Category Archives: Poetry

As fi vrut

As fi vrut, cat as fi vrut sa nu mai plecam nicicand de pe banca aceea, sa ne ingroape pe amandoi sevele vegetale, muschiul si mormanele de frunze, sa ne prefacem fara sa stim in pamant, in cenusa, in nimic.

Capitanul,
Fluturii albi mor spre sfarsitul verii


The Death of Lovers

We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes,
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves
Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us
Under more beautiful heavens.

Using their dying flames emulously,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Which will reflect their double light
In our two souls, those twin mirrors.

Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue
A single flash will pass between us
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;

And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar,
Faithful and joyous, will come to revive
The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames.

– Charles Baudelaire


I am champagne

“I feel like champagne.

I understand the idea of celebration. I see the bubbles in champagne 

as something … good and beautiful.

Not part of my soul evaporating, but rising …with joy.

What I’m trying to say is:

I don’t  want champagne, I am champagne.

It’s great to be alive.”

in Changing Lanes at an AA meeting.

photo here


Van der Rohe

I have discovered Mies today, thanks to google. Mies vand der Rohe, the architect that so boldly dropped the ornaments, and gave us free flowing open spaces, all glass walls that make you feel like you are in the middle of the nature and also, and not without regret i say it, the glass skyscrapers. I can imagine how it must have felt back than to see one of these colossus shining in the sun, how it opened the entire building, i understand, but now i feel a bit suffocated with all the glass and steel buildings. I do wish some day, after having read more about it, to see their beauty also.

Knowing where it came from and how it developed makes so much difference, it breaks the barriers of common now- thinking. Cause it is so easy to just go with the flow, take for granted, not strive for change. He did it.

mies van der rohe in his apartment on
east pearson street, chicago, 1964
© werner blaser

Did you know that the poang chair is inspired by one of Mies’s Brno chair?

mies 1955

mies van der rohe sketching, 1960s
© hedrich-blessing

mies over model of crown hall
cortesy the illinois institute of technology

Just imagine this house after the War. Context, damn it. It must have been really striking. People have named it a temple hovering between heaven and earth.

Farnsworth House

Images: first four, fifth.


Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a
jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t
curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God!
Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,
—mothers and fathers don’t die.

And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be
kissing a person?”
Or, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window with
your thimble!”
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy having
fun,
Is plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,
who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;
they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1937)


Continuous

Flowing through the sea of information

 


Lamps and rein dears

Upgrade. My handmade, or is it book-made nightstands and the new lamps. Notice the rain dear. ♥