Nació el amor como un fuego en la brisa, ... / ©Soléil Sóley

Nació el amor como un fuego en la brisa, con manos temblando, promesa indecisa, miradas que hablaban sin lengua ni voz, creyéndose eternas, creyéndose Dios.

Creció entre susurros, entre piel y luna, bordando los días con hilo y fortuna, se alzaba en los sueños, se alzaba en la fe, como si el dolor no supiera por qué.

Pero el tiempo, implacable y sin clemencia, deshojó los besos, sembró la ausencia, y donde hubo risa, brotó el desamor, la llama se hizo humo, la flor, descolor.

Murió el amor sin un grito final, sin tumba, sin nombre, sin ritual, solo el eco quedó de lo que fue su andar, un latido roto, un eterno callar.

Aún duele su partida, como si en su muerte también muriera la vida, pues lo que se ama nunca se va del todo, queda en los rincones, callado y solo.

©Soléil Sóley

"Chores" by Iness Rychlik

Succession / Yannis Ritsos

Succession

The sun doesn’t think about your hesitations—

it wants you naked and it takes you naked

until the night comes to dress you

After the sun there is repentance

after repentance the sun again

Yannis Ritsos

Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Model Olga Kobzar shot
by Tatiana Mertsalova

The Stream of Life / Clarice Lispector

"Yes, this is life seen by life. But suddenly I forget how to capture whatever is happening, I don’t know how to capture whatever exists except by living here each thing that arises and no matter what it is: I am almost free of my errors. I let the free horse run fiery. I, who trot nervously and only reality delimits me.

And when the day reaches its end I hear the crickets and become entirely replete and unintelligible. Then I live the blue daybreak that comes with its bulge full of little birds—I wonder if I’m giving you an idea of what a person goes through in life? And every thing that occurs to me I note to pin it down. For I want to feel in my hands the quivering and lively nerve of the now and may that nerve resist me like a restless vein. And may it rebel, that nerve of life, and may it contort and throb. And may sapphires, amethysts and emeralds spill into the dark eroticism of abundant life: because in my darkness quakes at last the great topaz, word that has its own light."

Clarice Lispector - (The Stream of Life)

"Sí, ésta es la vida vista por la vida. Sin embargo de repente me olvido de cómo captar lo que sucede, no sé captar lo que existe sino viviendo aquí cada cosa que surge, sin importar lo que sea: estoy casi libre de mis errores. Dejo que el caballo libre corra fogoso. Troto nerviosa y sólo la realidad me delimita.

Y cuando el día acaba escucho a los grillos y me transformo entera, repleta e ininteligible. Después vivo la madrugada azulada que viene con su bóveda llena de pajaritos —¿será que te estoy dando una idea de lo que una persona pasa en la vida?—Y cada cosa que me pasa la anoto para grabarla. Pues quiero sentir en las manos el nervio turbulento y vivaz del ya y que ese nervio se me resista como bulliciosa vena. Y que se rebele, ese nervio de vida, y que se contraiga y palpite. Y que se derramen zafiros, amatistas y esmeraldas en el oscuro erotismo de la vida plena: porque en mi oscuridad por fin tiembla el gran topacio, palabra que tiene luz propia."

Clarice Lispector - (Agua viva)

Photo by Wally Villani

The House-Dog’s Grave / Robinson Jeffers

The House-Dog’s Grave

I’ve changed my ways a little; I cannot now

Run with you in the evenings along the shore,

Except in a kind of dream; and you,

If you dream a moment,

You see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door

Where I used to scratch to go out or in,

And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchen floor

The marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do

On the warm stone,

Nor at the foot of your bed; no,

All the nights through I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet

Outside your window where firelight so often plays,

And where you sit to read‚

And I fear often grieving for me‚

Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard

To think of you ever dying.

A little dog would get tired, living so long.

I hope that when you are lying

Under the ground like me your lives will appear

As good and joyful as mine.

No, dears, that’s too much hope:

You are not so well cared for as I have been.

And never have known the passionate undivided

Fidelities that I knew.

Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided…

But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.

I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures

To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,

I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

Robinson Jeffers

Lazy Afternoon, c. 1915. by Henry Grinnell Thomson

Nocturne / E. E. Cummings

Nocturne

When the lithe moonlight silently 

Leaped like a satyr to the grass, 

Filling the night with nakedness, 

All silently I loved my love 

In gardens of white ivory. 

