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Ceux de l’espoir

Attisés par le chant

Ils échappent à l'aimantation

Des sols et des couteaux

Émergeant des abris taciturnes

Ils apprivoisent l'horizon

Se libèrent des mots flétris

Quittent les ornières du soupçon

L'avenir cédant à l'espérance

Leur rêve engrènera le réel.

Andrée Chedid

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Patti Smith by Lynn Goldsmith

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Man Ray Hands Montage

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Room 29 Is where I'll face Myself alone

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—Pema Chödrön

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Patti Smith // “Im going to promote myself exactly as I am, with all my weak points and my strong ones. My weak points are that I’m self-conscious and often insecure, and my strong point is that I don’t feel any shame about it.”

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Sound is the invisible depth of the spectacle

Salome Voegelin Listening to Noise and Silence

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“back inside”

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TO— (“What Can I Do to Drive Away”)

What can I do to drive away

Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,

What can I do to kill it and be free

In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair

Enough to catch me in but half a snare,

Not keep me there:

When, howe’er poor or particolour’d things,

My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course

Whither I bent her force,

Unintellectual, yet divine to me; —

Divine, I say! — What sea-bird o’er the sea

Is a philosopher the while he goes

Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do

To get anew

Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more

Above, above

The reach of fluttering Love,

And make him cower lowly while I soar?

Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,

A heresy and schism,

Foisted into the canon law of love; —

No, — wine is only sweet to happy men;

More dismal cares

Seize on me unawares, —

Where shall I learn to get my peace again?

To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,

Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand

Where they were wreck’d and live a wrecked life;

That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour

Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,

Unown’d of any weedy-haired gods;

Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,

Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;

Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,

Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag’d meads

Make lean and lank the starv’d ox while he feeds;

There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,

And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone, — with the new dawning light

Steps forth my lady bright!

O, let me once more rest

My soul upon that dazzling breast!

Let once again these aching arms be plac’d,

The tender gaolers of thy waist!

And let me feel that warm breath here and there

To spread a rapture in my very hair, —

O, the sweetness of the pain!

Give me those lips again!

Enough! Enough! it is enough for me

To dream of thee!

John Keats

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I live on a cruise ship, I have no country. All I have is champagne and confetti. I stand on a deck of life Moving across the horizon of my future With a fishing pole and a radio.

Tom Waits

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Que serais-je sans toi

Que serais-je sans toi qui vins à ma rencontre Que serais-je sans toi qu’un coeur au bois dormant Que cette heure arrêtée au cadran de la montre Que serais-je sans toi que ce balbutiement. J’ai tout appris de toi pour ce qui me concerne Qu’il fait jour à midi, qu’un ciel peut être bleu Que le bonheur n’est pas un quinquet de taverne Tu m’as pris par la main dans cet enfer moderne Où l’homme ne sait plus ce que c’est qu’être deux Tu m’as pris par la main comme un amant heureux. Que serais-je sans toi qui vins à ma rencontre Que serais-je sans toi qu’un coeur au bois dormant Que cette heure arrêtée au cadran de la montre Que serais-je sans toi que ce balbutiement. Qui parle de bonheur a souvent les yeux tristes N’est-ce pas un sanglot que la déconvenue Une corde brisée aux doigts du guitariste Et pourtant je vous dis que le bonheur existe Ailleurs que dans le rêve, ailleurs que dans les nues. Terre, terre, voici ses rades inconnues. Que serais-je sans toi qui vins à ma rencontre Que serais-je sans toi qu’un coeur au bois dormant Que cette heure arrêtée au cadran de la montre Que serais-je sans toi que ce balbutiement. Louis Aragon

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If we return to the old home as to a nest, it is because memories are dreams, because the home of other days has become a great image of lost intimacy.

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (via heteroglossia)

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Piers Faccini - No one's here

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Pavane pour une infante défunte - Ravel