ART & Thoughts

Blow, 2000 (film still) by Cao Guimarães and Rivane Neuenschwander Blow, 2000 (film still) by Cao Guimarães and Rivane Neuenschwander

At various times, I have asked myself what reasons
moved me to study, while my night came down,
without particular hope of satisfaction,
the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons.

Used up by the years, my memory
loses its grip on words that I have vainly
repeated and repeated. My life in the same way
weaves and unweaves its weary history.

Then I tell myself: It must be taht the soul
has some secret, sufficient way of knowing
that it is immortal, that its vast, encompassing
circle can take in all, can accomplish all.

beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,
the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting.

Book: “A personal Anthology ”
Jorge Luis Borges

(translated by Alastair Reid)

“[for]Borges reality is illusion and illusion is reality… His most characteristic mode is a kind of tale…

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Morning Coffee

November 26, 2014

In the morning, bright and early
the smell of coffee wafts through blue doors.
Sweet smell of the brown earth moistened
by the morning dew that welcomes the worker,
Such is coffee at the start of the day.
Within the doors, behind the line
Stand the impatient men and women,
tapping on phones, lost in their lives, coffee
sustains them. In their request for
Lattes, Au Laits and Long Blacks, coffee
coaxes out their knowledge of arcane
and entices them to stay. Coffee
wants them to dream and talk; however,
they always rush away. Coffee
is magnanamous that way, its lets you go or stay.
It makes no call on you, its for you to be seduced
by its magical meld of earth, life and water
or dark draught of the night. With its liquid magic
It flows through our mouths and hearts and eyes,
Stimulating our thoughts, our words
and, metaphorically as we say, our daily lives.


ART & Thoughts

Claude Levêque - photo Fabrice Seixas © DR Claude Levêque – photo Fabrice Seixas © DR

“Something changes the moment you decide you’ve found a person you are ready to reveal parts of your soul to. Something stands out and makes the moment unique. A profound multidimensional clarity resembling a piece of carefully gathered stardust; As if you are whispering “finally” and your eyes fill with light and spontaneity. As if you do not care whether your heart will melt or crumble in the process because your brief courage undoes your tremendous fear of disbelief. You live for these moments; For you are, maybe for one second or more, sweetly forced to surrender yourself to unconditional intimacy. A moment of psychological reward smashing all self-imposed disciplines founded on terror. This is all you need.”

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

Author Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) reads excerpts from her memoirs “The Diary of Anaïs…

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Winter’s Arrival

November 24, 2014

Winter arrived with her stealthy feet,
One moment it was fall,
With its songs of love and death
Laced and eased with wine
Berries, harvest grain and meat,
All under neon red flickering of trees;
Winter arrived like the dawn
Awakening revelers
With the harsh shock of cold.
The memory of carousing fade,
Revelers disintegrate,
Chased away by ice and wind
Gaoled by dark nights
As winter, with her disapproving gaze,
Begins to cleanse the streets
With her puritanical brush of white.


Farewell to an Old Friend

November 23, 2014

They say you have no memory,
for you there was no past or future
only the brilliant present,
which you lived amidst the verdant green
Chomping impassively through vegetation
That was fed to you.
Time was infinite,
you had no capacity to assess it they said,
for you, life was of potted plants,
dark volcanic mud and the cawing of the crows,
that you observed warily with
the dark eyes of night
not knowing you carried on your back
Both the marker of time
and stars of that night.
Infinite present
that was the gift of the Gods to you,
and yet I wonder,
if when the last breath came
when your lungs struggled to draw
that last gasp of air,
if you thought
Of that late summer day ,
when startled, you sat in a drawing room,
fluroscent lights beating,
feel of hard concrete under your feet,
And another two eyes peering
into your shell
coaxing you out
to be friends and to eat.


Of Joy

November 16, 2014

Why we read and write poetry

November 15, 2014


November 14, 2014

Distant city lights, glistening stars
Gridlocked lanes, the river stilled
Canopy of roofs, trees in the forest
Dark towers rising, gathering of clouds.

Rumble of thunder, plane descending
Sudden flight of birds, cabs on wing
Haze wrapped moon, dew on door lamp
Drizzle on leaves, feet running to me.

Darkened bedroom, the endless night
Tight embrace, grip of winter chill
Lips brushing, caress of the wind
Your heart in mine, long smoldering brazier.

I think therefore I am


November 8, 2014

Living in this world I still dream
About the elephant who climbed a tree
And the bear
Who was scared,
And the Owl who could not see.
In this world of beasts and beings
Of horrible things, that in truth are nothing,
I still think of them, when I lie bed,
with a cold in head,
And wish that they were all to living.
But instead I know those hours are lost
And now, when shade covers the jaw,
Dark moss, I just recall that time to me,
Of that story of an elephant in the tree,
who, one summer afternoon, was all I wanted to be.