Every being cries out silently to be read differently.
“The moon does not fight. It attacks no one. It does not worry. It does not try to crush others. It keeps to its course, but by its very nature, it gently influences. What other body could pull an entire ocean from shore to shore? The moon is faithful to its nature and its power is never diminished.”
― Ming-Dao Deng
Image: Frederick Childe Hassam, ‘Moonlight, Isle of Shoals’, 1892
Image: René Magritte
“Inside me there was everything I had believed was outside. There was, in particular, the sun, light, and all colours. There were even the shapes of objects and the distance between objects. Everything was there and movement as well… Light is an element that we carry inside us and which can grow there with as much abundance, variety, and intensity as it can outside of us…I could light myself…that is, I could create a light inside of me so alive, so large, and so near that my eyes, my physical eyes, or what remained of them, vibrated, almost to the point of hurting…” – Jacques Lusseyran
You don’t survive in me
because of memories;
nor are you mine because
of a lovely longing’s strength.
What does make you present
is the ardent detour
that a slow tenderness
traces in my blood.
I do not need
to see you appear;
being born sufficed for me
to lose you a little less.
Rainer Maria Rilke
image: Moon Kissed — Endymion by Arthur Wardle RBI RBA, 1864-1949.
Poetic analogy has in common with mystical analogy that it transgresses the deductive laws in order to make the mind apprehend the interdependence of two objects of thought situated on different planes, between which the logical functioning of the mind is unlikely to throw a bridge – André Breton
Image – Johfra (Leo)
River by Justyna Kopania (link: http://studiounderthemoon.webs.com/)
“But the poet who wants to break free from the imagination, and not merely live on the images produced by real objects, stops dreaming and starts to desire. Then, when the limits of his imagination become unbearable and he wants to free himself from his enemy – the world – he passes from desire to love. He goes from imagination, which is a fact of the soul, to inspiration, which is a state of the soul. He goes from analysis to faith, and the poet, previously an explorer, is now a humble man who bears on his shoulders the irresistible beauty of all things.
Imagination assaults the theme furiously from all sides, but inspiration receives it suddenly and wraps it in subtle, pulsing light, like those huge carnivorous flowers that envelop the trembling bee and dissolve it in the acrid juice exuded by its merciless petals.
Imagination is intelligent, orderly, full of equilibrium, but inspiration is sometimes incongruent – it does not recognize man, and often it places a livid worm in the clear eyes of our muse. Just because it wants to, without offering an explanation. Imagination creates a poetic atmosphere, and inspiration invents the “poetic fact.”
Just as poetical imagination has a human logic, poetic inspiration has a poetic one. Acquired technique and aesthetic postulates are no longer of any use. And just as imagination is a discovery, inspiration is a gift, an ineffable gift. It was Juan Larrea who said, “This, which comes to me because of my innocence.”
The mission of the poet is just that – to give life (animar), in the exact sense of the word: to give soul. Because I am a true poet, and will remain so until my death, I will never stop flagellating myself with the disciplines, and never give up hope that someday my body will run with green or yellow blood. Anything is better than to remain seated in the window looking out on the same landscape. The light of any poet is contradiction. I haven’t tried to force my position on anyone – that would be unworthy of poetry. Poetry doesn’t need skilled practitioners, she needs lovers, and she lays down brambles and shards of glass for the hands that search for her with love.”
– Federico Garcia Lorca
“Donkey-Skin” Illustration by Harry Clarke
“It was with difficulty that he withdrew from this gloomy little alley, intent on discovering who the inmate of the tiny room might be. He was told that it was a scullion called Donkey-skin because of the skin which she always wore, and that she was so dirty and unpleasant that no one took any notice of her, or even spoke to her; she had just been taken out of pity to look after the geese.”
“Curiosity made him put his eye to the keyhole”
Donkey Skin (French: Peau d’Âne) is a French literary fairytale written in verse by Charles Perrault. It was first published in 1695 in a small volume and republished in 1697 in Perrault’s Histoires ou contes du temps passé
It’s an unsettling tale of a King who wanted to marry his daughter, after his wife’s death>
“A king had a beautiful wife and a rich castle, including a marvelous donkey whose droppings were gold. One day his wife died, after making him promise not to marry except to a woman whose beauty and attributes equaled hers. The king grieved, but was, in time, persuaded to seek another wife. It became clear that the only woman who would fit the promise was his daughter.
She went to her fairy godmother who advised her to make impossible demands as a condition of her consent: a dress as bright as the sun, a dress the colour of the moon, a dress all the colours of the sky, and finally, the hide of his marvelous donkey (which produced gold, and thus was the source of his kingdom’s wealth). Such was the king’s desire to marry her that he granted all of them. The fairy godmother gave her a marvelous chest to contain all she owned and told her that the donkeyskin would make an excellent disguise.
The princess fled and eventually found a royal farm where they let her work in the kitchen, despite her ugliness in the donkeyskin. On feast days, she would dress herself in the fine gowns her father had given her, and one such day, the prince came by her room and peeped through the keyhole. He fell in love at once, fell ill with his longing, and declared that nothing would cure him but a cake baked by Donkeyskin, and nothing they could say of what a dirty creature she was dissuaded him.
When Donkeyskin baked the cake, a ring of hers fell in it. The prince found it and declared that he would marry only the woman whose finger it fit. Every other woman having failed, he insisted that Donkeyskin try, and it fit. When she had dressed herself in her fine gowns, his parents were reconciled with the match. Donkeyskin later found that her father had remarried to a beautiful widow and everyone lived happily ever after.
It was also a 1970 French musical film directed by Jacques Demy. It is also known by the English titles Once Upon a Time and The Magic Donkey. It stars Catherine Deneuve and Jean Marais, with music by Michel Legrand. Donkey Skin also proved to be Demy’s biggest success in France.
For the full Perrault story, and the rest of his fairy tales, read them online or download here:
PHOTOGRAPHIE - COLLAGE - PEINTURE
A Trail of Thoughts
Hidden places, secret histories and unsung geography from the east of England and beyond
For the mature patriot---We got this!
By the people and for the people of Axarquia
simply an art gallery
Books reviews with the occasional interview thrown in for good measure
Mainly about history.
Award-winning blog - Living in rural Andalucia
Highly unusual lives.
The abandoned, forgotten, & unexplained
Welcome to my Nightmares
Plumbing the depths on the south coast of England
Showcasing Research Resources / Hyrwyddo Adnoddau Ymchwil
Books, exhibitions, films, music, places - anything that inspires. Here so I don't forget.
New Longbarrow anthology of walking-themed poems by Angelina Ayers, James Caruth, Mark Goodwin, Rob Hindle, Andrew Hirst, Chris Jones and Fay Musselwhite
Fred Pepper: Artist, Illustrator, Performer, Writer.
Disinformation [art and music] + Rorschach Audio [psychoacoustics]
the international society for the study of the lives and art of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.
A novel based on the true story of French painter James Tissot
Silt and shingle. Prose and poems by Brian Lewis
...Folk is the new Funk...
Stories and Photographs of my travels, Tales of friends, family, animals and my life
what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?
ben stainton posts things using a computer
A Personal Collection of Blogs
pour une spiritualité libre et laïque
As you start to walk out on the way, the way appears
Sharing My Love of Symbols
A HOARD OF RANDOM FINDS: SEEN, READ OR OVERHEARD
Explorations in contemplative writing
A Library of Literary Interestingness
click/like/share... if you must
Essentials for the Cocktail Swilling Savant
From Bauhaus to Beinhaus