Three fragrant trees which guard the gates, 

Three perfume-trees which sweeten nights, 

Rise upon heaven, full of stars 

And dripping with white radiance. 

Her body is more white than trees. 

Five founts of Bacchus, honey-cold, 

Five showers making drunk the lawns, 

Spout up a dark delicious rain 

Filling the earth with sleep and tears. 

Her tresses are more sweet than wine. 

Seven flowers which breathe divinity, 

Seven wondering blossoms of embrace, 

Open their glory to the moon, 

Kissing white immortality. 

Her mouth is chaster than a flower. 

When the fleet moonlight silently 

Fled like a white nymph down the grass, 

Leaving the night to loneliness, 

All songfully I loved my love 

In gardens of white ivory. 

The strings are silver to my harp, 

And all the frame is ebony 

I think the moon is blossoming— 

My hungry fingers bite the strings— 

My harp becomes a flower, and blooms. 

The strings are golden to my harp, 

And all the frame is as a rose. 

I think the moon is quivering— 

My longing fingers search the chords— 

My harp becomes a heart, and breaks.

When the first day-beam silently 

Broke like an arrow from the east, 

Quivering unto the heights of dawn, 

All silently I left my love 

In gardens of white ivory. 

There are three trees which stand like dreams 

Before the gates of ivory; 

The moon has withered in the west— 

My harp has withered—Hail the day! 

(Wherefore this dagger at my thighs.) 

There are five founts which play like sleep 

Upon the gates of ivory; 

The moon is songless in the west— 

My harp is songless—Hail the day! 

(Wherefore this dagger at my hands.) 

There are seven flowers which smile like death 

Within the gates of ivory; 

The moon is broken in the west— 

My harp is broken—Hail the day! 

(Wherefore this dagger at my heart.)

E. E. Cummings

Photo by Faye Yerbury

my lady is an ivory garden / E. E. Cummings

my lady is an ivory garden, 

who is filled with flowers. 

under the silent and great blossom 

of subtle colour which is her hair 

her ear is a frail and mysterious flower 

her nostrils 

are timid and exquisite 

flowers skilfully moving 

with the least caress of breathing,her 

eyes and her mouth are three flowers.

My lady is an ivory garden 

her shoulders are smooth and shining 

flowers 

beneath which are the sharp and new 

flowers of her little breasts tilting upward with love 

her hand is five flowers 

upon her whitest belly there is a clever dreamshaped flower 

and her wrists are the merest most wonderful flowers

my lady is filled 

with flowers 

her feet are slenderest 

each is five flowers her ankle 

is a minute flower 

my lady's knees are two flowers 

Her thighs are huge and firm flowers of night 

and perfectly between 

them eagerly sleeping is 

the sudden flower of complete amazement 

my lady who is filled with flowers 

is an ivory garden. 

And the moon is a young man 

who i see regularly,about twilight, 

enter the garden smiling to 

himself.

if you like my poems let them 

walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say 

"Along this road i saw a princess pass 

on her way to meet her lover(it was 

toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

E. E. Cummings

"La mia donna è un giardino d'avorio,

colmo di fiori.

Sotto il silente sbocciare grandioso

dei suoi capelli dal tenue colore

il suo orecchio è un fragile e misterioso fiore,

le sue narici sono timidi e deliziosi fiori sapienti

solleciti alla più lieve carezza del respiro,

gli occhi e la bocca sono tre fiori.

La mia donna è un giardino d'avorio,

le sue spalle sono fiori lucenti e lisci

e sotto di loro i fiori nuovi e 

affilati dei suoi piccoli seni

che amorosi puntano in alto,

la sua mano è cinque fiori.

Sopra il suo ventre bianchissimo poggia

un fiore astuto a forma di sogno,

e i polsi sono purissimi

meravigliosissimi fiori.

La mia donna è colma di fiori,

i suoi piedi sono così snelli

ciascuno è cinque fiori

la caviglia è un fiore minuto,

le ginocchia della mia donna sono due fiori.

Le sue cosce sono solidi e immensi fiori notturni

e fra loro in perfetta mediana avidamente sopito

è il fiore improvviso dell'assoluto stupore."

