MENU

" WAIT (1) " WAIT " (20) " ΕΚΑΤΟΜΒΑΙΩΝ " (5) " ΤΟ ΑΛΛΟ ΣΩΜΑ " (3) "CROSS MATCHING" (22) "ΜΟΝΟ ΓΙ' ΑΠΟΨΕ" (3) 116 (26) 116 thoughts (2) 2012 (1) 2016 (2) 365 (6) 64 (38) a lover's discourse (1) abici bicycle (1) aesop (2) aggie (2) american poetry (3) architecture (1) art (6) articles (2) attend (1) Aurelio Arturo (1) award (1) beauty (1) betsy hotel (1) British poetry (3) Carol P. (1) Charles Baudelaire (1) cosa nostra (2) deco (1) design (2) Design sponge (1) DIMITRIS STEFANAKIS (1) e-book (1) ELCMag (1) ELLE magazine (1) English Literature (1) essay (1) etsy (1) events (1) exhibitions (1) f1.8 (1) Fawzy Zablah (1) fear (1) festival (1) Fleur Adcock (1) fleurs du mal (1) form (1) Fricdementol (1) Gaia (1) George Szirtes (3) Giannis Pantazopoulos (1) giveaway (1) graphic design (3) great american writers (1) great gift (2) Harper's Bazaar (1) HEROCIOUS (2) Humphrey Bogart’s letter to Lauren Bacall (1) Ilan Manouach (1) illustration (2) in two lines (3) interiors (1) internal monologue (1) Jacqleen Bleu (1) join (1) Joseph Campana (1) journal (1) JUAN GÓMEZ JURADO (2) Kim Addonizio (1) Kosmos (1) learning to fly (19) lifo (1) lines (95) listen (23) live (3) Love reading? (19) Love writing? (4) lover (1) lyrics (1) MALVINA KARALI (1) Maria_Adouaneta (1) Mikkel Birkegaard (1) mixed media (1) moleskine (1) music (6) music village (1) news (7) note to self (1) notes (1) on beauty (1) out (2) pc games (1) Pink Martini (1) plays (1) poetry (11) Poets (3) polish (1) prints (2) project (1) prose (1) QATAR 2022 (1) quotes (2) read (11) reblog (4) Riego van Wersch (1) Roland Barthes (1) sabrer (1) scent of a woman (1) seminars (1) series (2) setty lepida shots (1) shoot (66) shop (1) short story (34) shows (1) sited (2) sketchbook (2) spaces. aesthetics (1) Steve Friedman (1) stories (3) story parts (3) street photography (2) studies on analogies (1) symposium (1) Tanizaki (1) the creative creat(ur)es (1) the fabulist (2) the meet market (1) THE OPEN END (5) the shelf (1) theatre (1) this is how you lose her (1) thoughts (18) Truman Capote (1) tumblr (1) tumblr logs (1) wait (1) watch (3) widgets (1) WISHES (1) world (3) write (3) WRITERS (11) yatzer (4) Αντώνης Σουρούνης (1) αποσπάσματα (1) γιατί όχι; (2) γιατί όχι; Αna Raimundo (1) διήγημα (6) εκδηλώσεις (1) κυκλωπία (1) Κωστής Μαραβέγιας+ΜARAVEYAS ILEGAL (1) μουσικό χωριό (1) πολύ μικρές ιστορίες (23) συλλογή (1) ΤΙ ΔΙΑΒΑΖΩ ΤΩΡΑ (9) ΤΙ ΕΙΔΑ ΧΤΕΣ (1) το άλλο σώμα (2)

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

I was naive 

Don’t ask me to stop. 
What kind of story is that… 
Aesop’s thirsty crow 
flying off without a drink… 
No…I will keep dropping stones 
into your distant heart 
until my lips can reach yours… 
until I can drink my fill 







have you been too? Kid, I can tell you one thing" work till they've vanished from sight _


Sunday, January 15, 2017

The Betsy Hotel




By Gemma Sieff
The porch of the Betsy Hotel, a slender silhouette on the main drag of Miami's South Beach, is flanked by wicker chairs well positioned for watching the slow rollerbladers, slower Rolls-Royces, and Jessica Rabbits flaunt their curves on Ocean Drive. The hotel's Writer's Room, which has been hosting distinguished poets, playwrights, novelists, musicians, and visual artists since 2012, is snug and uncluttered (a suite might abet procrastination). The first room on the ground floor, it is more bungalow than aerie, conjuring Hemingway in Kansas City—as a cub reporter he sometimes slept in a towel-cushioned bathtub at the Muehlebach Hotel—getting closer to Key West. Writers and nice hotels have long been simpatico—Oscar Wilde was arrested at the Cadogan in London, Truman Capote claimed to have been born at the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans (technically untrue, though it accommodated him in utero), and Tennessee Williams loved New York's Hotel Elysée so much he checked out in a casket. The Betsy sits squarely in this tradition but is enhanced by personal history: the poet Hyam Plutzik (1911–1962), author of Apples from Shinar and Horatio (a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 1961), was the hotelier's father.

