Sinister: I RemembeR BRidget Riley...

[velocity farewell]

looking out of the window... grey, cotton clouds are
descending from the mountain top covering its slopes
slowly like the shawl a beautiful woman wraps around
her delicate shoulders...
You light up a ciggie even though your throat is sore
coz of this damn cold! we live for our obsessions...
you love this weather... winter people... winter skin,
like Karl Smith says...
again the same question... alienation... what must you
do to keep people satisfied? besides sex that is (OK
stupid joke!)... 
everything seems to end up in tears... childhood,
adolesence, love, life... and in between, short snaps
of happiness...
waiting... for the outburst... the outburst of rain...
i don't know why but rain's always been magical to
me... when i was little i was wondering... how this
sky that cherishes the sun, that is blue and happy can
produce rain? as a child, my daddy o' used to come on
his bicycle to pick me up from school... and our
little stray dog charlie would run after us all the
way, covering these 2 kilometres from school to home,
running padding waving his tail in joy... in the
rain... my daddy would then take the bicycle into the
small store house in the yard and i'd run and hide...
i'd lean against the wall and let the rain fall on me,
wishing i'd get ill... poor charlie! he'd stay there
with me getting all soaked himself... I don't remember
who wrote that in one of the recent posts, it was so
true though... mm something like "being ill when
you're a child it's great, being ill as an adult it
sucks"... i couldn't agree more...

My dearest PF wrote: 
" at theturn of the previous century, W.B. Yeats went
to see A Doll's House:
'"Art is art because it is not nature","
which i misread as "art is art because is not
mature"... which made me think what a genius thing to
say whilst watching an Henrik Ibsen theatre play...
then i read again... and I have to say, the PF, and i
think you might second me on that, that I prefer my
version of mr Yeats' quote... or like the
situationists say "detour children, detour"...

And other people wrote stuff about love... and
crushes... i have to say that i'm losing faith in
love... not that i've ever had any... nobody dies of
love in our days... isn't that true? and i've always
been dreaming of a love equivalent to the ones i was
reading in my books... a love like Tristane and
Isolde's... "hopelessly romantic" like the Adorable
sing.... waiting, believing that the ONE exists... I
still do... awful, i know...

but anyway, i thought i should talk about love through
poetry... it's always more eloquent than my words...
There was this woman poet who I think that she became
a poet cause of her repressed passion for a cursed
poet... she wrote and wrote and bared her soul... what
i think it's one of the most sincere things that she'd
written is:

"... my soul and love 
were born on the same day.
Even though i can feel that inside me,
i don't believe there 
is a day when my ability to really love
shall be proven to me..."

and then this poem... so so appropriate...
"who could tell..." (1927)
You've known me to lean over your love
like a butterfly over the scarlet flower
and to spread as much as my heart could
exhilarating the song of love.

you've known my heart's wild outburst
in the spring's sweet-scented field,
my embrace would turn into a longing's wave
your youth to snuggle and the roses...

Yes, this snuggling of youth and roses... the days of
wine and roses... the days of cholera... the day of
devastation... the days of waR... coz love is war... 
here's a link so you can see Maria Polidouri's
photo... that's especially for my Laura coz like I've
just told her she's one of the few people who'd
appreciate this and dream... but then that's
especially for my dearest Nicholas, who would really
appreciate this too and for Paul, who knows me better
than anyone else and he always knows what i'm talking
about when i don't make sense to myself even... 
http://www.geocities.com/atheosdei/Poetry.html

But enough with romanticism... which like any other
term in philosophy that ends in -ism is a negative
term... here's what one of my fave poets, monsieur
Jaques Prever, wrote about love in his poem 

"the tinniest of the songs"
The bird that sings in my head
And relentlessly tells me that i love you
And relentlessly tells me that you love me
The bird with the unbearable refrain
I shall this bird kill tomorrow morning...

Lovely isn't it? i love it anyway.... and yes, I want
to kill this bird... StayC Dahling was wondering about
the lover and the beloved... I guess I wouldn't like
to be any of them... to be the lover without having
your love fed is unbearable... i'd kill the bird...
i'd kill the beloved than suffering like this... to be
the beloved but not the lover at the same time, well,
that's suffocating... there would be times when i'd
hate the lover... because his love would smother me,
would crash me, would suffocate my youth and roses in
this constricting embrace...
that is all for now... take care...
hugs
  vel xxx



PS: forgive my bad translations of the poems from
greek to english...
PpS: I loved Kyla's post! keep posting my Kyla with
the beautiful gaelic name...



"WaR is the last possible cReative act"Mick Travis
"IF"



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