E. E. Cummings

Photo by Trevor Yerbury

The Stream of Life / Clarice Lispector

“To restore you and myself, I return to my state of garden and shade, cool reality, I hardly exist and if I do exist it’s with delicate care. Surrounding the shade is a teeming, sweaty heat. I’m alive. But I feel I’ve not yet reached my limits, bordering on what? Without limits, the adventure of a dangerous freedom. But I take the risk, I live taking it. I’m full of acacias swaying yellow, and I, who have barely begun my journey, begin it with a sense of tragedy, guessed what lost ocean my life steps will take me to. And crazily I latch onto the corners of myself, my hallucinations suffocate me with their beauty. I am before, I am almost, I am never. And all this I gained when I stopped loving you.”

Clarice Lispector - (The Stream of Life)

"Para rehacerme y rehacerte vuelvo a mi estado de jardín y de sombra, fresca realidad, apenas existo y si existo es con un delicado cuidado. Alrededor de la sombra hace un calor de sudor abundante. Estoy viva. Pero siento que aún no he alcanzado mis límites, ¿fronteras con qué?, sin fronteras, la aventura de la libertad peligrosa. Pero me arriesgo, vivo arriesgándome. Estoy llena de acacias que se balancean, amarillas, y yo que apenas he comenzado mi jornada, la empiezo con un sentido de tragedia, adivinando hacia qué océano perdido van mis pasos de vida. Y locamente me apodero de los desvanes de mí, mis desvaríos me asfixian de tanta belleza. Yo soy antes, yo soy casi, yo soy nunca. Y todo eso lo he obtenido al dejar de amarte."

Clarice Lispector - (Agua viva)

Photo by Selçuk Sazak

The Stream of Life / Clarice Lispector

"I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh, like barbs. If I can hold so much love within me, and nevertheless continue to be uneasy, it’s because I need God to come. Come, before it’s too late. I’m in danger, as is everyone who’s alive. And the only thing I can expect is precisely the unexpected. But I know that I shall have peace before death and that one day I shall taste the delicateness of life. I shall notice—as we eat and live the taste of food. My voice falls into the abyss of your silence. You read me in silence. But in this unlimited silent field I unfurl my wings, free to live. So I accept the worst and enter the core of death and that is why I’m alive. The feeling core. And that it makes me quiver."

Clarice Lispector - (The Stream of Life)

"Soy inquieta y áspera y desesperanzada. Aunque amor dentro de mí, eso sí lo tengo. Pero no sé usar el amor. A veces me araña como si fuese una garra. Si he recibido tanto amor dentro de mí y sin embargo continúo inquieta es porque necesito que el Dios venga. Que venga antes de que sea demasiado tarde. Corro peligro como toda persona que vive. Y la única cosa que me  espera es exactamente lo inesperado. Pero sé que tendré paz antes de la muerte y que experimentaré un día lo delicado de la vida. Degustaré —así como se come y se vive— el sabor de la comida. Mi voz cae en el abismo de tu silencio. Tú me lees en silencio. Y en ese infinito campo mudo abro las alas, libre para vivir. Entonces acepto lo peor y entro en el interior de la muerte y para esto estoy viva. El interior es sensible. Y me vibra ese it."

Clarice Lispector - (Agua viva)

Photo by Dorota Górecka

Persuasion / Jane Austen

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

“I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never.”

Jane Austen - (Persuasion)

Note: It’s the letter Captain Wentworth writes to Anne Elliot in Jane Austen’s "Persuasion".

Photo by David Dubnitskiy

El futuro / Julio Cortázar

El futuro

Y sé muy bien que no estarás.

No estarás en la calle, en el murmullo que brota de noche

de los postes de alumbrado, ni en el gesto

de elegir el menú, ni en la sonrisa

que alivia los completos de los subtes,

ni en los libros prestados ni en el hasta mañana.

No estarás en mis sueños,

en el destino original de mis palabras,

ni en una cifra telefónica estarás

o en el color de un par de guantes o una blusa.

Me enojaré amor mío, sin que sea por ti,

y compraré bombones pero no para ti,

me pararé en la esquina a la que no vendrás,

y diré las palabras que se dicen

y comeré las cosas que se comen

y soñaré las cosas que se sueñan

y sé muy bien que no estarás,

ni aquí adentro, la cárcel donde aún te retengo,

ni allí fuera, este río de calles y de puentes.

No estarás para nada, no serás ni recuerdo,

y cuando piense en ti pensaré un pensamiento

que oscuramente trata de acordarse de ti.