The Betsy designates the space a respite for writers in Miami, and means it both ways: a writer who's just visiting (such as the novelist Richard Ford) as well as the writer who resides nearby (the poet and musician Oscar Fuentes). The room's bookshelves hold an eclectic and ambitious mix of titles: poetry by Robert Lowell, Richard Wilbur, C. K. Williams, Hayden Carruth, and Galway Kinnell; Dag Hammarskjöld’s Markings, translated by W. H. Auden and acquired in a book swap; Rattapalax, a journal of international writing; Harold Robbins's vintage page-turner The Betsy. The artist and writer Donald Daedalus, who stayed for a week this past February, is bookish in new-media ways. He was comparing analog and digital archival processes ("analog is tables of contents, card catalogues, and a locked library door; digital is cloud storage and corrupt data; moisture is a problem for both") for one project and e-publishing a 700-page collection of essays about walkways for another. "I'm interested in non-linear texts,” he told me, “book forms other than the codex.” 

--

Gemma Sieff is a writer and editor based in New York. 

Photos by Sarah K. Moody

Exhumation at Sant’Orsola


By James Romm
On July 13, in Porto Ercole, on Italy’s western coast, an immense crowd watched a solemn ceremony. Four bones, said to have come from the long-lost corpse of Caravaggio, were interred in a bizarre funerary monument, an immense casket topped by a bowl of fruit resembling the one in his famous portrait of Bacchus. Silvano Vinceti, a former television host turned historical researcher, had found the bones in 2010. His fifteen-year forensic quest has seen the exhumations of Dante, Petrarch, Pico della Mirandola, and Poliziano. Vinceti’s career is not without controversy: he’s a showman, Indiana Jones with a dash of Dan Brown.

Vinceti left broadcasting for bone-hunting in 2000, after he was approached by an antiquarian seeking the remains of the fifteenth-century poet Boiardo. His 2007 discovery of high arsenic levels in the bones of Angelo Poliziano and Giovanni Pico, two Florentine philosophers who perished suddenly and mysteriously within a few weeks of one another in 1494 (the same year Boiardo died), appears to confirm the long-held suspicion that both men were murdered—Vinceti has theories as to why and by whom. Perhaps the most significant aspect of the investigation was that it happened at all; academic historians have neither the means nor, in most cases, the time to reopen such centuries-old cold cases. Like Heinrich Schliemann, the bull-headed German banker who found the sites of Troy and Mycenae in the late nineteenth century, Vinceti is an amateur drawn to relics like a dowser to water.

The skeleton of Lisa Gherardini, whom he believed to be the model for Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, was disinterred in 2013 at the former convent of Saint Ursula (Sant’Orsola) despite the early objections of Gherardini’s living descendants, who later came to favor the exhumation, and ongoing opposition from some skeptical Florentines. Previously, Vinceti had proposed that the model for the Mona Lisa was a man, Leonardo’s apprentice Gian Caprotti, on the basis of her “androgynous” features and a number—72—he discerned under the bridge in the far background of the painting. A positive identification of Gherardini’s bones might have made possible a facial reconstruction, forever linking that famous smile with the moldering skull and broken teeth once beneath it. No such luck—in late October, Vinceti announced that the recovered skeleton had not yielded enough valid DNA to identify the model. She remains a mystery; he’s off after the remains of another missing Renaissance artist, Antonello of Messina.

--

James Romm is the James H. Ottaway Jr. Professor of Classics at Bard College and author of several books, including Dying Every Day: Seneca at the Court of Nero (Knopf).

