Breathing stars
she looks up
breathing stars
smiles of love
whispering rhymes
Πέμπτη 31 Μαρτίου 2022
Τετάρτη 30 Μαρτίου 2022
Τρίτη 29 Μαρτίου 2022
Κυριακή 27 Μαρτίου 2022
Πέμπτη 24 Μαρτίου 2022
Τετάρτη 23 Μαρτίου 2022
Τρίτη 22 Μαρτίου 2022
Δευτέρα 21 Μαρτίου 2022
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
K E A T S
Κυριακή 20 Μαρτίου 2022
Σάββατο 19 Μαρτίου 2022
Να ελπίζεις - να ελπίζεις πάντα - πως ανάμεσα εις τους ανθρώπους-
που τους ρημάζει η τρομερή "ευκολία" -
θα συναντήσεις απαλές ψυχές με τρόπους
που τους διέπει καλοσύνη - πόθος ευγένειας - ηρεμία.
Ίσως όχι πολλές - ίσως να 'σαι άτυχος: καμία -
τότες εσύ προσπάθησε να γενείς καλλίτερος
εις τρόπον ώστε να έρθει κάποια σχετική ισορροπία
Νίκος Εγγονόπουλος
απόσπασμα από το
Σονέτο μάλλον απαισιόδοξο,
από την ποιητική συλλογή :
Στην κοιλάδα με τους ροδώνες
Παρασκευή 18 Μαρτίου 2022
Πέμπτη 17 Μαρτίου 2022
Τετάρτη 16 Μαρτίου 2022
Mην ακούω ανοησίες για ερωτική αιωνιότητα. Κάθε ομορφιά είναι αιωνιότητα.
Ό,τι βλέπω, ό,τι ακούω, ό,τι αγγίζω, χώμα αέρας, φως είναι μέρος της αιωνιότητας.
Αιωνιότητα δεν είναι ό,τι αντέχει στο χρόνο - γιατί τότε θα'χαν τα πρωτεία οι πολυκατοικίες και οι ουρανοξύστες - αλλά ό,τι σφραγίζει μια στιγμή ανεπανάληπτα.
Ο ερωτικός σπασμός έιναι μια αιωνιότητα κι ας μην αποτυπώνεται πουθενά αυτός.
Λιλή Ζωγράφου
Αιωνιότητα
Τρίτη 15 Μαρτίου 2022
Δευτέρα 14 Μαρτίου 2022
Σάββατο 12 Μαρτίου 2022
Παρασκευή 11 Μαρτίου 2022
Πέμπτη 10 Μαρτίου 2022
Τετάρτη 9 Μαρτίου 2022
Δευτέρα 7 Μαρτίου 2022
Cosmic sparkles
(@)
Oύτε ένα, ούτε δύο, ούτε δέκα...μα 27 χρόνια. Θα ήσουν πολύ περήφανος. Χαμογελώ παρά το οξύμωρο της υπόθεσης. Κοίταζα το χιόνι και πως λαμπύριζε περίεργα όμορφα στο σκοτάδι. Μου θύμισε αστέρια που λαμπυρίζουν στο βραδυνό ουρανό. Σε σκέφτηκα χαμογέλασα και τράβηξα την φωτογραφία.
Curtis Harding - Explore
Κυριακή 6 Μαρτίου 2022
Σάββατο 5 Μαρτίου 2022
Παρασκευή 4 Μαρτίου 2022
Τετάρτη 2 Μαρτίου 2022
Everything will change. Even this perpetual warmth
will change. The fog's settled steadiness will shift.
The wet orthography of the grass will lose its inherently
clean line along with its stem's expressive calligraphy.
The measure of things, which you accept so easily, will change,
the voice, which grew thicker in the dark, will get hoarse,
October, which you know by its broken light
and oversaturated space, will change too.
It will go like this: a bird's lightness and rage
people, who forestall the evening chill by singing,
will start to remember winter like a forgotten language,
they'll read it, re-read it, recognize it.
And everything will change for you, too,
you won't this warning, this fear
of the blackbird in the morning circling the sharp,
warm trees, beating its wings against the blind gleam.
Lands that freeze to the core.
Sunny days for the brave and the luckless.
Your breath will change, in the end, when you recite
a memorized list of apologies, dogmas and faults.
Dryness will change, and the wetness from the lowlands
will change, the field's winter cold will change,
the stubborn October grasses and women's inflections
will change. Like in fall, like in fall.
~~~
Don't say it aloud,
don't let the coastal span of another utterance
roll off your tongue.
It's a subtle, innate, human skill
of non-articulation, omission, awkwardness,
concealing something light behind your heart,
something so light, so sweet, so unsharable,
this wild generosity of not burdening anyone
with things that might make their face twitch.
And then speech starts, like the start of a cold,
it warms your lungs, and the fever sets in,
and since early August anxious people have been wandering around
glowing from within with this mysterious light.
~~~
...let him speak now, or forever hold
his silence, let him explain obvious things-
how flames descend on lovers' shoulders,
how despair, like a butcher, is scooping the world's entrails
onto the morning's cobblestones of a September city,
let him speak now, while it's still possible
to at least save somebody, to at least help somebody.
Let him tell us how another descent into
the deep current will end, how immersion in the deep brown mixture of hash,
in the depths of darkness, when water, like silence,
lasts longer than any language, is more meaningful
than words uttered passionately, stronger than the declarations
between two people struck by the dance of love.
Let him warn this lighthearted pair, who are carried,
like a fish by the rhythm of groundwater,
by the change in wind, by the early October sun, let him warn them,
that everyone will be cast ashore, everyone torn from within
by the cold of shattered glass,
no one will manage to stop the flow,
no one will read the heavenly book,
written in the dead language of autumn.
Rather let him speak now, while they, enchanted,
count birds like the letters of a name scrawled by a child's hand,
let him speak, let him try to break
this joy of grown-ups,
who stand facing one another,
as if to guard their loneliness.
The birds' agile dance,
the logic of warm gestures,
bodies like letters forming
joyful sentences.
Anyway, everything was clear from the start. And whom did it stop?
Whom did it scare?
The eternal sound of a river.
Eternal warnings and eternal courage.
They are so strong as they migrate South.
So touching when they return home.
Contemporary Ukrainian Poetry by Serhiy Zhadan
Translated by Amelia Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk
Τρίτη 1 Μαρτίου 2022
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