Julio Cortázar - (Salvo el crepúsculo, 1984)

The Future

And I know full well you won’t be there.

You won’t be in the street, in the hum that buzzes

from the arc lamps at night, nor in the gesture

of selecting from the menu, nor in the smile

that lightens people packed into the subway,

nor in the borrowed books, nor in the see-you-tomorrow.

You won’t be in my dreams,

in my words’ first destination,

nor will you be in a telephone number

or in the color of a pair of gloves or a blouse.

I’ll get angry, love, without it being on account of you,

and I’ll buy chocolates but not for you,

I’ll stop at the corner you’ll never come to,

and I’ll say the words that are said

and I’ll eat the things that are eaten

and I’ll dream the dreams that are dreamed

and I know full well you won’t be there,

nor here inside, in the prison where I still hold you,

nor there outside, in this river of streets and bridges.

You won’t be there at all, you won’t even be a memory,

and when I think of you I’ll be thinking a thought

that’s obscurely trying to recall you.

Julio Cortázar

"Save Twilight (City Lights Books, 1997) – Translated by Stephen Kessler"

Il futuro

E so molto bene che non ci sarai.

Non ci sarai nella strada,

non nel mormorio che sgorga di notte

dai pali che la illuminano,

neppure nel gesto di scegliere il menù,

o nel sorriso che alleggerisce il “tutto completo” delle sotterranee,

nei libri prestati e nell’arrivederci a domani.

Nei miei sogni non ci sarai,

nel destino originale delle parole,

né ci sarai in un numero di telefono

o nel colore di un paio di guanti, di una blusa.

Mi infurierò, amor mio, e non sarà per te,

e non per te comprerò dolci,

all’angolo a cui non svolterai,

e dirò le parole che si dicono

e mangerò le cose che si mangiano

e sognerò i sogni che si sognano

e so molto bene che non ci sarai,

né qui dentro, il carcere dove ancora ti detengo,

né là fuori, in quel fiume di strade e di ponti.

Non ci sarai per niente, non sarai neppure ricordo,

e quando ti penserò, penserò un pensiero

che oscuramente cerca di ricordarsi di te.

Julio Cortázar

"Le ragioni della collera (Fahrenheit 451, 1995), trad. it. G. Toti"

Le futur

Et je sais très bien que tu n’y seras pas.

Tu ne seras pas dans la rue, dans le murmure qui jaillit la nuit

des réverbères, ni dans le geste

de choisir le menu, ni dans le sourire

qui soulage les métros complets,

ni dans les livres prêtés ni dans les mots à demain.

Tu ne seras pas dans mes rêves,

ni dans le destin original de mes mots,

ni dans un chiffre téléphonique

ou la couleur d’une paire de gants ou d’une blouse.

Je me fâcherai, mon amour, non pas à cause de toi,

et j’achèterai des bonbons mais pas pour toi,

je serai debout au coin d’une rue où tu ne viendras pas,

et je dirai les mots qui se disent

et je mangerai les choses qui se mangent

et je rêverai les rêves qui se rêvent

et je sais très bien que tu n’y seras pas,

ni ici dedans, la prison où encore je te retiens,

ni là dehors, ce fleuve de rues et de ponts.

Tu ne seras pas du tout, tu ne seras même pas un souvenir,

et si je pense à toi, je penserai une pensée

qui obscurément essaye de t’évoquer.

Julio Cortázar

"Crépuscule d’automne (Corti, 2010) – Traduit de l’espagnol (Argentine) par Silvia Baron Supervielle"

Paris, France, 1962, by Édouard Boubat

Después de las fiestas / Julio Cortázar

Después de las fiestas

Y cuando todo el mundo se iba

y nos quedábamos los dos

entre vasos vacíos y ceniceros sucios,

qué hermoso era saber que estabas

ahí como un remanso,

sola conmigo al borde de la noche,

y que durabas, eras más que el tiempo,

eras la que no se iba

porque una misma almohada

y una misma tibieza

iba a llamarnos otra vez

a despertar al nuevo día,

juntos, riendo, despeinados.

Julio Cortázar - (Salvo el crepúsculo, 1984)

After the Party

And when everyone had gone

and just the two of us were left

among the empty glasses and dirty ashtrays,

how beautiful it was to know that you

were there like an oasis,

alone with me at the night’s edge,

and you were lasting, you were more than time,

you were the one who wouldn’t leave

because one pillow

one warmth

was going to call us again

awake to the new day,

together, laughing, disheveled.