Monday, January 9, 2017

fleurs du mal - le balcon




Le Balcon
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses,
Ô toi, tous mes plaisirs! ô toi, tous mes devoirs!
Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses,
La douceur du foyer et le charme des soirs,
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses!
Les soirs illuminés par l'ardeur du charbon,
Et les soirs au balcon, voilés de vapeurs roses.
Que ton sein m'était doux! que ton coeur m'était bon!
Nous avons dit souvent d'impérissables choses
Les soirs illuminés par l'ardeur du charbon.
Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!
Que l'espace est profond! que le coeur est puissant!
En me penchant vers toi, reine des adorées,
Je croyais respirer le parfum de ton sang.
Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!
La nuit s'épaississait ainsi qu'une cloison,
Et mes yeux dans le noir devinaient tes prunelles,
Et je buvais ton souffle, ô douceur! ô poison!
Et tes pieds s'endormaient dans mes mains fraternelles.
La nuit s'épaississait ainsi qu'une cloison.
Je sais l'art d'évoquer les minutes heureuses,
Et revis mon passé blotti dans tes genoux.
Car à quoi bon chercher tes beautés langoureuses
Ailleurs qu'en ton cher corps et qu'en ton coeur si doux?
Je sais l'art d'évoquer les minutes heureuses!
Ces serments, ces parfums, ces baisers infinis,
Renaîtront-ils d'un gouffre interdit à nos sondes,
Comme montent au ciel les soleils rajeunis
Après s'être lavés au fond des mers profondes?
— Ô serments! ô parfums! ô baisers infinis!
— Charles Baudelaire

Two editions of Fleurs du mal were published in Baudelaire’s lifetime — one in 1857 and an expanded edition in 1861. “Scraps” and censored poems were collected in Les Épaves in 1866. After Baudelaire died the following year, a “definitive” edition appeared in 1868.



Slim darling...

one can learn to understand people when one finds themselves in their shoes_ S.L.



Slim darling, you came along and into my arms and into my heart and all the real true love I have is yours – and now I’m afraid you won’t understand and that you’ll become impatient and that I’ll lose you – but even if that happened, I wouldn’t stop loving you for you are my last love and all the rest of my life I shall love you and watch you and be ready to help you should you ever need help.
All the nice things I do each day would be so much sweeter and so much gayer if you were with me. I find myself saying a hundred times a day, ‘If Slim could only see that’ or ‘I wish Slim could hear this.’ I want to make a new life with you – I want all the friends I’ve lost to meet you and know you and love you as I do – and live again with you, for the past years have been terribly tough, damn near drove me crazy. You’ll soon be here, Baby, and when you come you’ll bring everything that’s important to me in this world with you.
— Humphrey Bogart’s letter to Lauren Bacall


Sunday, January 8, 2017

to Sparrow

Dear ... Sparrow ... why do you keep coming back here? what are you seeking?
ask yourself that _







I can smell your sorrow. 
Even at a distance… it brings 
the taste of salt… 
as if there’s no difference 
between the thought of you crying 
and kissing tears from your lips.









This is my heart. 

On nights you choose to open it_
beside you in our bed, remember, 
in your bones, 
my mouth against your neck, 
the tether of your hands around my wrists, 
the way we rise and fall 

I’ve gathered every moan 
my skin has ever found in yours 
and keep it in this box. 
All my ecstasies are yours, enclosed. 
This is my heart, 
come closer, rise and fall, 
come inside_ 

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

(T)






he says there is a small light in my eyes 
where he can trace my happy childhood
the stories from the books of Gutenberg
the little chiming sound to flip the page
my pride of reading before I even could
how hands folding a letter to my penpal
living next door produced the lines I text
how legs that never liked the hopscotch
now twist around him like a tourniquet
the lights I followed driving into nights
how blades of grass keep growing tall
as I leave years behind, how silky ribs
have turned from past blood slicks
my habit of tenderness so hard to break
the many lives he lives inside me now
he takes me, he says there is a spark
flickering strange and small, a tiny orb 
madly trying to speak whatever it feels
his teeth and tongue and lips define me
for every word and lip and pivot pins
the curves I am onto his board, a board
that lasts as long childhood does_ 



`gently into the night





after some time now, I sat there and couldn't speak, words stuck at the back of my throat, words all summed up in a non-uttered sound, You; 

you are a shape forming in my mouth, my many lives clawing each other to find some space that's nearer to your scent... and a question, my darling,who was I before you looked at me like that? 







Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Roof structure at the Royal Greenhouses of Laeken, near Brussels, 1875. Image reproduced in Peter Sloterdijk’s Spheres III: Foam, plural spherology, 2004.


nie, nie musz rozmawiać ze mną o moich ustach teraz
wiem, jak moje usta odczuwalne na ciebie
mały Wróbel, urazy nie może zastąpić tego, co widzieliśmy
ani który mamy zamiar stać
znów będziemy śmiać się i walczyć, aby nasze ubrania w dół
z dala od siebie nawzajem ręce
mamy ciepło ... mamy ciepło i znaleźć
w każdym z nas, drapieżnego ptaka.

