Batsceba
solitudine dentro
interrompere la colonna sonora del blog
categorie: sogno, suicidio, solitudine
loneliness
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There is another Loneliness by Emily Dickinson
There is another Loneliness
That many die without --
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstances of Lot
But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral --
The Loneliness One dare not sound -- by Emily Dickinson
The Loneliness One dare not sound --
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size --
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see --
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny --
The Horror not to be surveyed --
But skirted in the Dark --
With Consciousness suspended --
And Being under Lock --
I fear me this -- is Loneliness --
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate -- or seal --
Study Of Loneliness by Czeslaw Milosz
A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert?
A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand?
Whoever he was. At dawn he saw furrowed mountains
The color of ashes, above the melting darkness,
Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge,
Till they stood, immense, in the orange light.
Day after day. And, before he noticed, year after year.
For whom, he thought, that splendor? For me alone?
Yet it will be here long after I perish.
What is it in the eye of a lizard? Or when seen by a migrant bird?
If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
And he knew there was no use crying out, for none of them would save him.
categorie: musica, silenzio, solitudine, loneliness, youtube
solitudine dentro - silenzio
There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself --
Finite infinity.
categorie: poesia, scrivere, tristezza, parlo di me, addio, suicidio, solitudine, perché, riserva, sehnsucht
i am not where i was
©2008 ~Sore-Stitches13 ©2008 ~TheRhythmOfLife
©2007-2008 *EliteArtists ©2008 *motionlessSndtrk
interrompere la colonna sonora del blog per sentire Rosie
Birthday
http://mitar.photosight.ru/
Birthday of but a single pang
by Emily Dickinson
Birthday of but a single pang
That there are less to come --
Afflictive is the Adjective
But affluent the doom --
Michael Tarasov
http://mitar.photosight.ru/
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
Michael Tarasov
http://mitar.photosight.ru/
SONG OF TSAKAK
De' tc!A ciya' idê dAgā'x awé
At cīx Axq!ē nAstītc
It is only crying about myself
that comes to me in song
categorie: poesia, solitudine, birthday, sehnsucht
walk on
I've stopped thinking. and i'm dumb waiting for the Great Mystery hug. I've been looking for it wandering about the streets in a city that doesn't belong to me, I've been looking for it letting water drop on me to shut my pain up. yet i've just met the other's rage and i've been annihilated. like i was annihilated as a child before someone raising their voice, a slap in the face i didn't understand. i'm not cut out for life. i don't have nails. i always expect understanding, explanations, love. but i can't change. and i'll keep on roaming with my disability to live, listening to the distant echo of the Great Mystery which will ease my pain. i don't know how to live but i know how to love. and i'll keep on walking trying not to to tread on the ant crossing my path.
U2 Walk on
categorie: poesia, riflessioni, parlo di me, solitudine, morte, riserva, youtube
Such a Lonely Day
Suicide’s Note
The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.
Online Poetry at PoetryFeast.com
L'immagine della sera
©2007-2008 =akasleep
From the Shore
A lone gray bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.
Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,
Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown,
Love of mist and rapture of flight,
Glories of chance and hazards of death
On its eager and palpitant wings.
Out into the deep of the great dark world,
Beyond the long borders where foam and drift
Of the sundering waves are lost and gone
On the tides that plunge and rear and crumble.
nella mia riserva. vado e vengo - spiegazioni
"...sin da piccola, mi sono sentita rinchiusa in una "riserva" sulla mia terra. ogni tanto incontro qualcuno che come me vive in una riserva e questo mi fa sentire meno sola. lo strano è che pur sapendo quanto sia stupida e casuale la vita non smetto di credere che comunque potrebbero tutti vivere meglio, so che tutto quello che ci circonda, persino questo mezzo che sto usando ora, è superfluo. l'uomo non è progredito in nulla. se non nella tecnologia che lo distruggerà ma... forse la mia riserva diventerà il mondo"
peace and love
...Since I was a child, I always felt as if I were in a "reserve" in my own land. Sometimes I meet someone who like me lives in a reserve, and this makes me feel less lonely. The funny thing is that despite knowing how stupid and accidental life is, I can't help but thinking that all people could live a better life. I am aware that everything around us is superfluous, even this means of communication which I am using right now. Humanity has made no progress, only in the technology which will destroy it. But maybe my reserve will become the world.
categorie: scrivere, speranza, blog, sogno, parlo di me, aria, acqua, silenzio, solitudine, libertà, riserva
Mi presento
Nome: Batsceba Hardy
leggo, ascolto, scrivo e suono; quando ho tempo pattino sul ghiaccio, arrampico, cammino, nuoto e vado in bicicletta.
ah dimenticavo: sono idealista, animista, pacifista, comunista... e per la chiesa terrorista
sgrunt, firmate il guestbook in fondo alla pagina!!!
"Politicians, no way out
Sexy boy scouts, the internet
Skillful apes, another rape
Sausages of rage
Tennis players
Orange-flavoured eternity
Heavy times.
Shop-a-holics, work-a-holics,
The Titanic, my nickname
People wearing uniforms,
Assault rifles
Popcorn-shaped unicorns
Heavy times.
Broken hearts, windows
Widows, cigarettes,
Global warming,
Global warning
We're getting used to living
In these Heavy Times.
Exotic places, antibiotics
HIV, you & me.
Heavy times..."
Heavy times by September 29th
il blog con i lettori più intelligenti
Terzo Miglior z-blog scrittore 
Terzo Miglior z-blogger
" Il bambino impara a credere a un sacco di cose. Cioè impara, per esempio, ad agire secondo questa credenza. Poco alla volta, con quello che crede si costruisce un sistema e in questo sistema alcune cose sono ferme e incrollabili, altre sono più o meno mobili. Quello che è stabile, non è stabile perché sia in sé chiaro o di per sé evidente, ma perché è mantenuto tale da ciò che gli sta intorno. "
Della Certezza , L. Wittgenstein
"Organizzazioni e manifestazioni pacifiche da cui sono esclusi proprio quelli con cui si tratta di creare la pace, si risolvono in ipocrisia, presunzione compiaciuta e spreco di tempo."
Günther Anders
"La libertà non sta nello scegliere tra bianco e nero, ma nel sottrarsi a questa scelta prescritta"
Theodor W. Adorno
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."
Samuel Beckett
"Da me ci sono due porte, una per entrare e una per uscire. Rigorosamente divise. Dalla porta d'ingresso non si può uscire, e da quella di uscita non si può entrare. Tutti seguono questa regola. Possono variare le modalità, ma tutti finiscono per andare via. C'è chi è andato via per sperimentare nuove possibilità, chi per risparmiare tempo. Qualcuno è morto. Fatto sta che non è rimasto nessuno. Tranne me, unico superstite. La loro assenza è sempre con me. Le loro parole, i loro respiri, i motivi canticchiati a bassa voce, aleggiano come polvere negli angoli di casa mia."
da DanceDanceDance
di Haruki Murakami
NEL MIO CUORE
DANCING THROUGH WIND AND SAND
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I BLOGS DI BATSCEBA
The Merchant of the Picturesque
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