six words with a sharpie

stain the poetry of this day
[six words]

above chaotic

   

chaotic below-- from the,

B E A T S in my head.

writing                above--

                      [within]

               on-- 

                the rooftops 

writing

                         --from the, 

and the-- 

B E A T S in my head.

ps i'm just just just [with emphasis on just] starting another blog, without any thought of abandoning this one, it was simply a whim as i was caught up all night with a migraine, and as i'm discovering in further [and very interesting] migraine research [check out the writer/migraineur siri hustvedt this is just one link to many of her fascinating blogs, books, interviews etc..], anyway, apparently and as i'd always seemed to find along the way.. the migraine brain can actually lead you on wonderful [albeit painful] discoveries so in the middle of the night i felt like discovering in myself, a new blog..... and, well, nevertheless, it's here: a red ballon caught in branches and together we'll see what becomes of it.

x c

april is the cruellest month-

The Waste Land  

1922

'Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi

in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα

τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω.'

For Ezra Pound

il miglior fabbro.

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar kine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;


I will show you fear in a handful of dust. ...

T.S. Eliot 

photos : by c : chantal

syllables lend wings swings to hours

birds [morningnight] fly


darkness bring sun hide in light


you--  [mid]  i--  found  [flight]  ----


[haiku]


  

   

[haiku]
and [photos] 

: c by : 

chantal

x c

flickr

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