Posts Tagged ‘ light ’

Italy Makes Light Right

Italy is to contemporary lighting design as Detroit is to cars. While no country can claim total dominance of the field, Italy has long been at the forefront of lighting innovation.

Source: Italy Makes Light Right

高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)

Shell

Nothing, nothing at all
is born,
dies, the shell says again
and again
from the depth of hollowness.
Its body
swept off by tide—so what?
It sleeps
in sand, drying in sunlight,
bathing
in moonlight. Nothing to do
with sea
or anything else. Over
and over
it vanishes with the wave.

 

Afternoon

My hair’s falling fast—
this afternoon
I’m off to Asia Minor.

 

Sweet Potato

Of all things living
I’d be a sweet potato,
fresh dug up.

 

Moon

Moon shines while billions
of corpses rot
beneath earth’s crust.
I who rise from them,
soon to join them—all.
Where does moon float?
On the waves of my brain.

 

Explosion

I’m an unthinking dog,
a good-for-nothing cat,
a fog over gutter,
a blossom-swiping rain.

I close my eyes, breathe—
radioactive air! A billion years
and I’ll be shrunk to half,
pollution strikes my marrow.

So what—I’ll whoop at what
remains. Yet scant blood left,
reduced to emptiness by nuclear
fission, I’m running very fast.

 

Absence

Just say, “He’s out”—
back in
five billion years!

Gods

Gods are everywhere:
war between Koshi and Izumo
tribes still rages.

The all of All, the One
ends distinctions.

The three thousand worlds
are in that plum blossom.
The smell is God.

 

 

Cloud

I’m cheerful, whatever happens,
a puff in sky—
what splendor exists, I’m there.

 

Source: 高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)

A Longhouse Birdhouse: ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK ~

Alejandra Pizarnik

(1936-1972)

MORTAL TIES

     A single thought cast out words like lifelines at sea. Making love

inside our embrace implied a black light: a darkness that started

gleaming. A rediscovered light, twice extinguished already, yet more

vibrant than a thousand suns. The color of a mausoleum for infants,

the deadened hues of repressed desire, opened up in the savage

room. The rhythm of our bodies disguised the flight of the ravens.

The rhythm of our bodies carved out a space of light inside that light.

A Longhouse Birdhouse: ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK ~.

Mahmoud Darwish, from A River Dies of Thirst

I am jealous of my senses. The air is the colour of gardenias, your smell on my shoulders like laughter and triumphal arches. I am jealous of the peaceful daggers lying sheathed before you on the table, waiting for a sign from you to kill me. I am jealous of the vase, which has no need of its yellow roses because you give it the full benefit of your deep red lips, hungry for my hunger. I am jealous of the painting staring greedily at you: look longer at me, so I too have my fill of lakes and cherry orchards. I am envious of the foliage on the rug, straining upwards to see an anklet descending on it from above, and of the anklet when it rests on your knee, making the marble in the room as hot as my fantasies. I am envious of the bookshop that is out of sorts because it doesn’t carry an erotic book in praise of two small ivory hills, bared before it to a frenzy of guitars, then hidden by a wave of sighing silk. I am envious of my fingers catching the dialogue of darkness and light as it overflows from your hands, the movement of a spoon in your teacup, the salts stirred up in a body that yearns for a storm to spark the fire of song: gather me up, all of you, and hold me close so I can envy my memories of you in the future. I envy my tongue, which calls your name with as much care as someone carrying four crystal glasses in one hand. I taste the letters of your name one by one, like lyrical fruits. I do not add water to them, so as to preserve the taste of peaches and the thirst of my senses. I envy my imagination embracing you, silencing you, kissing you, caressing you, holding you tight and letting you go, bringing you near and pushing you away, lifting you up and putting you down, making you submit and submitting to you, and doing all the things I never do.

<>

Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst, Saqi Books, 2009.

Translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham.

In Honor of International Haiku Day — EarthRise Rolling Haiku Collaboration 2015

EarthRise Rolling Haiku Collaboration 2015.

will anyone
not be taking up his pen?
tonight’s moon
— Onitsura (1660 – 1738)

responses ~

springlight –

a quince in a wink

on the tree

– Donna Fleischer

4.17.15

awaken
without alarm,
Spring light

– Donna Fleischer

4.17.15

Kiri Te Kanawa, José Carreras, Leonard Bernstein / “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story

The Red Photogram by Donna Fleischer from Let There Be Light: The Black Swans of Ellen Carey – Exhibition Catalogue 2014 Eastern CT State University AKUS Gallery

The Red Photogram

 

The unplanned for trip began as I stepped back from Ellen Carey’s
red photogram; “The shape of grief is circular,” the book reviewer
wrote of Forest Gander’s new novel; and I wonder that my avidity for
procrastination takes the shape of walking in circles. I stand still before
the red photogram for which I have no words, of relevance. But those
red swirls, they are there, every day, and they make me smile

 

Especially there in the late winter bone-cleaving days when I begin
to feel out my circle walks, looking out of windows, returning to a
place only to leave. My own Greek chorus. First movements, away
from a mother. Stepping back from a mirror, startled by the absence
of something. Remembering and forgetting, until it becomes me.
The it of absence already staged in the blood.

 

Burroughs called it “the soft typewriter of the womb” the place where
we begin to make first words. Buffering ourselves from her overloud
heartbeats, I suppose. The better words, says Rimbaud, are in the
silence of color

 

shadows of geese

flickering ’cross tree trunks

quiet spring morning

 

So there it is, Art, the ultimate road trip, with rickshaw and naked feet
and kasa strung under the chin while floats a pillow of consciousness
on last night’s dream. A painter friend’s words in an e-mail, “ — the
need to reject the written word/numbers (ego) from our thought
process … When it comes to art — I don’t know anymore,” he says.

 

Fleeting perceptions, apperceptions. Glory of the everyday of ordinary
things that stay as we pass by them … Those classical Chinese poets,
Wang Wei, Li Po, Han Shan, minimalist in style and so completely
embodied in their endless leaving and returning. The circle.

 

The first time there is Loss it’s already too late — Loss circulating
in endless loops. You look and wait, look and wait, for your love, your
lost one, to return. The sound of your own blood in your ears when
you are most alone. The sound of the earth all opened up and speaking,
and the mourner, who listens; the underworld starlit darkness of the
body emerging on the horizon of birth

fixing

Li Po’s gate

November wind

 

If only one could look inside this dark room of the body. See the quiet,
orderly procession of blood. Contained. Purple. A royal life of its own.
Hear the soft, murmuring canals bloom. Just stand in the sunlight and
close your eyes. Those red swirls, they’ll make you smile.

 

– Donna Fleischer
Let There Be Light: The Black Swans of Ellen Carey
Exhibition Catalogue 2014 Eastern CT State University