Showing posts with label Roxana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Roxana. Show all posts
1.25.2014
1.02.2014
10.15.2013
1.04.2013
endings
Labels:
literature,
photograph,
Roxana,
Stanley Kunitz,
window
12.31.2012
12.29.2012
12.27.2012
12.12.2012
blue window
A pretty word, window.
Window: the wingbeat of the yellow butterfly.
Two carelessly painted wooden shutters open out,
clumsy blue window.
I jump in and out of you, ride you like a horse,
my foot dragging the ground.
Window on the open world, from where I saw
Anita, expecting, get married, Pedro Cisterna’s
mother urinating in the rain, from where I saw
my love arrive on a bicycle and say to my father:
I have only the best intentions regarding your daughter.
O wooden-latched window, child’s play for thieves,
peephole on my soul,
I look into my heart.
Window, by Adélia Prado
.
11.17.2012
past lighted windows
What with the silence, and the possibility of walking out, at any
moment over long wonderfully coloured roads to cliffs with the sea
beneath, and coming back past lighted windows to one’s tea and fire and
book - and then one has thoughts and a conception of the world and
moments like a dragon fly in air - with all this I am kept very lively
in my head.
Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Clive Bell dated 26 December 1909.
.
10.14.2012
10.06.2012
6.23.2012
child in the window
In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where the child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night, alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait; at these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind, in crowds.
She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had fancied ugly faces that were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the room; and she felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out, though she was sorry too, when the man came to light the lamps in the street--for it made it late, and very dull inside. Then, she would draw in her head to look round the room and see that everything was in its place and hadn't moved.
She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the roofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had fancied ugly faces that were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the room; and she felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out, though she was sorry too, when the man came to light the lamps in the street--for it made it late, and very dull inside. Then, she would draw in her head to look round the room and see that everything was in its place and hadn't moved.
Charles Dickens , The Old Curiosity Shop
.
6.06.2012
like the lyre
COMME LA LYRE
Depuis quand nous te jouons
avec nos yeux, fenêtre!
Comme la lyre, tu devais être
rendue aux constellations!
Instrument tendre et fort
de nos âmes successives,
arrache enfin de nos sorts
ta forme définitive!
Monte! Tourne de loin
autour de nous qui te fîmes.
Soyex, astres, les rimes
trouvées a nos bouts de destin!
Rainer Maria Rilke
LIKE THE LYRE
Window, just how long have we
played you with our eyes!
Like the lyre, you should be
one of the constellations!
played you with our eyes!
Like the lyre, you should be
one of the constellations!
Tender and strong instrument
of our successive souls,
tear out your permanent
form at last from our fates!
of our successive souls,
tear out your permanent
form at last from our fates!
Climb! And from afar
spin around us who created you.
Be the rhyme, O star,
found at the end of our end!
spin around us who created you.
Be the rhyme, O star,
found at the end of our end!
Translated by A. Poulin Jr.
.
5.26.2012
My Window-Ivy
Over my window the ivy climbs,
Its roots are in homely jars;
But all the day it looks at the sun,
And at night looks out at the stars.
The dust of the room may dim its green,
But I call to the breezy air:
"Come in, come in, good friend of mine!
And make my window fair."
So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,
Its leaves all turned to the light;
And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,
And teaches me day and night.
What though my lot is in lowly place,
And my spirit behind the bars;
All the long day I may look at the sun,
And at night look out at the stars.
What though the dust of earth would dim,
There 's a glorious outer air
That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,
And make it fresh and fair.
Dear God! let me grow from day to day,
Clinging and sunny and bright!
Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,
And my leaves may turn to the light.
Mary Mapes Dodge
.
5.11.2012
5.01.2012
4.25.2012
4.10.2012
4.04.2012
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