~*Revue_Blanche*~

Without Me

The day will come--I will disappear,
and in this empty room
all will be the same: the table, the bench,
and the icon, ancient and simple.

And in the same way will there fly in
the colorful butterfly in silk,
flutter, rustle and tremble
against the blue ceiling.

And in the same way will the sky's bottom
peer into the open window,
and the sea, with its even azure,
beckon into its desert-like expanse.

(Ivan Bunin)

Who Ever Loved That Loved Not at First Sight?

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should love, the other win;

And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows; let it suffice
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

(Christopher Marlowe)

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou
lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.

(Walt Whitman)

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
Were both of us beneath our love, were both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

(Leonard Cohen)

*a streamlet of consciousness*
“Ten o'clock postman, make me feel better!”...bring me a letter! No, not the msn, which rings reproachfully: “399 messages in your inbox!”, but a real postman, not virtual, bring me a letter. A real one and very touchable. From my beloved one. Or maybe a phone call is better? What do you think? Oh yes, to sink into the mellow pool of the beloved voice. Incomparable. That’s why I don’t compare. In addition, a letter gives pleasure to the eye. Email? Well, an e-message is good too, and it is visible too, but it cannot be touched. True, you can touch the e-lines on the screen, really the monitor is all-enduring, but it’s so good to hold in hands, slightly trembling, the piece of paper, which my Sun touched lately, and to peer at the angular flying lines, and to be assured in the end that the lines were written by a quill, which his wings dropped, or to conjecture about the little spots on the bottom of the piece of paper, which look like… here I can arrange a mini Rorschach test for myself… and so, what did cause the spots? What if it’s tears? Letters are so different. An e-mail cannot be pressed tightly to your breast, next to your heart, while you feel so confused with this gesture, and you cannot put an e-mail under the pillow for goodnight. An e-mail cannot be crumpled or torn in hundred pieces, in fury, and it cannot be thrown to the open window, outside, away away! while you repeat again and again the words, which hurt so much, and then you cannot rush after the thrown scraps, downstairs, at breakneck speed, outdoors, and you cannot go down on hands and knees looking for the scraps, while it’s drizzling and passers-by are watching with surprise as you, wearing new jeans, are rummaging over the mud of the damp lawn, seeking not to miss a precious scrap of what was the message, oh so long-awaited! All this is impossible with an e-mail. The saddest sorrow of the world is the sorrow of unread messages. And almost tragic are unwritten ones. Therefore--ten o'clock postman, bring me a letter! bring me your letter.

Sirius rises today. Happy birthday everyone, who was born under the sign of Leo!

http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2008/07/26/in-a-race-against-time-4499668

Here is the link to my book, La Lune Blanche (ID #770316):
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/la-lune-blanche/770316

One ancient Chinese sage was asked one day who or what he would like to be. The sage replied: “A dead cat.” “Why?” he was asked. And he replied: “Because a dead cat has no price.”
Now, my poem:

Healthy, relatively happy,
I am every dying dog
or cat
or other animal.
Every time you see a dead dog
or cat
on your way,
stop to spend some time in silence,
for you see me.
Stop if you ever breathed,
stop to honor us
for this that we lived
and died.

The sense of the poem is in the following:
A dead cat is more dear for me than You, as you are, big, hot, well-educated and zealous.

And any nestling on the palm of my hand is more dear for me than Your God.
A greenie here… What wonder?

Jan Vermeer (1632-1675) a Dutch Baroque painter who “specialized in exquisite, domestic interior scenes of middle class life”. The light, colours, interiors, details and air in his paintings thrill me.

(collage)