Sunday, October 21, 2007

Piet Mondrian - Le Néo-plasticisme

Piet Mondrian

(born Amersfoort, 7 March 1872; died New York, 1 Feb 1944)

Φοβάμαι να σε αγγίξω

Μη διαλυθείς

Σαν σύννεφο
Σαν οπτασία

Σαν την ώχρα
Ή το κίτρινο παστέλ

Στην παλέτα του ζωγράφου

Ή μη πυρποληθείς

Σαν το κόκκινο
Και τη σιέννα

Και μη τα μάγουλά σου
Στα αίματα βαφτούν

Σαν ιτιά μη γείρεις

Σαν κυπαρίσσι


Τρίζουν τα ξύλινα πατώματα
Στο μοναχικό σπίτι

Η πνοή σου
Η σκιά σου

Ακόλουθός μου μεσ' τη νύχτα

Ο άϋλος καθρέφτης μου

Νεκρή Φύση
Τεμνόμενων εραστών

Lucy 2007


free_dober_man said...

Υπέροχο! :)

Μιχαήλ Angel said...

The Palace of Art by
Lord Alfred Tennyson

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass,
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.

And "while the world runs round and round'" I said'
"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls' his stedfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."

To which my soul made answer readily:
"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide."

Four courts I made, East' West and South and North,
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain-foam.

And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
And that sweet incense rise?"

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows' stain'd and
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.

Αφιερωμένο εξαιρετικά, μάγισσα.
Μάκια πολλά!

lucy of wild flowers said...

@free μου,

καλησπέρα! ευχαριστώ πολύ,
καλέ μου!

Πολλά φιλιά!


lucy of wild flowers said...


τι πανέμορφο ποίημα!
Τι δύναμη και λυρισμός!

"I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."

Πόσο πιο ζωντανά μπορεί να εκφράσει κανείς την λαχτάρα για ζωή και ομορφιά;

Επίτρεψέ μου να το αναρτήσω στο επόμενο ποστ μου.

Ευχαριστώ από καρδιάς, ευαίσθητε...


markos-the-gnostic said...

τεμνόμενοι εραστές. φαντάζομαι επίτηδες το έθεσες έτσι. άγνωστοι πριν, ταυτισμένοι για μια στιγμή, άγνωστοι μετά

lucy of wild flowers said...

@Μάρκο μου,


Και για κάτι άλλο όμως...επειδή οι εραστές, κάποια στιγμή πονάνε ο ένας τον άλλον, σαν μαχαίρια που κόβουν/τέμνουν.
Ίσως επειδή κατά βάθος, παραμένουν δυο άγνωστοι, όπως είπες.

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