Σάββατο, 20 Ιανουαρίου 2018



Cloud stories..

































Τhe pen will never be able to move fast to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost for ever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again.






Paul Auster
The Invention of Solitude


























Untitled



do you think
the things that come
will be as dear as these
birds that dance until the sun
is hidden behind the trees

do you think the rain will be
as gentle as the sky
and carry us inside the earth
like songs that wandered by

do you think
the things that come
will be as strange as these
waves that laugh until the stars
are tucked beneath the beach

and do you think
the things that were
have rusted in memories

do you think the things that come
will be as great as these









Poem by Silence Speaks - 2016
Photo by me - 2017

















What Kind of Times Are These



There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted.



I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.



I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light-
ghost-ridden crosswords, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.



And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.






by Andrienne Rich
from Collected Poems 1950-2012