,
Mientras serpientes enormes
Entre el matorral espeso
Deslizábanse, y arteras
Dejaban mortal veneno
En las carnes de esos bravos
Postrados por hambre y sueño.
Unos caían. Los otros
Marchaban, camino abriendo
Entre trabas de bejucos
Y árboles corpulentos.

Para comida, raices,
Y hojas y barro, por lecho.
Saltaba un tigre de pronto
Entre la noche, uno menos.

Otro día. Azul y gualda
Y rojo. Horizonte espléndido.
Cada rama era una libre
Jaula a las aves del cielo.
Brilla la esperanza. Entonces
Temblando de fiebre, regios
Palacios, veían, oro
Y más oro entre sus sueños
De sobresalto en la selva;
Pero de repente el trueno
Retumbaba en el espacio
Y y volvía el desaliento...
Y luego... a buscar raíces,
Entre tupidos helechos ,
Donde arañas y serpientes
Acechaban en silencio

Tarde radiante del trópico...
Rojos celajes. En vuelo
Perezoso van las garzas
Por los dormidos esteros;
En la orilla esperan otras
A los peces, vivo argento
Las escamas, que en los picos
Un instante brillan luego,
En tanto que albas corolas
Mueve el aura sobre el cieno.
En la playa, centenares
De saurios se mueven lentos
Grandes bandadas de pájaros,
Azules, verdes y negros
Pasan ¡La tarde del trópico!
El sol es un rojo incendio...
«El valle de los alcázares»,
Como en un deslumbramiento.

Tan sólo ciento sesenta
Han llegado. Setecientos
Marcaron con sus cadáveres
El recorrido sendero.

Y aquellos desconocidos,
Terrones de gleba; aquellos
Que de humildes heredades
A heroica aventura fueron,
No pensaron quizá entonces,
De sólo harapos cubiertos,
Pordioseros de la gloria,
Mientras Quesada su acero
Alzaba en tierras del Zipa,
Que el suelo hollado por ellos
Iba, cual florón de España,
A ensanchar el universo.
El azul estaba inmovilizado entre el rojo y el *****.
El viento iba y venía por la página del llano,
encendía pequeñas fogatas, se revolcaba en la ceniza,
salía con la cara tiznada gritando por las esquinas,
el viento iba y venía abriendo y cerrando puertas y ventanas,
iba y venía por los crepusculares corredores del cráneo,
el viento con mala letra y las manos manchadas de tinta
escribía y borraba lo que había escrito sobre la pared del día.
El sol no era sino el presentimiento del color amarillo,
una insinuación de plumas, el grito futuro del gallo.
La nieve se había extraviado, el mar había perdido el habla,
era un rumor errante, unas vocales en busca de una palabra.

El azul estaba inmovilizado, nadie lo miraba, nadie lo oía:
el rojo era un ciego, el ***** un sordomudo.
El viento iba y venía preguntando ¿por dónde anda Joan Miró?
Estaba ahí desde el principio pero el viento no lo veía:
inmovilizado entre el azul y el rojo, el ***** y el amarillo,
Miró era una mirada transparente, una mirada de siete manos.
Siete manos en forma de orjeas para oír a los siete colores,
siete manos en forma de pies para subir los siete escalones del arco iris,
siete manos en forma de raíces para estar en todas partes y a la vez en Barcelona.

Miró era una mirada de siete manos.
Con la primera mano golpeaba el tambor de la luna,
con la segunda sembraba pájaros en el jardín del viento,
con la tercera agitaba el cubilete de las constelaciones,
con la cuarta escribía la leyenda de los siglos de los caracoles,
con la quinta plantaba islas en el pecho del verde,
con la sexta hacía una mujer mezclando noche y agua, música y electricidad,
con la séptima borraba todo lo que había hecho y comenzaba de nuevo.

El rojo abrió los ojos, el ***** dijo algo incomprensible y el azul se levantó.
Ninguno de los tres podía creer lo que veía:
¿eran ocho gavilanes o eran ocho paraguas?
Los ocho abrieron las alas, se echaron a volar y desaparecieron por un vidrio roto.

Miró empezó a quemar sus telas.
Ardían los leones y las arañas, las mujeres y las estrellas,
el cielo se pobló de triángulos, esferas, discos, hexaedros en llamas,
el fuego consumió enteramente a la granjera planetaria plantada en el centro del espacio,
del montón de cenizas brotaron mariposas, peces voladores, roncos fonógrafos,
pero entre los agujeros de los cuadros chamuscados
volvían el espacio azul y la raya de la golondrina, el follaje de nubes y el bastón florido:
era la primavera que insistía, insistía con ademanes verdes.
Ante tanta obstinación luminosa Miró se rascó la cabeza con su quinta mano,
murmurando para sí mismo: Trabajo como un jardinero.

