dilluns, d’octubre 22, 2007

Painting in the Dark

One for freedom, two for poet, three for happiness, you’ll never get…. As words flow and time unravels forward, you stare, empty handed and empty eyed, at the blue and green and orange hues of the sky, believing it could as well be an ocean, someplace black and deep and silent and forgiving where it ought to be so easy to drown, to breath down on life and light and hope and pain, and exhale the only thing that’s left: you may call it delusion, you might prefer despair. As morning moves into afternoon and the music repeats itself in endless loops of strings and drums and weary voices, you dance by its tune, you sit here, scaring words into being on this blank page, writing wriggling, screaming, butterflies with scabbed wings which, nevertheless, taint your fingertips as you run them over the fresh ink of their existence. One for doom, two for a curse, three for prayer, expect much worse…

3 comentaris:

samain ha dit...

After reading your passage, I remember these words:
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beatiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful thigs are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful thigs mean only Beauty.
There is no such things as a moral or an inmoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
Your writing's been a pleasure, as always, poet.

Auryn ha dit...

Després de llegir el que has escrit tu i el que et diu la Samain, qualsevol cosa que aporti jo sonarà vulgar. Em sap greu no tenir aquest do amb les paraules per expresar-me, però això no vol dir que no pugui apreciar la delicadesa de les teves paraules.
Genial com sempre Poeta...


Antitot ha dit...

Cullons Poeta, o fots un traductor al català o perdràs un lector tant interessant com jo...;P
Demà, sense el fantasma de la son planejant per aqui al voltant, m'ho llegeixo...;P