:)

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

maya angelou, insomniac

o zi...

A dream lies dead here. May you softly go
Before this place, and turn away your eyes,
Nor seek to know the look of that which dies
Importuning Life for life. Walk not in woe,
But, for a little, let your step be slow.
And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise
With words of hope and Spring and tenderer skies.
A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree-
Though white of bloom as it had been before
And proudly waitful of fecundity-
One little loveliness can be no more;
And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head
Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

dorothy parker, a dream lies dead

if on a winter's night a traveler

a state of trance

powered by armin van buuren :)

furor visu

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.

Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!

All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

william shakespeare, sonnets, xliii

ochii inorogului

de vineri, de la şcoală, sau leaving for venus in a getaway car...

Sweet Sir Galahad
came in through the window
in the night when
the moon was in the yard.
He took her hand in his
and shook the long hair
from his neck and he told her
she'd been working much too hard.
It was true that ever since the day
her crazy man had passed away
to the land of poet's pride,
she laughed and talked alot
with new people on the block
but always at evening time she cried.

And here's to the dawn of their days.

She moved her head
a little down on the bed
until it rested softly on his knee.
And there she dropped her smile
and there she sighed awhile,
and told him all the sadness
of those years that numbered three.
Well you know I think my fate's belated
because of all the hours I waited
for the day when I'd no longer cry.
I get myself to work by eight
but oh, was I born too late,
and do you think I'll fail
at every single thing I try?

And here's to the dawn of their days.

He just put his arm around her
and that's the way I found her
eight months later to the day.
The lines of a smile erased
the tear tracks upon her face,
a smile could linger, even stay.
Sweet Sir Galahad went down
with his gay bride of flowers,
the prince of the hours
of her lifetime.

And here's to the dawn
of their days,
of their days.

joan baez, sweet sir galahad

...

din nou, despre mare...

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

millie befriended a stranded star
who's rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.

e. e. cummings, maggie & millie & molly & may

cet effrayant génie

Balayant en trois mots les perfidies voltairiennes, Chateaubriand scella la gloire posthume de Pascal : « Cet effrayant génie... » Tant d'inventions, de combats, de fulgurances dans une vie si brève – Pascal meurt à 39 ans. Cet homme qui hait le moi ne cesse de se démultiplier. Le voilà tour à tour mondain et cloîtré, désespéré et cynique, mystique et calculateur. La diversité de sa pensée étonne. Savant, il invente la géométrie projective, le calcul des probabilités, la physique expérimentale ; juché au plus haut de l'Auvergne, son fief natal, il récuse l'antique théorie selon laquelle la nature aurait horreur du vide. Entrepreneur, il conçoit à 19 ans la machine arithmétique, qui préfigure la calculatrice, et vingt ans plus tard, lance dans Paris les carrosses à cinq sols qui sont nos premiers autobus. Homme d'action, il ferraille contre les jésuites, aux côtés des jansénistes. Penseur du politique, il définit une justice des ordres pour critiquer l'absolutisme. Écrivain, enfin et surtout, camouflé sous sept identités distinctes, il avance par fragments et invente un style qui allie l'esprit de géométrie à l'obsession du mot juste. Cet effroyable génie a choisi l'effroi comme règle de vie. Pascal écrit adossé au néant, noué par la peur de la mort. Il prophétise la condition de l'homme moderne qui, pour fuir ses angoisses, trouve refuge dans le divertissement. Il est le contemporain de nos petites misères et de nos grandes questions. Tout tremble chez Pascal, l'homme qui n'est que roseau pensant, son corps malade dont il ausculte le funeste délabrement, sa main qui écrit, volontiers hautaine et indéchiffrable. Comme tout génie, il se veut singulier. Et solitaire, cultivant le retrait, l'anonymat, la tentation de la pauvreté, la certitude de ne rien savoir : « Je ne sais qui m'a mis au monde, ni ce que c'est que le monde, ni que moi-même ; je suis dans une ignorance terrible de toutes choses; je ne sais ce que c'est que mon corps, que mes sens, que mon âme et que cette partie même de moi qui pense ce que je dis. » Dans ces conditions, comment ne pas choisir de s'en remettre à Dieu ?

jean-louis hue
„le magazine littéraire”, no. 469, novembre 2007

ghosts on the street

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

henry wadsworth longfellow, the rainy day