DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY

DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Pablo Neruda was born in Parral, Chile. He studied in Santiago in the twenties. From 1927 to 1945 he was the Chilean consul in Rangoon, in Java, and then in Barcelona. He joined the Communist Party after the Second World War. Between 1970 and 1973 he served in Allende’s Chilean Government as ambassador to Paris. He died shortly after the coup that ended the Allende Government.

TO THE TUNE OF LIKE A DREAM

Hai Tian ,1951,Dongan county, Hunan province.

Member of Chinese Artists Association, deputy of the Traditional Chinese Painting Committee of Hunan Painter Association, vice chairman of the Hunan Gongbi Painting Association, Hunan branch and chairman of the Xiaoxiang Gongbi Painting Art Research Institute.
. The whole realm of artistic world lies open for him to explore. He often rebuilds his unique artistic "microcosms" from the universe through a demonstration of aesthetic manifold structure, which integrates national style with the modern sense, the concrete with the abstract, the void with the real and the philosophic idea with wild flavor. His works are unique and graceful, creating a deep and implicit world imbued with poetic and philosophic conceptions. Critics say that his works have a peculiar style of natural grace and make his master of a school. They also say that his paintings reveal poetic beauty and intelligence.
("A Collection of Works by One Hundred Outstanding Chinese Painters", "A Collection of Works by the Prize-winners in the Eighth National Paintings Exhibition", "A Collection of Ink-and-wash by the Greatest Chinese Painters in the World", and the "Gems of 20th Century Chinese Paintings". His artistic achievements were taken down in many large dictionaries in china and other countries such as "Dictionary of the World's Modern Artists". In 1997, he was elected as "One of the Hundred Chinese Most Outstanding Painters" by the Chinese Writers and Artists Association)

............................................................................................................................................................

Li Qingzhao : 李清照; : 李清照, Wade-Giles; Li Ch'ing-chao,pseudonym Yi'an Jushi (易安居士 “Yi'an HOUSEHOLDER (1084–c. 1151) was a Chinese writer andpoet of the Song Dynasty, regarded by many as the premier woman poet in the Chinese language citation needed.

To the Tune of Like a Dream

Last night a sprinkling of rain,
a violent wind.
After a deep sleep, still not recovered
from the lingering effect of wine,
I inquired of the one rolling up the screen;
But the answer came: "The cherry-apple blossoms
are still the same."
"Oh, don't you know, don't you know?
The red must be getting thin,
while the green is becoming plump."

THE RAINY DAY

The Rainy Day by Rabindranath Tagore

Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe

of the forest.

O child, do not go out!

The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads

against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are

silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river

is haunted by a deepening gloom.

Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.

O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.

Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes

as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is

running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who

has run away from his mother to tease her.

Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.

O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry

is closed.

The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the

water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home

early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.

The evening lamps must be made ready.

O child, do not go out!

The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is

slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo

branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.

Rabindranath Tagore , MAY 7 18651- AUGUST 7 1941,

BENGALI poet His name was originally written as Robindronath Thakur. He was also a philosopher and an artist. He also wrote many stories, novels and dramas. He also composed music and many songs. His writings greatly influenced Bengali culture during the late 19th century and early 20th century. In 1913, he won the Noble Prize for literature. He was the first Asian to win this prize. People also call him Gurudev.
Tagore was born in Calcutta). Tagore was a BENGALI BRAHMIN by birth. He wrote his first poem when he was only eight years old. Tagore's major works included Song Offerings, Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World); and many other literary and art works. style.
Tagore wrote JANA GANA MANA the national anthem of India He also wrote AMAR SHONAR BANGLA the national anthem of BANGLADESH

Thank you for your cooperation friends!

