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Windows

24/2/2017

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“so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.”

― Pablo Neruda
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Postcard

12/12/2016

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I’m thinking of you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitos
& their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, its called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there’s a race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they’re building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone’s
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can’t be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you’re a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time i saw you.
Turn you over, there’s the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling and pounding, a kicked ear.

- Margaret Atwood

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The night will always win

5/12/2016

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I don’t know how many souls I have

29/11/2016

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Não sei quantas almas tenho.
Cada momento mudei.
Continuamente me estranho.
Nunca me vi nem achei.
De tanto ser, só tenho alma.
Quem tem alma não tem calma.
Quem vê é só o que vê.
Quem sente não é quem é.

Atento ao que sou e vejo,
Torno-me eles e não eu.
Cada meu sonho ou desejo,
É do que nasce, e não meu.
Sou minha própria paisagem,
Assisto à minha passagem,
Diverso, móbil e só.
Não sei sentir-me onde estou.

Por isso, alheio, vou lendo
Como páginas, meu ser.
O que segue não prevendo,
O que passou a esquecer.
Noto à margem do que li
O que julguei que senti.
Releio e digo, «Fui eu?»
Deus sabe, porque o escreveu.

- Fernando Pessoa
I don’t know how many souls I have.
I’ve changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I’ve never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.

Attentive to what I am and see,
I become them and stop being I.
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
I am my own landscape,
I watch myself journey -
Various, mobile, and alone.
Here where I am I can’t feel myself.

That’s why I read, as a stranger,
My being as if it were pages.
Not knowing what will come
And forgetting what has passed,
I note in the margin of my reading
What I thought I felt.
Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?”
God knows, because he wrote it.
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The bell jar

21/11/2016

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“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
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Had we nothing to prove

15/11/2016

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Had we nothing to prove
we might have leaned all night at that window,
merely beside each other,
watching Peel Street, wrought-iron gates
and weather vanes, black lace of trees
between cautious Victorian silhouettes;
but there were obligations, the formalities
of passion; so we sealed the shutters
and were expedient in the brevity of night;
reading with empty sockets moonlight in dull hair,
softness to chafed thighs;
both of us anxious and shaking the night,
with all my arm, she with fingers and gentle;
no hope for silver leaves in the morning.
And always a glance for the brightening windows,
a suspension of breath for the hearing of birds
and incantations to the sun
which stirs in dust behind stone horizons.

- Leonard Cohen
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The poetry of silence

14/11/2016

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Vilhelm Hammershøi
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Alexandra leaving

11/11/2016

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The God abandons Antony

11/11/2016

 
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When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

- CP Cavafy

We don’t know how to say goodbye

8/11/2016

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We don’t know how to say goodbye.
We wander all over, shoulder to shoulder.
It is already starting to get dark,
You’re thoughtful, and I remain quiet.

Let’s go inside a church, and watch
A baptism, a wedding, a funeral.
Why can’t we live like that?
Let’s leave, not looking at each other.

Or, let us sit in the cemetery,
Quiet in the trampled snow.
And watch you trace with a stick,
Places where we will always be together.

- Anna Akhmatova

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Dez chamamentos ao amigo

1/11/2016

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VII
Essa lua enlutada, esse desassossego
A convulsão de dentro, ilharga
Dentro da solidão, corpo morrendo
Tudo isso te devo. E eram tão vastas
As coisas planejadas, navios,
Muralhas de marfim, palavras largas
Consentimento sempre. E seria dezembro.
Um cavalo de jade sob as águas
Dupla transparência, fio suspenso
Todas essas coisas nas pontas dos teus dedos
E tudo se desfez no pórtico do tempo
Em lívido silêncio. Um sol que não vejo

Também isso te devo.


- Hilda Hilst
VII
This mournfulness, this restlessness
the inner convulsions, an endless island,
solitude within, body dying --
all this I owe to you. And they were vast,
these plans — ships
great walls of ivory, fine words,
promises, promises. And it would be December,
a jade horse above the water,
doubly transparent, a line in mid-air --
All these things at the tips of your fingers
All this undone by the trapdoor of time
in perfect silence. A sun I can't see --

this too I owe to you.

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Song

21/10/2016

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You’re wondering if I’m lonely:
OK then, yes, I’m lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.

You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely

If I’m lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawns’ first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep

If I’m lonely
it’s with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it’s neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning

- Adrienne Rich
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reminder

18/10/2016

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even if you are a small forest surviving off of
moon alone.
your light is extraordinary.
 
- reminder
 
 
Nayyirah Waheed
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Oceans

14/10/2016

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I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.
                   And nothing
happens! Nothing… Silence… Waves…

     —Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?

Juan Ramón Jiménez
Translated by Robert Bly

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Sunlight

11/10/2016

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“Maybe I am not very human - all I ever wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house.” - Edward Hopper
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If There Is Something to Desire, 9, 17, 18

10/10/2016

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9
I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards.

17
Why is the word yes so brief?
It should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it.

18
—Sing me The Song of Songs.
—Don’t know the words.
—Then sing the notes.
—Don’t know the notes.
—Then simply hum.
—Forgot the tune.
—Then press my ear
to your ear
and sing what you hear.

Vera Pavlova
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Three words

28/9/2016

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Danger. Suspect. Fallen.
What three words
Between lost
And found
And you?


J
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Karlı kayın ormanında

12/9/2016

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Karlı kayın ormanında
Yürüyorum geceleyin
Efkarlıyım, efkarlıyım
Elini ver, nerde elin?

Memleket mi, yıldızlar mı
Gençliğim mi daha uzak...
Kayınların arasında
Bir pencere sarı sıcak

Ben ordan geçerken biri
"Amca, dese gir içeri"
Girip yerden selamlasa
Hane içindekileri

Yedi tepeli şehrimde
Bıraktım gonca gülümü
Ne ölümden korkmak ayıp
Ne de düşünmek ölümü

― Nâzım Hikmet, Yeni Şiirler
The beeches deep in snow,
I walk the dark woods
In sorrow, sorrow.
Your hand, where is your hand?

My country or the stars
Or my youth, what's farthest?
A window in the beech forest
Glows yellow-warm.

What if, as I pass by,
Someone calls me to come in
And I come in and bow deeply,
Greeting those inside the house.

I left my budding rose
In my city of seven hills.
There is no shame in dreading death
Or thoughts of dying

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You are my drunkenness

9/9/2016

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Sen benim sarhoşluğumsun...
Ne ayıldım, ne ayılabilirim,
Ne ayılmak isterim.
Başım ağır, dizlerim parçalanmış
Üstüm başım çamur içinde
Yanıp-sönen ışığına düşe kalka giderim.

Nâzım Hikmet
You are my drunkenness...
I did not sober up, as if I can do that;
I don't want to anyway.
I have a headache, my knees are full of scars
I am in mud all around
I struggle to walk towards your hesitant light.

And with knees like that
You won't live long
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Beauty

1/9/2016

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“Beauty is often spoken of as though it only stirs lust or admiration, but the most beautiful people are so in a way that makes them look like destiny or fate or meaning, the heroes of a remarkable story.”

― Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
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El Pajaro

31/8/2016

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Caged birds

30/8/2016

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Time and again
You, too,
Must long for
Your old nest
Deep in the mountain.

- Taigu Ryokan
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Stationery

30/8/2016

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The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.
The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.

Write to me.

- Agha Shahid Ali

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Leaving is not enough

27/8/2016

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Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

"Leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes; your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses. You make him call before he visits. You take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street."

Frida Kahlo
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Letters

23/8/2016

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“I keep thinking you already know. I keep thinking I’ve sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.”

― Iain Thomas
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