my one year anniversary on the website

KT Tunstall -- White Bird
White bird in a golden cage
on a winter day, in the rain.
White bird in a golden cage
alone.
White bird must fly or she will die.
White bird must fly or she will die…
[The author of the song White Bird seems to know of Chekhov’s play The Seagull.]

APRIL 9--birthday of Billy Brandt.

APRIL 13--my one year anniversary on the website. Welcome to the aerie…

*the debris field for ever*
Time. Perhaps the only valuable thing, the only what one cannot return. Fourth dimension in which we’ve not learnt to be at ease--unless being like algae that drift slowly. Stream of Time. Time degrades the past. The past is tarnished by time--scaled golds, dust, curtains closed--but, the more painful remembrance of the vain and sinful days the more powerful my longing for unknown ways, for the Unrealizable. The past is seen like a golden age, like better than the present. But don’t touch the ashes of that memory. It seems to me that only touches of your little hand can cure the dissonance and pain--your hand and our mutual friend’s eye, a shining beacon of hope in the unforgivingly void face of space.

more births:
APRIL 15 -- Leonardo da Vinci
APRIL 20 -- Adolf Hitler
APRIL 22 -- Lenin
APRIL 23 -- Vladimir Nabokov
APRIL 23 -- William Shakespeare
[these two last dates are controversial]

My springtime miniatures for your enjoyment:

*seasons*
So the sky’s broken--its melting splinters are in branches of trees;
people crumble into the snow. And the silence like a way home over a chasm.

Now the sun has melted; it’s honey on your lips;
the birds sing and drink the air. And you kiss the sky--it’s springtime!

Sunlight--to emerald; then--rubies on blue, diamonds on black.
And golden straws within your hair--summer is with you!
(2006)

*springtime deflection*
The crazy blue bottomless sky contemplating the fussy life.
Love has written a song for you, who don’t know love.
A running lion upsets my inkpot. The lion chases the north wind; its cloud-like mane
disperses the song to droplets of silence, but the song is in my every breath,
in your happy eyes, in the heady dew that I drink from your skin.
Listen! Feel! Let your lips recall mine.
The song’s in the lips’ avidity--the crystal sky echoes to it.
The lion is winged, but the wind is faster.
My wicked jealousy makes black bed.
Insomnia.
[Notice: Author is not an insomniac.]

*symbolism*
I am a poet--I want to enter the torques eye of the white lily. Its heart begins singing; its heart’s winged, but the flower has the stem. I cut it, and the white swan opens its torques eyes. Eyes of the lily the swan opens. Its heart begins singing; its heart is winged. The swan aspires up to the ether, to the clouds, white lilies of the sky, swans of the heaven. Torques is the eye of the sky. The sky begins singing; the sky is winged. The sky wants to enter me--I am a poet.
[Notice: A white lily was Wilde’s favorite flower].

*in the manner of Oscar Wilde*
You are Prince of Lilacs, a friend of flying foliage. You've known the nuance of springtime in autumn and autumn in springtime.

*deviation*
The kind god of amnesia is not kind to me. Inquisitor Memory torments--slightly--so that I wouldn’t get blind or become deaf--teasing with your smell, voice, face. Pantheon of Forgotten Passions is deaf to me. It sends nemesis to one who denies it. The nameless deities take vengeance for fidelity in love. Only the demi-god of demi-slumber is merciful. For the white moments, for the sips of the insulated oblivion I act at the scarlet mysteries of impassioned strangers. I drink it with the help of the invoked Daemon of Mercy. Crucified in vacuum, tormented by the unforgettable in sonnets, I am without you, o Oxyrhynchus of my heart. The dammed god of amnesia--he never helped to forget.

*links of the past*
The past days--heavenly necklaces, constellations at noon of youth, they are invisible, yet they are. The days turn into pre-dawns, pre-gloamings. Their shadows are interwoven in memory, in dreams, in the semi-darkness of deviation. I meet them only at nightfall, but no hurry: they shine for me, tempting with a day to come. Ignis fatuus--the links of the past days are hidden. They are within me.