Impersonation on Blogger

the Impersonation on Blogger

If you are aware of someone you know being impersonated on us blog, CAT...MEOW or a TRASPIRARE IL POMERIGGI DI SOLE please LET US KNOW

WE FIND :"Atra Spirare il Pomriggiodis" and "Elaine Erig - Cats Meow" in blogs of friends,thank´s

MATA HARI

Mata Hari was the stage name of Margaretha Geertruida "Grietje" Zelle (7 August 1876, Leeuwarden – 15 October 1917, Vincennes), a Dutch-Frisian exotic dancer and courtesan who was executed by firing squad for espionage during World War I

"EYE OF THE DAY"

POETS OF MONGOLIA

PETER KRÜGEL- SAKTHYA BYAMBA -PETER BROSENS

Poets of Mongolia evokes the meaning of poetry in the daily life of ordinary people who are trying to cope with harsh reality in a rapidly changing world. Through poetry a miner praises nature, a heating technician evokes man's destiny, a blind singer expresses her wish to see, and an expatriate finds the strength to survive in a foreign country.

Inti Films' Mongolia Trilogy (City of the Steppes, 1994, State of Dogs, 1998 -third part-Inti Films -)Mongolian State Award Best Documentary 1999

PROLOGUE TO AFRICAN CONSCIENCE

Belatengeta-Poet Laureate-Tsegaye Gebre-Medhin, Ethiopia’s premier versatile and prolific man of letters. For half a century now he has been continuously productive as poet, playwright, essayist, social critic, philologist, historiographer, dramatist, synthesis, peace-activist, artistic a director... on matters national, continental and global.

... Born in the highland village of Boda, near Ambo , west of the Ethiopian capital, Addis Ababa 17 August 1936 died in Manhattan on 26 February 2006.

Prologue to African Conscience

Tamed to bend

Into the model chairs

Carpentered for it

By the friendly pharos of its time

The black conscience flutters

Yet is taken in.

it looks right

It looks left

It forgets to look into its own self:

The broken yoke threatens to return

Only, this time

In the luring shape

Of luxury and golden chains

That frees the body

And enslaves the mind.

Into its head

The old dragon sun

Now breathes hot civilization

And the wise brains

Of the strong sons of the tribes

Pant

With an even more strange suffocation.

Its new self awareness

(In spite of its tribal ills)

Wishes to patchits torn spirits together:

Its past and present masters

(With their army of ghosts

That remained to haunt the earth)

Hook its innermost soul

And tear it apart:

And the african conscience

Still moans molested

Still remains drifting uprooted.

Dreamer

A lover love-rejected

With a spirit dejected,

A monk God-forsaken

hose total Faith is shaken,

Are less lost than dreamer

Into whose peace a “ question “

Plunged like a knife

And woke him to life,

To search, to find his way

To dodge, to fight his way

NOT dream it away !

Guilty?

On the grave of my friend, I stood.

For blood and flesh, I stayed . . .

And with faith I prayed, and prayed;

For blood and flesh, he was robed

. . .And with doubt, I hoped, and I hoped.

On the grave of my friend, as I stayed;

… On my future, I brood .

I stood on the grave of a man.

A tomb-stone of a man, I burdened.

The grave of a man, I murdered:

And with hope, my future, I sketched,

When with prayer, my killer hand, I stretched.

On the tomb-stone, of the man, I murdered:

. . Urrahh!!! I won!

On my victim’s carcass, I climb.

While on his tomb, I tread …

My bloody fingers, I spread:

Thus to repent, to justify, I have tried …

While I hoped, and prayed, I have cried.

And I won, my daily wine, and bread!

… Is it a crime?

Who Is On Whose Way

I did not know, oh sir, that I stood on your way,

It all happened in chance; argument is unfit,

If we fight, others will benefit,

And as this road is also where my future lay,

Destiny forces me to answer you with “ Nay “

Pray lose no temper: lest you commit

A risk to result in a regrettable wit,

For, if there be crime, guilty is just the day:

I am also in yours as you are in my shoes

So do let us shift sir, to either side

However painful it becomes, we should, though

We realize that it isn’t much to lose

That in spite of us the way is wide

And that after all, someday, both of us go.

Tears Inevitable

Showers of anguish

Rain, do not exhaust

Ocean of revenge

Of the innermost

Voice of the betrayed

Comfort of the lost,

Tears torn of self

Blood of the heart.<

ENGLISH RENAISSANCE

Edward de Vere, 17th earl of Oxford

[Who taught thee first to sigh?]

