Words are not just words
they are kisses
on the lips of silence
that speak of your essence
~Vesna~

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Giovanni Sollima


Giovanni Sollima - Sogno ad Occhi Aperti (Daydream) PART 1

“I cannot promise very much.
I give you the images I know.
Lie still with me and watch.
We laugh and we touch.
I promise you love. Time will not take that away.”
Anne Sexton

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Ode To the Smell of Wood



Vancouver, BC

Ode To the Smell of Wood by Pablo Neruda

translated by Jodey Bateman




Late, with the stars
open in the cold
I open the door.
The sea
galloped
in the night.


Like a hand
from the dark house
came the intense
aroma
of firewood in the pile.


The aroma was visible
as
if the tree
were alive.
As if it still breathed.


Visible
like a garment.


Visible
like a broken branch.


I walked
into
the house
surrounded
by that balsam-flavored
darkenss.
Outside
the points
in the sky sparkled
like magnetic stones
and the smell of the wood


touched
my heart
like some fingers,
like jasmine,
like certain memories.


It wasn't the sharp smell
of the pines,
no,
it wasn't
the break in the skin
of the eucalyptus,
neither was it
the green perfumes
of the grapevine stalk,
but
something more secret,
because that fragrance
only one
only one
time existed,
and there, of all I have seen in the world
in my own house at night, next to the winter sea,
was waiting for me
the smell
of the deepest rose,
the heart cut from the earth,
something that invaded me like a wave
breaking loose
from time
and it lost itself in me
when I opened the door
of the night.

I was visitng Vancouver, BC where I was repeating over and over again:" What a beautiul tree":)))
In complete awe for the nature I share this Neruda's poem and one of the many photographs of the trees that I brought back.
Hope that you'll like it.
Love,
Vesna

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

I'll be seeing you



I'll be away for a while,
but don't forget me:)
I'll be back.
Love,
Vesna

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Primavera



Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Pablo Neruda


Sunday, March 7, 2010

Momo Kapor




Momo Kapor, the artist who wrote many books, made many drawings and paintings and lived his life as a form of the art left us on March 3rd.
Although he was mainly popular for his writing Momo was very passionate painter. I read in one of his last interviews that he regrets not dedicating ALL of his time to painting.
I have added the video where you can see him, hear his voice, it is something he wrote about Dubravka Zubovic (the opera singer) and she is there with him too. Also I recommend you to read a piece of his writing "East-West", added below.
He will be missed, he possesed the incredible charm, forever and ever he will be the Inspiration.
I guess, to all of us, when somebody like Momo says goodbye it is like saying:
"Find what you love to do and do it a lot."
Yours,
Vesna
07/03/2010



EAST – WEST by Momo Kapor


In the East, clerks work from seven to three. In the West, from nine to five. The clerkly East wakes up at half past five. The clerkly West at seven. The drowsy East creeps through a foggy winter morning, cursing jobs, the state, life, fate... the East is half-shaved. This is because men shaved the previous evening so as to be able to sleep longer in the morning. The smoothly-shaved West rides in the metro in silence. The East tells political jokes in an overcrowded bus. The West reads newspapers in complete silence. Nobody talks.
The East falls in love with an unknown green-eyed working girl. Naturally, the East arrives to his working place at half past seven and angrily says to his boss: "What? We are not in the West, for God's sake!" The West begins working at nine. The East gradually comes to himself. He has had three coffees and has read in the newspaper what is happening in the West. At half past eight, the East discusses last evening's television news... The West is already immersed in work. He cannot discuss what was on 67 channels as nobody watches the same program.
At half past ten the East, with a two-hour handicap, goes to his deserved breakfast. He breakfasts head in tripe, goulashes, pljeskavica, burek, bean soup, lamb with sweet cabbage, stewed sauerkraut with meat and similar dishes, as if he's been digging all morning. Later, he chews a toothpick and has three beers with medals from a world exhibition. The West has a lunch break between twelve and one o'clock, He eats a sandwich with cold chicken (white meat) and drinks "7-Up". Then he returns to work. In the hall of the company building he drinks his first instant-coffee from a paper cup.
The East already has the advantage of three beers and two vinjaks (grape brandy). On the way he hears about a sale and drops by to see what's all about and returns to the office two hours later. The West agrees to hold a trade union meeting on Saturday because it is a non-working day. The agenda is to decide whether go on strike.
The East is given a frozen flank of beef by the trade union, which is placed into the freezer. The bloodstained suit is being dry cleaned. At three the East goes home, but first he drops by for one more beer. The West is still working.
The East has a lunch and then the family walks on tiptoe because the father is tired from work. The West continues to work. The East is still napping on the divan, having first covered his face with a newspaper because of flies. They wake him up at 19.30 to watch the news. The East has a thousand objections about the economic situation. After watching the news, the East sets heartily to a light dinner: cooked pork knee joint with horse radish and red wine provided by the father-in-law from the village.
At six o'clock the West returns home. He has no energy to read newspapers in the underground. The West has extracted everything from the West. The East is fresher in the evening than in the morning! He plays cards with his friends and opens a third bottle of red wine. An exhausted West takes off his shoes and has a whiskey to recover. He drops into an armchair and watches flickering television images without understanding the issue at all. He wonders if life has any sense. Where does this all lead to? He eats his dinner in apathy: a tasteless Atlantic fish and cooked vegetables. A glass of white wine.
At this moment the East has the advantage with five bottles of red wine. The West goes to bed early. Tomorrow is a working day. The West will live only on the weekend. From five p.m. Friday to Sunday morning. For the East, every day is a holiday. I wouldn't live in the West, he says to his wife, if they give me a million a day!
The West takes sleeping pills. The East carelessly borrows money from West. The West grants credits to live from the profits of the East. Both East and West sleep like babies and dream in colours.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Haiku by Gabriel Rosenstock

Gabriel Rosenstock is a poet and haikuist, author/translator of over 150 books, mostly in Irish (Gaelic). A member of Aosdána (the Irish academy of arts and letters), he taught haiku at the Schule für Dichtung (Poetry Academy) in Vienna and has given readings in Europe, North, South and Central America, Australia, India and Japan. A former Chairman of Poetry Ireland/Éigse Éireann, he is an Honorary Life Member of the Irish Translators’ and Interpreters’ Association and a Foundation Associate of The Haiku Foundation.



Salmon Poetry published his debut volume in English in 2009, Uttering Her Name and in the same year Cambridge Scholars Publishing (UK) brought out his twin-volume reflections on haiku, Haiku Enlightenment and Haiku, the Gentle Art of Disappearing.


SUSUMU TAKIGUCHI,

CHAIRMAN, THE WORLD HAIKU CLUB




sickle moon -
reaping
emptiness

"Rosenstock has done it again! Here we have another haiku volume of originality and newness. Why is it that if lesser hands try the same sort of haiku theirs would become shallow and literally empty while in the hands of this poet profundity and lightness show up in an exquisite balance?

Rosenstock is one of the few non-Japanese poets who have a feel for haiku almost instinctively but, more importantly, who have not lost it by the study or practice of writing haiku. "


 
I read some of Gabriel's poems and really loved it .
Gabriel was very generous to let me publish some of his work.

Enjoy and thank you for visiting,
Vesna

full moon
filling the eye
fully


fireworks implode
into nothingness
the moon brighter than ever


somewhere deep
within the universe
the crow’s voice is formed


was it a kingfisher?
a splash turns blue
into silver


even the butterfly
takes a rest
on the hammock

Butterfly on my hammock!


into a hole in the sand
something too quick
to be named