Julio Cortázar




Dopo le feste

E quando tutti se ne andavano

e restavamo in due

tra bicchieri vuoti e portacenere sporchi,

com'era bello sapere che eri lì

come una corrente che ristagna,

sola con me sull'orlo della notte,

e che duravi, eri più che il tempo,

eri quella che non se ne andava

perché uno stesso cuscino

e uno stesso tepore

ci avrebbero chiamati di nuovo

a svegliare il nuovo giorno,

insieme, ridendo, spettinati.

Julio Cortázar

Unknown photographer

Zähle die Mandeln / Paul Celan

Zähle die Mandeln

Zähle die Mandeln,

zähle, was bitter war und dich wachhielt,

zähl mich dazu:

Ich suchte dein Aug, als du’s aufschlugst und niemand dich ansah,

ich spann jenen heimlichen Faden,

an dem der Tau, den du dachtest,

hinunterglitt zu den Krügen,

die ein Spruch, der zu niemandes Herz fand, behütet.

Dort erst tratest du ganz in den Namen, der dein ist,

schrittest du sicheren Fußes zu dir,

schwangen die Hämmer frei im Glockenstuhl deines Schweigens,

stieß das Erlauschte zu dir,

legte das Tote den Arm auch um dich,

und ihr ginget selbdritt durch den Abend.

Mache mich bitter.

Zähle mich zu den Mandeln.

Paul Celan

© 1952 Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt München

in der Verlagsgruppe Random House GmbH

Aus: Mohn und Gedächtnis. München: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt , 1952

Audioproduktion: HR 1963

Count the Almonds

Count the Almonds,

count what was bitter and kept you awake,

count me among them:

I searched for your eye, when you opened it and no one looked at you,

I spun that secret thread,

along which the dew you thought

slid down to the jars,

watched over by a saying that found its way to no one’s heart.

Only there did you wholly enter the name that is yours,

did you step sure-footed toward yourself,

did the hammers swing free in the belfry of your silence,

the overheard reach you,

the dead put its arm around you too,

and all three of you walked through the evening.

Make me bitter.

Count me among the almonds.

Paul Celan

Count the Almonds (other english translation)

Count the Almonds,

count, what was bitter, watched for you,

count me in:

I sought your Eye, as it opened and no one announced you,

I spun that hidden Thread,

on which the Dew, of your thought,

slid down to the Pitchers,

that a Speech, which no one’s Heart found, guarded.

Only there did you enter wholly the Name, that is yours,

stepping sure-footedly into yourself,

the Hammers swung free in the Bell-Cradle of Silences, yours,

the Listened-For reached you,

the Dead put its arm round you too,

and the three of you walked through the Evening.

Make me bitter.

Count me among the Almonds.

Paul Celan

Bademlerden Say Beni

Say bademleri, 

say acı olanı, uyanık tutanı say, 

beni de onlara kat: 

Gözünü arardım hep, gözünü açtığında, 

sana kimselerin bakmadığı bir anda, 

örerdim ya o saklı, o gizli ipliği ben, 

ki onun üzerinde tasarladığın çiy'in 

testilere doğru kaydığı bir zamanda, 

yüreğe varamamış öz bir sözle korunan. 

Ancak böyle varırdın adına, senin olan, 

o şaşmaz adımlarla kendine yürüyerek, 

savrulurdu çekiçler sanki bir çan kulesi 

boşluğundaymış gibi senin suskunluğunun. 

Ölmüş olan o şey senin koluna girer 

ve işittiklerin de seninle birleşirdi, 

üç olup giderdiniz geceyi katederek. 

Beni de acı yap, acı yap beni. 

Bademlerden say beni.

Paul Celan 

Çevirenler: Ahmet Necdet-Gertrude Durusoy

Paul Celan, Paris, 1963,
by Lütfi Özkök (Turkish photographer)

Der Wind und die Rose / Wolfgang Borchert

Der Wind und die Rose

Kleine blasse Rose!

Der Wind, von Luv, der lose,

der dich zerwühlte,

als wär dein Blatt

das Kleid von einer Hafenfrau –

er kam so wild und kam so grau!

Vielleicht auch fühlte

er sich für Sekunden matt

und wollt in deinen dunklen Falten

den Atem sanft verhalten.