¿Jardín de piedras o de barcas? ¿Jardín de poleas o de bailarinas?
El azul, el ***** y el rojo corrían por los prados,
las estrellas andaban desnudas pero las friolentas colinas se habían metido debajo de las sábanas,
había volcanes portátiles y fuegos de artificio a domicilio.
Las dos señoritas que guardan la entrada a la puerta de las percepciones, Geometría y Perspectiva,
se habían ido a tomar el fresco del brazo de Miró, cantando Une étoile caresse le sein d'une négresse.

El viento dio la vuelta a la página del llano, alzó la cara y dijo, ¿Pero dónde anda Joan Miró?
Estaba ahí desde el principio y el viento no lo veía:
Miró era una mirada transparente por donde entraban y salían atareados abecedarios.

No eran letras las que entraban y salían por los túneles del ojo:
eran cosas vivas que se juntaban y se dividían, se abrazaban y se mordían y se dispersaban,
corrían por toda la página en hileras animadas y multicolores, tenían cuernos y rabos,
unas estaban cubiertas de escamas, otras de plumas, otras andaban en cueros,
y las palabras que formaban eran palpables, audibles y comestibles  pero impronunciables:
no eran letras sino sensaciones, no eran sensaciones sino Transfiguraciones.

¿Y todo esto para qué? Para trazar una línea en la celda de un solitario,
para iluminar con un girasol la cabeza de luna del campesino,
para recibir a la noche que viene con personajes azules y pájaros de fiesta,
para saludar a la muerte con una salva de geranios,
para decirle buenos días al día que llega sin jamás preguntarle de dónde viene y adónde va,
para recordar que la cascada es una muchacha que baja las escaleras muerta de risa,
para ver al sol y a sus planetas meciéndose en el trapecio del horizontes,
para aprender a mirar y para que las cosas nos miren y entren y salgan por nuestras miradas,
abecedarios vivientes que echan raíces, suben, florecen, estallan, vuelan, se disipan, caen.

Las miradas son semillas, mirar es sembrar, Miró trabaja como un jardinero
y con sus siete manos traza incansable -círculo y rabo, ¡oh! y ¡ah!-
la gran exclamación con que todos los días comienza el mundo.
Taylor St Onge Nov 2020
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
                                               struggles to intubate a cat.  
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
                                                      practition­ers are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
                                                                ­     the sternum sore.  

Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.  
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.

Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
       after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.  

The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.  
The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.  
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.  
                                                        ­               The eleventh hour,
                                                                ­  isn’t that what it’s called?  

We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.  
We have to, but it won’t register.  
                                                     ­       After a loss, after a trauma,
                                                                ­   we are on autopilot.  
I think of my mother,
                                        six feet beneath frozen soil in
                                      a pink padded casket and think:
                                                                ­                             I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
                                                          ­                                   I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.  
Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.  
We don’t talk about it.  

We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.  
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)

I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.  
I couldn’t do these things.
                                                 My hands tend to break what they touch.  
The glass bowl in the pet store.  
                               The clay project in art class.  
                                                        ­    The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
                                                                                    good at trauma.
notice that the fawn response isn't titled here
Joel A Doetsch Sep 2012
I found you hiding in your painting

I distinctly remember saying
that you reminded me of Monet

Beautiful without trying
          Elegant Simplicity

You said I was like Seurat

Up close a jumble of emotions and thoughts
that seemed to contrast, but then all made
sense when you took me in as a whole

That night, we drank our fill
we danced under the fresco moonlight
   Our colors bled together as our lines,
boundaries, and vision blurred

Perfect Chaos.  Dali would have approved.

But..your lips. Those perfect lips
dripping
in crimson red oil
contrasting pastel skin
remained crisp and vivid in my memories
They left their mark on my canvas

A smile beckoning, drawing me

That night, so long ago...