Who taught thee first to sigh, alas, my heart?
Who taught thy tongue the woeful words of plaint?
Who filled your eyes with tears of bitter smart?
Who gave thee grief, and made thy joys to faint?

Who first did paint with colors pale thy face?
Who first did break thy sleeps of quiet rest?
Above the rest in court who gave thee grace?
Who made thee strive, in honor to be best?

In constant truth to bide so firm and sure?
To scorn the world, regarding but thy friends?
With patient mind each passion to endure?
In one desire to settle to the end?

Love then thy choice, wherein such choice thou bind
As nought but death may ever change thy mind.

Were I a king

Were I a king I could command content ;
Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares;
And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.
A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.






Edward de Vere, 17th earl of Oxford, born April 12, 1550, Castle Hedingham, Essex, Eng.died June 24, 1604, Newington, Middlesex
English lyric poet and patron of an acting company, Oxford's Men, who became, in the 20th century, the strongest candidate proposed (next to William Shakespeare himself) for the authorship of Shakespeare's plays.
Succeeding to the earldom as a minor in 1562, Oxford lived for eight years as a royal ward under the care of William Cecil (later Lord Burghley) and in December 1571 married Burghley's daughter, Anne Cecil. Along the way he studied at Queens' College and St. John's College, Cambridge. By the early 1580s his financial position had become very straitened, perhaps chiefly through his lack of financial sense. His younger children were provided for by Burghley, with whom he remained friendly even after Anne's death (June 1588) and his own remarriage in 1591 or 1592. In 1586 Queen Elizabeth granted him an annuity of £1,000.
He was never appointed to any important office or command, though he was named on the commissions of some noted trials of peers and was said to have been made a privy councilor by James I. It has therefore been suggested that the annuity may have been granted for his services in maintaining a company of actors (from 1580) and that the obscurity of his later life is to be explained by his immersion in literary pursuits. He was indeed a notable patron of writers. He employed John Lyly, the author of the novel Euphues, as his secretary for many years.
That Oxford might be the author of Shakespeare's plays was first advanced in a major way in “Shakespeare” Identified in Edward de Vere, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford (1920), a study by J. Thomas Looney. Looney argued that there was a biographical similarity between Oxford and both Bertram (in All's Well That Ends Well) and Hamlet and that Oxford's poems resembled Shakespeare's early work. Oxford's interest in the drama extended beyond noble patronage, for he himself wrote some plays, though there are no known examples extant. His 23 acknowledged poems were written in youth, and, because he was born in 1550, Looney proposed that they were the prelude to his mature work and that this began in 1593 with Venus and Adonis. This theory is supported by the coincidence that Oxford's poems apparently ceased just before Shakespeare's work began to appear. A further claim is that Oxford assumed a pseudonym in order to protect his family from the social stigma attached to the stage and also because extravagance had brought him into disrepute at court. A major difficulty in the Oxfordian theory, however, is his death date (1604), because, according to standard chronology, 14 of Shakespeare's plays, including many of the most important ones, were apparently written after that time. The debate, however, remained lively in the late 20th century.

THE MANHATTAN PROJECT

Nagasaki (August 9, 1945)Events: Dawn of the Atomic Era, 1945
The next break in the weather over Japan was due to appear just three days after the attack on Hiroshima, to be followed by at least five more days of prohibitive weather. The plutonium bomb, nicknamed "Fat Man," was rushed into readiness to take advantage of this window. No further orders were required for the attack. Truman's order of July 25th had authorized the dropping of additional bombs as soon as they were ready. At 3:47 a.m. on August 9, 1945, a B-29 named Bock's Car lifted off from Tinian and headed toward the primary target: Kokura Arsenal, a massive collection of war industries adjacent to the city of Kokura.
The aircraft commander, Major Charles W. Sweeney, ordered the arming of the bomb only ten minutes after take-off so that the aircraft could be pressurized and climb above the lightning and squalls that menaced the flight all the way to Japan.