Da hat dein Duft ihn so betört,

berauscht,

daß er sich bäumt und bauscht

und dich vor Lust zerstört,

daß er sich noch mit deinem Kusse bläht,

wenn er am bangen Gras vorüber weht.

Wolfgang Borchert

RÜZGÂR VE GÜL

Küçük solgun gül!

Bordadan esen hoyrat yel

perişan etti seni!

yaprakların sanki

bir liman yosmasının

sırtına giydikleri -- 

birden saldırıverdi.

Hissetti de kendini

bir süre belki bitkin,

istedi gizli kıvrımlarında

biraz soluk alsın.

Ama kokun onu öyle büyüledi,

öylesine geçirdi ki kendinden:

köpürdü coştu birden,

duyduğu hazla ezdi seni;

öptüm diye böbürlenmede

ürkmüş otlarda eserken gene.

 

Wolfgang Borchert

Çeviri: Behçet Necatigil

Mrs. Donn F. Eisele, 1968, by Vernon Merritt

Cibeles ante la ofrenda anual de tulipanes / Ana Rossetti

Cibeles ante la ofrenda anual de tulipanes

"¡Que mi corazón estalle!

Que el amor, a su antojo

acabe con mi cuerpo"

Amaru

Desprendida su funda, el capullo,

tulipán sonrosado, apretado turbante,

enfureció mi sangre con brusca primavera.

Inoculado el sensual delirio,

lubrica mi saliva tu pedúnculo;

el tersísimo tallo que mi mano entroniza.

Alta flor tuya erguida en los oscuros parques;

oh, lacérame tú, vulnerada derríbame

con la boca repleta de tu húmeda seda.

Como anillo se cierran en tu redor mis pechos,

los junto, te me incrustas, mis labios se entreabren

y una gota aparece en tu cúspide malva.

Ana Rossetti - «Los devaneos de Erato» (1980)

Cybele with the annual offering of tulips

“May my heart burst!

May love at its pleasure

do what it will with my body.”

Amaru

Loosening its sheath, the rosy

tulip bud, firm turban,

maddens my blood with rude spring.

Infected with sensual delirium,

my saliva lubricates your thick stalk,    

the rigid stem that my hand enthrones, 

your tall flower raised in shadowed parks.

Oh lacerate me, vulnerable, pull me down,

fill my mouth with your humid silk.

My breasts close around you like a ring,

I hold them together, a setting for your jewel,

my lips half-open,

and a drop appears on your mauve peak.

Ana Rossetti

Translated by Susan Suntree and Nancy Dale Nieman

Photo by Mikhail Tishkoff

Dostoevsky: Letters And Reminiscences / Fyodor Dostoevsky

"When I look back at the past and think how much time has been wasted in vain, how much time was lost in delusions, in errors, in idleness, in ignorance of how to live, how I did not value time, how often I sinned against my heart and spirit—my heart bleeds. Life is a gift, life is happiness, each minute might have been an age of happiness. Si jeunesse savait! [If youth knew!] Now, changing my life, I am being reborn into a new form. Brother! I swear to you that I shall not lose hope and shall preserve my spirit and heart in purity. I shall be reborn to a better thing. That is my whole hope, my whole comfort!"

Fyodor Dostoevsky - [Dostoevsky: Letters And Reminiscences]

[From Dostoevsky's letter, written on the day he was sentenced to death, December 22, 1849, to his brother Mihail.]

Drawing: Fyodor Dostoevsky in 1947.

L’extase / Paul Éluard

L’extase

Je suis devant ce paysage féminin

Comme un enfant devant le feu

Souriant vaguement et les larmes aux yeux

Devant ce paysage où tout remue en moi

Où des miroirs s'embuent où des miroirs s'éclairent

Reflétant deux corps nus saison contre saison

J'ai tant de raisons de me perdre

Sur cette terre sans chemins et sous ce ciel sans horizon

Belles raisons que j'ignorais hier

Et que je n'oublierai jamais

Belles clés des regards clés filles d'elles-mêmes

Devant ce paysage où la nature est mienne

Devant le feu le premier feu

Bonne raison maîtresse

Etoile identifiée

Et sur la terre et sous le ciel hors de mon cœur et dans mon cœur

Second bourgeon première feuille verte

Que la mer couvre de ses ailes

Et le soleil au bout de tout venant de nous

Je suis devant ce paysage féminin

Comme une branche dans le feu.

