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India: Matri Bhumi dir. Roberto Rossellini

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Still my favorite poem:

The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Mainly because it is so fun to read out loud oo'

The Leaden Echo-

How to keep–is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep

Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, . . . from vanishing away?

Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankèd wrinkles deep,

Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still

messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?

No there’s none, there’s none, O no there’s none,

Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,

Do what you may do, what, do what you may,

And wisdom is early to despair:

Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done

To keep at bay

Age and age’s evils, hoar hair,

Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding

sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;

So be beginning, be beginning to despair.

O there’s none; no no no there’s none:

Be beginning to despair, to despair,

Despair, despair, despair, despair.

The Golden Echo-

Spare!

There is one, yes I have one (Hush there!);

Only not within seeing of the sun,

Not within the singeing of the strong sun,

Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air.

Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,

Óne. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,

Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,

Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet

Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,

The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,

Never fleets more, fastened with the tenderest truth

To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an ever-

lastingness of, O it is an all youth!

Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,

Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace–

Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,

And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver

Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death

Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver.

See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair

Is, hair of the head, numbered.

Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould

Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while

we slept,

This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold

What while we, while we slumbered.

O then, weary then whý should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered,

When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,

Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept

Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder

A care kept. Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.–

Yonder.–What high as that! We follow, now we follow.–

Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,

Yonder.

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*To Juliet Berto

Juju

No letters. Flowers. I think of Juju's smile, I write Flowers. I wake up and embrace your absence. I feel close to you, without anguish. I find other sensations of you: I am shattered. I am exalted in life, in art, in love.

My unconscious is volcanic, I overflow, I hurt you, but I do not accept my mystification. I see the ridiculous, and I destroy myself to rebuild in a delirious process of pleasure and suffering — revolutionary division — schizophrenia — shredding ecstasy. A typical neurosis of Western artists — the same of (and even more) the revolutionary poets who are misunderstood. This is our solitude. Ours? Because you are similar, and for that reason, my unconscious is invaded by you and produces love — but our "neurotic consciousness" attacks this wave of creativity, and we live the crises.

Now still we are not separated. Our friendship is deep, sincere, and I love you. I was absolutist with you. Idealism? Love produces the transcendental beyond the metaphorical of reality, poetry, beauty, eternal pleasure. Movement of love, amorous. Peace. Immortality. But it's a difficult ritual, and the hope of happiness has become an obsession: I am afraid of not always being loved, and tragic consciousness possesses me to the point of "suicide": jealousy, provocations, aggression, departure, remorse, despair, penance, calm, renunciation — with you, the process reached its climax because you are closer to me: our aesthetic trip is similar (with differences, but…). In every phase of my life, there's a relationship with a woman that ends up exploding into violence.

carta de glauber rocha para juliet berto, presente no livro "glauber rocha: cartas ao mundo"

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Ousmane Sembène and...

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Godard and Glauber Rocha playing football on the film set of Wind from the East / Le vent d'est, 1969.

Photos: Beuna Amico

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Claro (1975)

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A mural of a forest in the South Bronx, New York. Captured by Thomas Hoepker, 1983

Mural Art by Alan Sonfist, 1978. The building still exists, however the mural is no longer there

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Nothing But a Man (Michael Roemer, 1964)

Cast: Ivan Dixon, Abbey Lincoln, Julius Harris, Gloria Foster, Martin Priest, Leonard Parker, Yaphet Kotto, Stanley Greene, Helen Lounck, Helene Arrindell, Walter Wilson, Milton Williams, Mel Stewart. Screenplay: Michael Roemer, Robert M. Young. Cinematography: Robert M. Young. Film editing: Luke Bennett. 

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Today, on the occasion of Mother's Day in the Arab world, we share the words of resistance fighter Leila Khaled about the role of women.

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The Serenade, 1855 by Carl Spitzweg (German, 1808–1885)

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Turkish Coffee and Wild Cherries - Viktor Butko , 2020.

Russian , b. 1978 -

Oil on aluminum , 9.89 x 14.25 in.

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Jorge Ben, Gal Costa | Que Pena, 1982

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Mais d’où vient ce regard, cette intensité frontale ? De l'Histoire, directement […] C'est l'Histoire du siècle qui a inventé le cinéma moderne.

>>>Alfred Hitchcock, Under Capricorn, 1949; Roberto Rossellini - Europa '51, 1952; Antoine de Baecque - "Des femmes qui nous regarden", Cahiers du cinéma n° 26 Hors série, novembre 2000<<<

**Expanded Version**

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>>>Fritz Lang, The Big Heat, 1953<<<

through the looking glass

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The Color of Pomegranates (1969) dir. Sergei Parajanov We sought asylum for our love, but the road led us out to the land of the dead.

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Whirlpool dir. Otto Preminger

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A Woman’s Sorrows by Mikio Naruse (1937)