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

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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. 


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blue figure in the window

...journey to no end

beyond the vivid severance of each day,
strangeness at doors, a different solitude
between the mirror and the window,
marked visible absences, colours of the mind,

marginal angels lightning-sketched in red chalk
on the month's accounts or marigolds
in paint runnily embossed, or the renounced self-portrait
with a seraph and a storm.


Geoffrey Hill, from Terribilis est locus iste


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