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Créditos al autor
E in fondo chi era? Una maga nera, una dama austera
E lui l'avrebbe ammonita per quegli occhi tristi e il candore
Una fata vera, una baiadera, una naiade greca
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Timelapse of an unusual phenomenon called Sea of clouds
We Lived Happily During the War
BY ILYA KAMINSKY
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
"We Lived Happily During the War" from the Poetry International website. Copyright © 2013 by Ilya Kaminsky. Reprinted by permission of Ilya Kaminsky.
Source: Poetry International 2013 (Poetry International website, 2013)
More About this Poem
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Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower Written by Rainer Maria RilkeTranslated and read by Joanna Macy
Listen
Quiet friend who has come so far,feel how your breathing makes more space around you. Let this darkness be a bell tower and you the bell. As you ring,what batters you becomes your strength. Move back and forth into the change. What is it like, such intensity of pain? If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.In this uncontainable night, be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses, the meaning discovered there.And if the world has ceased to hear you, say to the silent earth: I flow. To the rushing water, speak: I am.Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Sono 15.
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Promo for Six Feet Under by Gregory Crewdson
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It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.
I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig.
Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me.
When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic.
No rhetoric, no tremolos,
no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell.
And of course, no theology, no metaphysics.
Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light.
So throw away your baggage and go forward.
There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet,
trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
That’s why you must walk so lightly.
Lightly my darling,
on tiptoes and no luggage,
not even a sponge bag,
completely unencumbered.
Aldous Huxley (via kalynroseanne)
Nei miei sogni non ci sarai, nel destino originale delle parole, né ci sarai in un numero di telefono o nel colore di un paio di guanti, di una blusa. Mi infurierò, amor mio, e non sarà per te, e non per te comprerò dolci, all’angolo della strada mi fermerò, a quell’angolo a cui non svolterai, e dirò le parole che si dicono e mangerò le cose che si mangiano e sognerò i sogni che si sognano e so molto bene che non ci sarai, nè qui dentro, il carcere dove ancora ti detengo, nè là fuori, in quel fiume di strade e di ponti. Non ci sarai per niente, non sarai neppure ricordo, e quando ti penserò, penserò un pensiero che oscuramente cerca di ricordarsi di te.
Julio Cortazar
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“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” - Albert Camus
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Michele Mari, Cento poesie d’amore a Ladyhawke, Einaudi
SERETA MASON
Il fiore della mia vita avrebbe potuto sbocciare da ogni lato
se un vento crudele non avesse intristito i miei petali
dal lato di me che potevate vedere nel villaggio.
Dalla polvere io innalzo una voce di protesta:
voi non vedeste mai il mio lato in fiore!
Voi che vivete, siete davvero degli sciocchi,
voi che non conoscete le vie del vento
ne' le forze invisibili
che governano i processi della vita.
Spoon River Anthology - Edgar Lee Master
La tessitrice
Mi son seduto su la panchetta come una volta… quanti anni fa? Ella, come una volta, s'è stretta su la panchetta. E non il suono d'una parola; solo un sorriso tutta pietà. La bianca mano lascia la spola. Piango, e le dico: Come ho potuto, dolce mio bene, partir da me? Piange, e mi dice d'un cenno muto: Come hai potuto? Con un sospiro quindi la cassa tira del muto pettine a sé. Muta la spola passa e ripassa. Piango, e le chiedo: Perché non suona dunque l'arguto pettine più? Ella mi fissa timida e buona: Perché non suona? E piange, e piange – Mio dolce amore non t'hanno detto? Non lo sai tu? Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore. Morta! Sì, morta! Se tesso, tesso per te soltanto; come, non so; in questa tela, sotto il cipresso, accanto alfine ti dormirò.
Giovanni Pascoli
the same thing I also say to my friends when they are in an unhappy relationship