_

no, you do not have to talk to me about my mouth now 
I know how my mouth felt on you 
little Sparrow, injuries can not replace what we saw 
or what we are going to become 
again we laugh and fight to keep our clothes down
away from each other's hands 
we have a warmth ... we found the heat 
and in each of us, a bird of prey.


Monday, December 26, 2016

russian red



"He whispered, ‘Sweet honey, sweet honey, in the morning I will smell your skin where you are raw from the night.’"
Alfredo Encanasa, The New World 




I see you wipe the corners 
of my red mouth with your 
forefinger and thumb, or perhaps 
a pressed linen napkin, or a tissue 
from a box made of tall northern
trees that bend only slightly 
in the hot canyon wind; their hardness 
and love of sun keeping them tall. 
I hear you speak softly 
from the valley at the center of our bed
telling me that now it’s your turn 






δεν θυμάμαι αν είδα τ' αστέρια εκείνο το βράδυ ... θυμάμαι όμως πόσο μαύρο ήταν το νερό γύρω μας, πόσο απότομα και πόσο θαραλλέα κατάπινε τα φώτα της πόλης 

μια μέρα ό,τι έκανες, μια μέρα αυτό το πλάσμα θα σηκωθεί από τη θάλασσα, θα πλύνει τα πόδια του στη βρύση, θα κάτσει στον πισινό του και θα βλεφαρίσει απορρημένο με τον κόσμο, θα κάνει κάτι βήματα θολά, θα προσπαθήσει να φάει στέρεη τροφή

λίγο αργότερα θα θέλει να τρυπώσει σ' ένα αμάξι, να κάτσει χαμηλά και να οδηγήσει όπου βρει ερημιά, θα πιει και θα μεθύσει και θα χορεύει με τα εσώρουχα με έναν πόνο που δεν βρίσκεις από πού έρχεται, μια δίψα μόνιμη σαν τη δικιά σου 

γι' αυτό στο διάολο και τα χέρια σου μέσα στο φόρεμά μου, στο διάλο και η γλώσσα σου μες το λαιμό μου σαν σωλήνας οξυγόνου 

φαντάσου να γελάς σα να το κέρδισες 





Thursday, December 22, 2016





I’m always falling asleep.
It’s a hand pillow headcase 
kind of ailment
It’s like I’m growing up 
in reverse and slow motion
at the same time.
Maybe someday I’ll learn how to walk?







bardzo dziękuję



You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself.
_John SteinbeckEast of Eden



Na Wojtusia z popielnika - Lullaby 

Na Wojtusia z popielnika 
Iskiereczka mruga 
- Chodź opowiem ci bajeczkę, 
Bajka będzie długa. 

Była sobie raz królewna, 
Pokochała grajka, 
Król wyprawił im wesele...
I skończona bajka. 

Była sobie Baba Jaga, 
Miała chatkę z masła, 
A w tej chatce same dziwy...
Cyt! iskierka zgasła. 

Patrzy Wojtuś, patrzy, duma, 
Zaszły łzą oczęta. 
Czemuś mnie tak okłamała? 
Wojtuś zapamięta.

Już ci nigdy nie uwierzę Iskiereczko mała. 
Najpierw błyśniesz, potem gaśniesz, 
Ot i bajka cała.




____





From the Ashtray of Wojtuś - Lullaby 

From the ashtray of Wojtuś
A Spark is blinking
- Come, I'll tell you a fairytale,
The fairytale will be long.

Once there was a princess,
She fell in love with a busker,
The king has organized a wedding for them...
And the tale is over.

Once there was a besom,
She had a hut made of butter,
And in the hut everything was so strange...
Pop! - the Spark has blown out.

Wojtuś is looking and wondering,
Tears have come to his eyes.
Why have you lied to me like this?
Wojtuś will remember.

Never shall I believe you again, little Spark,
First you blink, then you blow out
And that's the whole fairytale.

Mak

And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best parts of one another without spending much time together. It is not that I fear the knowing. It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me–beautiful and pure and very intensely alive.

_Georgia O’Keeffe, from a letter to Edna St. Vincent Millay, 
Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay (Random House, 2001)





That place, right there, 
that… forever place, where 
the day we just lived splits… 
when today becomes tomorrow 
and yesterday at the same time… 

I want to touch you there, 
I want to kiss you there until, 
just like the done day, 
you split down the middle 
between paradise and pain.