Nagasaki was an industrial center and major port on the western coast of Kyushu. As had happened at Hiroshima, the "all-clear" from an early morning air raid alert had long been given by the time the B-29 had begun its bombing run. A small conventional raid on Nagasaki on August 1st had resulted in a partial evacuation of the city, especially of school children. There were still almost 200,000 people in the city below the bomb when it exploded. The hurriedly-targeted weapon ended up detonating almost exactly between two of the principal targets in the city, the Mitsubishi Steel and Arms Works to the south, and the Mitsubishi-Urakami Torpedo Works (right) to the north. Had the bomb exploded farther south the residential and commercial heart of the city would have suffered much greater damage.

The explosion affected a total area of approximately 43 square miles. About 8.5 of those square miles were water, and 33 more square miles were only partially settled. Although the destruction at Nagasaki has generally received less worldwide attention than that at Hiroshima, it was extensive nonetheless. Almost everything up to half a mile from ground zero was completely destroyed, including even the earthquake-hardened concrete structures that had sometimes survived at comparable distances at Hiroshima. According to a Nagasaki Prefectural report "men and animals died almost instantly" within 1 kilometer (0.62 miles) of the point of detonation. Almost all homes within a mile and a half were destroyed, and dry, combustible materials such as paper instantly burst in

to flames as far away as 10,000 feet from ground zero. Of the 52,000 homes in Nagasaki, 14,000 were destroyed and 5,400 more seriously damaged. Only 12 percent of the homes escaped unscathed. . A U.S. Navy officer who visited the city in mid-September reported that, even over a month after the attack, "a smell of death and corruption pervades the place." As at Hiroshima, the psychological effects of the attack were undoubtedly considerable.
As with the estimates of deaths at Hiroshima, it will never be known for certain how many people died as a result of the atomic attack on Nagasaki. The best estimate is 40,000 people died initially, with 60,000 more injured.

By January 1946, the number of deaths probablyapproached 70,000, with perhaps ultimately twice

that number dead total within five years.For those areas of Nagasaki affected by theexplosion, the death rate was comparable to that at Hiroshima.

http://www.mbe.doe.gov/me70/manhattan/nagasaki.htm

2-THE AMAZING WORLD AND WORK OF FEMALE PHOTOGRAPHER

Sylvia Plachy

Sylvia Plachy, a Hungarian-born photographer,

immigrated to the United States with her parents in 1958,

started photographing in 1964 and over the next forty years

by recording the visual character of the city along with

its diverse occupants managed the not insignificant

accomplishment of becoming essential to

the New York photography scene.
Sylvia Plachy's work is in the permanent collections of MOMA,

the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art,

the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Bibliotheque Nationale. She has been awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship and a CAPS Grant

Sylvia Plachy by the Berlin Wall photo by James Ridgeway

http://www.womeninphotography.org/Events-Exhibits/DistinguishedPhotog/SylviaPlachy_2004/Plachy.html

1- THE AMAZING WORLD AND WORK OF FEMALE PHOTOGRAPHER

SquirrelQueen..........

as a starting point for further explorations into the amazing world and work of female photographers of all nationalities,their contribution to the field of photography deserves greaterrecognition and we can learn so much from them and try to understand what emotions are inherent in the story you are telling and find ways to make them visual, something us draws to the subject, makes pick them out of a crowd.

link to

http://thrusquirreleyes.blogspot.com/

TREASURES OF ICELANDIC

Jóhann Hjálmarsson was born in Reykjavik on July 2, 1939. From 1956 to 1959 he studied printing at the Technical College of Reykjavik; and in 1959, and again in 1965, he studied Spanish at the University of Barcelona. From 1967 to 2006, Jóhann worked as critic of both literature and theatre for the newspaper Morgunblaðið. Since 1990, he has also supervised literary broadcastings for the National Radio. Through the years Jóhann has been active in committees of the literary community, including serving on the Nordic Council Minister´s Committee from 1981-1990, acting as its chairman from 1987-1989. Jóhann has written numerous poetry collections and his first book, Aungull í tímann, was published in 1956. His works have been translated into many languages and published in collections throughout the world. He has, in turn, translated poems and collections into Icelandic. Poems in Treasures of Icelandic Verse Two of Jóhann’s poems – Birta (Light) and On Landscape (Um Landslag) – were published in Treasures of Icelandic Verse, an anthology compiled by Árni Sigurjónsson. Translation Sigurður A. Magnússon.