*the unrealizable*
Entering a port I recognize the distant shores in the skyline where the bowsprits of waiting ships point to. The boom, cries, chanty, demonic wail of a hooter, all this is full of passion and promise. And further, beyond the harbour, in the country of counties, in the deserts and forests of your heart, in the skies of your thoughts the Unrealizable shines, the mysterious and wondrous deer of the eternal chase.

*The Sweet Peas*
(a tale in the manner of Oscar Wilde)
Unsophisticated and tender like a baby’s thoughts, the Sweet Pears came into blossom on the beds around the pillars and stands of the verandah. And as it happened, he fell in love with the dumb Marble, beautiful and ancient. The twiner was as though enchanted, out off his head. But in vain blooming at dawn he embraced the impassive waist: the Marble was made not for happiness; the beautiful cold idol could not feel love. Now autumn came, it grew colder, and the Sweet Peas began wilting. And the moss-clad Marble looked at itself in the mirror of the puddle, speaking with an air of importance: “The moss becomes me. But why I’m intertwined with the ill weeds?” Hearing that Zephyrus, the west wind decided to change the Marble’s look. With the help of the army of grains of sand from the pathway he joyfully, half in jest attacked the specimen of antiquity--and the Sweet Peas fell like a crimson snow of a dream.

more pictures:

Selene ("moon") was an archaic lunar deity and the daughter of the titans Hyperion and Theia. In Roman mythology the moon goddess is called Luna, Latin for "moon". The Roman moon goddess, Luna, had a temple on the Aventine Hill. It was built in the sixth century BC, but was destroyed in the Great Fire of Rome during Nero's reign. There was also a temple dedicated to Luna Noctiluca ("Luna that shines by night") on the Palatine Hill. There were festivals in honor of Luna on March 31, August 24 and August 29.

*on a clear night*
The violet nicotianas slowly wove the moon-dilute cloth of sounds. Over the flowers the veil-like baby Aeolus showed moonlit, throwing pebbles to water. “Cinq!” his coral lips whispered; he seemed neutral, neither a girl nor a boy. A boat trembled on the lake. Everyone listened to the poet, a masked phantasm-maker in the arch of the old pergola, in the shade of the wild grape vines. Everyone drowned in the moonlit drowse, carefree. And now, as a phantom of a dull misery, there was the alarm bell. And in the fire-reflections of the burning castle the poet paused like a miserable acrobat: the kingly life had proved to be a lout.

Spring of 2005--author at the blessed stage of writing her first novel--my images in a state of flux.

*Memory*
by A. Pushkin
(the word for word translation is mine)
At the hour, when the noisy day subsides for mortals,
and the night shade and slumber
fall upon the benumbed roofs of the city,
the hours of a depressing wake wear for me.
Pangs of conscience burn brighter in my heart
at inactivity of night;
dreams boil;
excess of painful thoughts crowds in depressed mind;
Memory unrolls its long scroll
before my eyes in silence.
And while reading my life,
disgusted, I tremble and curse, and complain
shedding poignant tears, but… I don’t obliterate the awful lines.
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quotations
"Manuscripts don't burn." (Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita)
“Reading is sexy”. (Unknown Author)
"Writers are sexy." (Unknown Author)
"Writers are not bunnies, white and fluffy. Writers are not kind. Are they wicked? No. A writer is a hybrid of a dinosaur and cobra." (Lara Biuts)
"In Russia all is a secret and nothing is mystery". (Pushkin)
"In Russia all is mystery and nothing is a secret". (Lara Biuts)
“Assiduity is also a talent. Some writers should be photographed from the rear instead of full face”. (Anthony Blanche)
“Life is not so beautiful as you want, and it is not so dreadful as it seems”. (Lara Biuts)
“There are three categories of egoists: egoists who live and let live; egoists who live but not let live; and egoists who don’t live and don’t let live”. (Anthony Blanche)
“Learn as though you are to live forever; live as though you are to die tomorrow”. (Bismarck)
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read more:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/07/27/anthony_blanche_fan_blog~2709191
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/08/20/vamp_up~2837823
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/11/05/the_italics_are_mine~3246835
jocosity:
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/04/27/sundries~2173391
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