We painted a masterpiece
Ariel Baptista Jun 2015
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Liberating or degrading
Hangs from single strings
Nothing comes and no one sings
No one laughs and nothing breaks
See the cracks drip down my face

Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Fascinating fascist face
Flash-forward foreshadow
White cold lace
Not as durable as we first thought
But the car is packed
In the parking lot
I light the cigarettes we bought
And now there is no going back
Not back to there
Nor back to that
Not back to night
Nor back to day
Nor back to summers
Far away

Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Forget my fascist family tree
The fascist fascist memory
And moustache moustache damaging
Or fresco firefly reverie
Just tell me that I’m yours
Sign the line
Like you have before
This is where we are right now
Two souls alive
In the empty town
Two souls alive
In the ******* ghost god-empty town.

So, What think you of Whitman?
And what say I of Plath?
I understand all but maybe half
On my greatest finest day
(dearest, how’d we get this way?)
How’d we fall so far from grace?
How’d this canyon split my face?
Maybe it’s the trace trace amounts of fascist.

Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Friday fickle convocating
Tragic talent intubating
All the world smiles, undulating
But in the end
You’re still a fascist.
Leks Dec 2013
I love how all the constellations are named after Greek heros. It reminds me that, even though mortals, they have vices too. I love around 5am when all the lights dim, after the **** ones have become middle aged, in their 12hour life spans. When the glitter fades and rests, more like sad stars and gold leaf.

I love naked white sheets, how they work like paint thinner to remove last nights fresco, how they dry you off after soaking in a tub of room temperature lovers. I love the cab rides you take back into yourself, away from the still beautiful people who are all elsewhere doing impossibly beautiful things. When you arrive home, you will greet the mirror like a criminal in a line up, with premeditated sins armed with brass knuckles and all the good intentions buried far beneath the rap sheet.

I plan to be a sinner tonight. Could’ve been something else but looked way too good in my red dress to be anything Christian. I was talking to three different men in five different languages. I was twisting a blunt straw into page forty-seven of the coma sutra. I was dancing in an attempt to melt the belts off every man in the room, but I heard the truth that night. A Turk speaking Spanish, didn’t know me from Adam said;

“Tú creas en Dios pero tu haces malas cosas” You believe in God but you do bad things.

Suddenly I realized that I was in a place where all they play is house music, but can’t really say I felt at home in the barely audible, barely recognizable zone between having a good time and simply wasting it. I was a glutton with a grin, drinking warm gin, knowing no ones name but somehow I was everyones friend. I was standing in stilettos that made me 6ft tall but still felt small. I was messing up the shoes I paid too much for and still hurt to walk in and talk about conviction.

Truth is nobody believes me when I say I’m a ******. Truth is, the Bible didn’t see the inside of my face for a week while I was on vacation. Truth is, I’m not innocent, I’m just an abstinent fireplace that doesn’t wanna feel the fire kindle between her legs anymore. So don’t mind the ashes they’re just evidence of how brightly I can glow and I wanna glow hard like one dim star on an otherwise starless night that shines just to prove its fidelity and I know what you must think of me. “What hypocrisy!” but I don’t wanna enter prayer reeking of my addictions. Stinking of cologne. I don’t want God to smell another man on me, mistaking ménage á trois for the trinity.

So, so thank God! Thank God the stars don’t judge us for what we do beneath them. Thank God the stars don’t see the evil we commit under their names. Thank God for the silence, for the dimness, for nights spent alone. Thank God for friends who know more than just your bra strap. Thank god for cab rides home, cause tonight I’m gonna strip the spotlight. Tonight I’m gonna turn off Frank Ocean. Tonight I’m gonna take off the stilettos. I’m gonna take off the turquoise rings. I’m gonna take off the lipgloss and I’m gonna sleep naked, not trying to be ****, just trying to be me. A girl with a shaved head and with eyes deep enough to stand in, with convictions strong enough to stand on.

I’m finding the mercy of God right where I’m standing and its binding, it’s blinding, it’s forgiveness, most of all it’s mine. So, so tonight I’m gonna sit out on the fire escape eating an apple and I’m gonna nickname the view Eden and I’m gonna look up at those tragic stars and their pagan hearts full of mourning and I’m gonna say; What a fall, but what light, what impossible light.
By Alysia Harris
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.

But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.

Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
“Iron gall” was the vegetable-based ink common in Europe from the 5th-19th centuries.
“Brown wash” was a wash of wood soot over the ink drawing to enhance the dimensions.
Tempera refers to pigments mixed with egg-yolk.
The “golden ratio” was the famed Greek ratio of beauty (1.618...) applied to art and architecture.
“Sfumato” means “evaporate like smoke” and refers to the technique employed heavily by da Vinci and the Renaissance masters to blur outlines for a softening, misty effect.

— The End —