4/6/15 02:16 pmWe apologize for the inconvenience.tas tā, runājot par Lieldienām. |
running to stand still
there must be a light that never goes out
11/20/14 12:18 pmI Know Why the Caged Bird SingsThe free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom The free bird thinks of another breeze an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. / Maya Angelou |
9/7/14 07:26 pmIzpildīju FB grāmatu challenge, labi, ka esmu vecāku namā un labi, ka Invisible cities bija pie rokas, jo atcerējos par to grāmatu un ļoti sailgojos palasīt tāda veida tekstu.Italo Calvino, no Invisible cities, šis laikam ir mans pēdējā laika mīļākais fragments. CITIES & SIGNS 2 Travellers return from the city of Zirma with distinct memories: a blind black man shouting in the crowd, a lunatic teetering on a skyscraper's cornice, a girl walking with a puma on a leash. Actually many of the blind men who tap their canes on Zirma's cobblestones are black; in every skyscraper there is someone going mad; all lunatics spend hours on cornices; there is no puma that some girl does not raise, as a whim. The city is redundant: it repeats itself so that something will stick in the mind. I too am returning from Zirma: my memory includes dirigibles flying in all directions, at window level; streets of shops where tattoos are drawn on sailors' skin; underground trains crammed with obese women suffering from the humidity. My travelling companions, on the other hand, swear they saw only one dirigible hovering among the city's spires, only one tattoo artist arranging needles and inks and pierced patterns on his bench, only one fat woman fanning herself on a train's platform. Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can begin to exist. |
3/7/14 05:09 pmdvēseles nomierināšanai vēlreiz iepostēšu vienu no saviem visu laiku mīļākajiem citātiem.A dark, omnipresent pool of water. It was probably always there, hidden away somewhere. But when the time comes it silently rushes out, chilling every cell in your body. You drown in that cruel flood, gasping for breath. You cling to a vent near the ceiling, struggling, but the air you manage to breath is dry and burns your throat. Water and thirst, cold and heat - these supposedly opposite elements combine to assault you. The world is a huge space, but the space that will take you in - and it doesn't have to be very big - is nowhere to be found. You seek a voice, but what do you get? Silence. You look for silence, but guess what? All you hear over and over is the voice of this omen. And sometimes this prophetic voice pushes a secret switch hidden deep inside your brain. Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That's it. That's my heart.
/Haruki Murakami ''Kafka on the Shore'' |
6/16/12 07:30 pmEs mīlu tevi, bērniškīgā iela,Ar visu tavu izdomāto mieru, Ar kilogramos sasvārstīto prieku, Un to, kas visām strīpām pāri rauj. Es mīlu tevi tumsas antracītā Un laimes lietus noraudātos logos, Un tagad - ne ar pirmo mīlestību - Ar pēdējo, aiz kuras nav nekā. Ar to, kur beidzas ikdienības gaisi, Ar to, kur beidzas viss un sākas kosmoss, Jo tikai kosmosam ir sākums. Es nezinu. Es zināšu varbūt. Es mīlu tevi, mīlu dzīvi tevī, Es mīlu visus vējus tavā vējā Un visus ziedus tavos pieneņziedos Es nezināju, ka tā mīlēt var. Es nezināju, ka var laime sāpēt. Es domāju, ka visas sāpes smagas, Es domāju, ka visas sāpes ļaunas. Es mīlu tevi, dzīve! Sāp? Jā. Beidzot sāp. /O. Vācietis |
2/14/12 01:21 am( the poem that took the place of a mountain ) |
12/9/11 10:22 amCar Je est un autre. Si le cuivre s'éveille clairon, il n'y a rien de sa faute. Cela m'est évident: j'assiste à l'éclosion de ma pensée: je la regarde, je l'écoute: je lance un coup d'archet: la symphonie fait son remuement dans les profondeurs, ou vient d'un bond sur la scène.For I is
an other. If brass wakes as a bugle,
it is not its fault at all. That is quite clear to me: I am a spectator at the
flowering of my thought. I watch it, I listen to it: I draw a bow across a
string: a symphony stirs in the depths, or surges onto the stage. (Arthur Rimbaud, Letter of the Seer) |
10/24/11 11:49 amDulce et decorum est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. Wilfred Owen (1917/1918) |
9/19/11 02:55 pm( .... ) |
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