Light

Again light strikes
a bare landscape,
again evening falls,
night arrives
And you stand at the side of the smallest shadow
as before.
You don't feel anxiety,
are as quiet
as the stones, the withered grass:
this that was given you
of earth
of life.

....(rorem photo)

THE SONG OF THE CASTAWAYS

Born in Montbéliard, 11 November 1952,

Jean-Michel Maulpoix has published poetry,

including A History of blue, the writer imagined,

Public Domain, and not on snow,published

in the Mercure de France. He also published critical studies on Henri Michaux, Jacques Réda and René Char,

as well as testing general poetic

(including poetry nevertheless poetry as lovepoetry and Du). Her writing, which constantly interact prose and poetry,

claiming volontiers a "critical lyricism.

Jean-Michel Maulpoix directs the quarterly journal of literature

and criticism New Series (ed. Field valley Seyssel 01420)

Alumnus of the École normale supérieure de Saint-Cloud,

modern literature, and author of a doctoral thesis on state

"notion of lyricism, he teaches modern poetry at the University

of Paris X-Nanterre where He also hosts a team of research

entitled "MonitoringoFcontemporary poetry -

------- photo Tony Elieh

"The song of the castaways

Poem extracted from « Dans l'interstice » (« Through the chinks… »

by Jean-Michel MAULPOIX, & Fata Morgana, publ., 1991

Translated by Catherine Wieder

We are the wrecked castaways of language

To and fro do we wander from one country to another, clinging on to the floated woods of our

phrases

Such are the remains of an old vessel crashed so long ago

But desire still plots whilst we ship adrift

And sculpt in those planks statuettes of sirens with blue hair

And go on singing with those very same lungs

Let us repeat the sea

Do not bring any stupid trial to the blue

The sea, clinging on to the sea

Shivers and slides on the sea

Its movements of a skirt,

its blows of the shoulders, its redundancies

And all this blue coming to us on the wide flats of the sea

We like the way the small craft passes and goes

Swaying from one wave to another, dancing its fluttering turmoil to meet the sea again
And its weird jingling sound

When music unfolds itself on the huge score of the sea

The sea mingles with the sea

Mixes its lakes and puddles

Its ideas of gulls and foams

Its dreams of seaweeds and cormorants

With its heavy blue chrysanthemums from the open sea

With clumps of forget-me-nots on the white walls of the islands

With the bruises of the horizon

With switched off light-houses

With the dreams of the unfathomable sky

The sea is a fallen blue sky

Long ago did the sky indeed lose its keys in the sea

Under which suns should we from now on lose ourselves ?

On which shoulder will we rest the fever of our wet head ?

Our dreams are birds' feet on the sand

Fragments of nails cut a few inches away from the sea

We burn on the beach huge heaps of corpses

Since such are the words with their bones and smokes

Heaps of thighbones and metacarpusses

A pyre of sweet-smelling blades of grass and crackling powders

A dry meadow would be kindled next to the sea
High flames headlong jumping among the brooms

And all of a sudden a woman's chest erected in the spluttering

Offered to that mad love

Throwing towards heaven the long moan

Of he who scorched his heart

Alone, does he walk towards her, on the narrow granite jetty

Embarking his perishable body towards nothing

She remains the huge lying shape, running towards him

Throwing towards him her flurries and petticoats

Lo ! here does he stand,

He the small man, standing up straight on the dyke with his pencil

Tightly pressed against her, but apart

Both so close and yet losing sight of each other

Pressing on to each other, their hearts badly anchored

The blue bathes a little that small body of a man

The blue catches him in its nets

A speck of flesh or chip of bashful love

A tuft of light between his palms

Stained with deep ink

Lips tightly closed by the wave

Muted, having nothing to reply to the open blue

Voiceless in the water's maze

Why can't we put out our roots in the sea

As drowned men and weeds do ?