___________



Love me on the hood of a truck no one’s driven in years, sunk to its fenders in weeds and sunflowers; and in the lilies, love me with my mouth on your white throat, while turtles drag their bellies through slick mud_

Monday, December 19, 2016

Sabrer


Rita Scaglia Photography - Hermès Journal A/W 2007 - No51


Sabre. The word evokes all the panache of a cavalry charge, the dash of a sword beheading a champagne bottle. The sabreuse, though, is a woman, and her gestures are gentle. Her weapon, a fine knife that she hones as she pleases on a whetstone or barber's strop, does not kill but brings to life. Imagine a lawnmower that raised a blanket of moss when it rolled over the grass, a ploughshare that plumped up a field of soft wheat, or a coiffeur's razor that conjured forth a cushiony crew-cut on a bald pate. For what the sabre makes is velvet. Hand-cut. 

Laid out on a table, impeccably taut, level with her eyes is a square of duchesse satin; silk at its softest and most refined. The sabreuse makes resolute, regular, meticulous movements with her blade. Resting against the pad of her thumb, its tip slides through the fibres on the surface, lifts, cuts and separates them, makes them bloom and stand. Thus the satin's float stitch acquires the nap of velvet. Guided by the caress and murmur of plain surface. In this three-dimensional painting there can be no pentimenti: were she to go back, the already-cut threads would sit up again. The sabreuse adds a final flourish to her handiwork on a table heated to 75°C by stroking it one last time with a boar-hair brush, against the pile. In her looking-glass world, cutting carves a permanent thickness, and to wound is to beautify. 

like what?


Saturday, December 17, 2016

Pluto's heart

You can’t lie to your soul.
_ Irvine Welsh 






 



he said:

I want three buttons 
three buttons of my choosing 
anytime I say _ 



This high-resolution image captured by NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft shows the bright expanse of the western lobe of Pluto’s “heart,” or Sputnik Planitia, which is rich in nitrogen, carbon monoxide, and methane ices.
Credit: NASA/JHUAPL/SwRI 

Friday, December 16, 2016

well done is better than well said


Take me to your trees. 

Take me to your breakfasts, 
your sunsets, 
your bad dreams, 
your shoes, 
your nouns. 
Take me to your fingers. 



— Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones




___






____


He is wilderness
and carries weeks of scents
he makes his own
I’ve come to understand how forests once were granted personalities by those who lived beside them
one day welcoming, one day stalking in the darkness of the deep like the sea
but even then, even when the rules are laid down clearly
there is a certain arousal in not wanting to be touched while being touched

there is this thrill in slipping in in pushing his fingers inside of me as I push and kick in the sheets
swallowing his wilderness that’s calling me


____



Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Funny how some names ought not to exist anymore, become completely forgotten.. left on the sandbox like toys after dark_

Funny how they never cease to hurt the ear, like the plot climax page torn from your favorite book, rattling in the afternoon wind _ 



Monday, December 12, 2016

shame



I remember telling her you won't believe what the appropriate kind of dick can do to a woman_  she was so inculpable at the time, she couldn't even unpin the back of her bra in front of me, turn your face the other way she'd say and I laughed_ she was the kind of skittish that gets you understand how perverse she can turn, how capable she is of the greatest inhumanity, the cruelest sort of affection, the one that's not yet ripe_  

I can't feel my face at all 
My teeth, my gums are going numb

Long dark ponytails descended on my back,  what do you want me to do, start running around naked across the room for you to chase, Nah I won't run  _ but I will push you further down and when I bend over your naked legs you'll find out more about yourself than you are bargaining for_ care me to take you for a spin? 

Who are you now? you like to look at yourself in the mirror? what mirrors cannot do is capture the soul... unlike cameras...  mirrors are simply objects, behind the lens there are eyes, the thing is just a medium, are you dirty enough ? if you are you'll see a lot of soul... yes we can baptize it as pudency, let's justify the means; 

opprobrium


[uh-proh-bree-uh m] 


noun
1.
the disgrace or the reproach incurred by conduct considered outrageously shameful; infamy.
2.
a cause or object of such disgrace or reproach.
Origin of opprobrium
1650-1660
1650-60; Latin: reproach, equivalent to op- op- + probr (uminfamy,disgrace + -ium -ium

I stroke a match, held it suspended then tossed it on the floor. Don't worry, flames that small will go away. But you have come here for the arson, haven't you? 
They always tell him off for flicking his cigarette ashes out of the tray. The other day a bloke mentioned it, what a mess he'd made on the coffee table. Please be advised stranger, that is exactly how he cums, it's messy_
My little anarchist_ he doesn't know it yet as he has never made the connection, but I noticed, I see things_ And as were sitting in the middle of the square he looked down below the table next to my feet and said "dear god the pavement is filled with your ashes, all this time you have been tossing ashes down? they're going to tell us off" _ 
Oh, are they ? 
Well now you know a little bit more about me_ only the butt goes into the ashtray, sometimes not even that one_