(14 novembre 1946)

Paul Éluard

"Le Temps déborde. (sous le pseudonyme de Didier Desroche). Editions Les Cahiers d’Art, 1947."

Ecstasy

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a child in front of the fire

Smiling vaguely with tears in my eyes

In front of this land where all moves in me

Where mirrors mist where mirrors clear

Reflecting two nude bodies season on season

I’ve so many reasons to lose myself

On this road-less earth under horizon-less skies

Good reasons I ignored yesterday

And I’ll never ever forget

Good keys of gazes keys their own daughters

in front of this land where nature is mine

In front of the fire the first fire

Good mistress reason

Identified star

On earth under sky in and out of my heart

Second bud first green leaf

That the sea covers with sails

And the sun finally coming to us

I am in front of this feminine land

Like a branch in the fire.

Paul Éluard

El éxtasis

Estoy ante este paisaje femenino

Como un niño ante el fuego

Sonriendo vagamente con lágrimas en los ojos

Ante este paisaje en que todo me emociona

Donde espejos se empañan donde espejos se limpian

Reflejando dos cuerpos desnudos estación a estación

Tengo tantas razones para perderme

En esta tierra sin caminos bajo este cielo sin horizonte

Hermosas razones que ayer ignoraba

Y que ya nunca olvidaré

Hermosas llaves de miradas claves hijas de sí mismas

Ante este paisaje donde la naturaleza es mía

Ante el fuego el primer fuego

Buena razón maestra

Estrella identificada

Y en la tierra y bajo el cielo fuera de mi corazón y en él

Segundo brote primera hoja verde

Que el mar cubre con sus alas

Y el sol al fondo de todo que viene de nosotros

Estoy ante este paisaje femenino

Como rama en el fuego.

Paul Éluard

Traducción de Jesús Munárriz

Garden Of Paintings, 2010, by Marc Lagrange

E poi fate l’amore / Alda Merini

E poi fate l’amore.

Niente sesso, solo amore.

E con questo intendo i baci lenti sulla bocca,

sul collo, sulla pancia, sulla schiena,

i morsi sulle labbra, le mani intrecciate,

e occhi dentro occhi.

Intendo abbracci talmente stretti

da diventare una cosa sola,

corpi incastrati e anime in collisione,

carezze sui graffi, vestiti tolti insieme alle paure,

baci sulle debolezze,

sui segni di una vita

che fino a quel momento era stata un po’ sbagliata.

Intendo dita sui corpi, creare costellazioni,

inalare profumi, cuori che battono insieme,

respiri che viaggiano allo stesso ritmo,

e poi sorrisi,

sinceri dopo un po’ che non lo erano più.

Ecco, fate l’amore e non vergognatevene,

perché l’amore è arte, e voi i capolavori.

Alda Merini

And then make love.

No sex, just love.

And by this I mean

slow kisses on the mouth, on the neck,

on the belly, on the back,

bites on the lips,

intertwined hands,

and eyes inside eyes

I mean, hugs so tight

to become one thing,

bodies stuck and souls in collision,

caresses on the scratches

clothes off, together with fears,

kisses on our weaknesses,

on the signs of a life

which, until then

had been a little wrong.

I mean, fingers on the bodies,

creating constellations,

smelling scents,

hearts beating together,

breaths traveling

at the same pace.

And then smiles,

true, after some time

they hadn't been anymore

There,

make love and don't feel ashamed,

because love is art,

and you're the masterpieces.

Alda Merini

You — unforgettable — are so forgetful! / Marina Tsvetaeva

You — unforgettable — are so forgetful!

You look like a smile of yours when graced upon me.

Should I say more — more handsome than golden dawning!

Should I say more — unique in all creation!

By Love you’re held a prisoner of passion!

As fair as by Chellini sculptured chalice.

My friend, allow me in ancient manner

Tell you about love, among all loves, the gentlest:

I love you. Wind is howling in the fireplace.

I’m still, I’m staring at the raging fire —

I do love you. My love is strong and pure.

I speak the language of the true and virtuous.

Friend, all will pass. Hands squeezing temples harder —

Life will release, young prisoner of passion.

And Love will set you free, yet the auspicious

And sailing voice of mine shall proudly thunder

That once upon a time there lived and wandered

You, unforgettable, and so forgetful!

Marina Tsvetaeva

Photo by Petra Teeuwsen