We would easily carry on our shoulders

The never fading blue sky

Which however dreams of colours and hues

And the lukewarm wool of the foams

And the poisonous fruits of the open sea

In which no human lip did ever bite

Thus would we return to the infinite garden

We won't fill the sea with our tears

We'd rather support with our songs the efforts of the storms

Throwing their cries and leaches on to our heads

And when our watery eyes no longer see anything

We'll know better still what the sea is

The scales covering our hearts will have fallen

And our nacreous skin will at last be so white

That we would no longer fear the mad love of the sirens

Cheers to the skies of the open sea

So will we drink from chalices and ciboriums

Gluttunously will we drink the sea

No water will ever quench our thirst

We are thirsty of the salt

Our lips are greedy

In the blue sea, it's always Sunday

When gold fishes kneel

Since the days when the floodtide started carrying us

We started a liking for eternity

Water has gotten into our head

And crystal droplets in our blood

We hardly remember our fellow creatures

Whose gardens fade

And whose children grow

Our heart is so blue.

A STRANGE SHEPHERD

Elşen Hudiyev

Elşen Hudiyev or Elshen Khudiyev (born 1980) is Turkish contemporary poet and essayist. After receiving his degree in Political Science and International Relations from Faculty of Economics and Administrative Sciences of Bosphorus University , he worked different positions but never reached stable life. His early works proved to be premature, but later especially with the series of "Abnormal Poetry" he achieved deep emotional, symbolic and pessimistic style. Mainly concerns with global problems rather than local, he writes in turkish and very rarely in azeri. His poetry mainly based on free verse, however he had some haiku and sonnets too. He is important literary figure because his poetry can described as 'new wave poetry of Azerbaijan' and he is the second poet afterHuseyn Javid writing in turkish rather than native azeri language. In his prose he touches problematic issues such as prejudice, lie and another human controversies. Although he is arguing that his essays are non-philosophical, some deep philosophy sacred behind his plain dialogue based essays. In this manner his works look like a catechisis book of humanism.

A Strange Shepherd

I do not want the storm, composure

worse.

I can not love the sun, the nigh

will bring heartbreak.

To cry of joy was the last point

Loneliness disgust, love severe pain.

Do you have that, do you have that,

it is a human?

All things are separate from the

middle.

Not a mite on black and white,

What in the dark, keep the light

quark

I was crying with joy when you wrap.

I wanted to like the light of the

sun,

Night when you cried.

I was alone in the night searching

for you.

Night storm was more than alone.

I was alone when the sun yellow.

SUNDAY EVENING

--Johan on Couch, 1925 - Edward Weston photo

Sunday Evening

Toni Davis (Aus) Catherine Mair (NZ)

aiming the fly spray at the curtain

I cough and the shadow rises feeling

the flush of wine in my cheeks

fluttering downwards to old drunkedness

still zooming above our heads & the unwashed dishes

another day settles around the sink

resting her head on the old woman's crocheted rug

darkness descends and the start of a dream

LITTLE FLY

Little Fly

Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath;
And the want
of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

-- William Blake

MYSTERY...

JIMENEZ DEREDIA

TRISTAN TZARA

The Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three

by Tristan Tzara

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the

in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies

my son

my son

let us always shuffle through the colour of the world

which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy

we are too thin

we have no mouth

our legs are stiff and knock together

our faces are formeless like the stars

crystal points without strength burned basilica

mad : the zigzags crack

telephone

bite the rigging liquefy

the arc

climb

astral

memory

towards the north through its double fruit

like raw flesh

hunger fire blood

Tristan Tzara (April 16, 1896 - December 25, 1963) is the pseudonym of Sami Rosenstock, born in Moinesti, Bacău, Romania. A poet and essayist who lived for the majority of his life in France, he is known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.