gius-96

[gius-96]

The Lady of Shalott

by John William Waterhouse

[gius-96]

Arca - Desafío

#music #arca #desafio

[gius-96]

Burnt Norton (Interlude)

#music #poetry #tseliot #four quartets #lana del rey #honeymoon #burnt norton #interlude #rose #roses #time #redemption

[gius-96]

I see everything All their suffering Tiny vehicles Space-age miracles

All our hearts were sore No fight left in this war Before the ghostly chase All those that rearrange

I, taken from those spirals be both kind Hungry for another piece of mind Silent and impatient without time Directionless and innocent

Wards are ours to keep Definition free Unkind and alone End of the idea

I, taken from those spirals be both kind Hungry for another piece of mind Silent and impatient without time Directionless and innocent

I, taken from those spirals be both kind Hungry for another piece of mind Silent and impatient without time Directionless and innocent

#party in the dark #mogwai #post-rock #every country's sun #music

[gius-96]

Prima del viaggio - Eugenio Montale

Prima del viaggio si scrutano gli orari,

le coincidenze, le soste, le pernottazioni

e le prenotazioni ( di camere con bagno

o doccia, a un letto o due o addirittura un flat);

si consultano

le guide Hachette e quelle dei musei,

si scambiano valute, si dividono

franchi da escudos, rubli da copechi;

prima del viaggio si informa

qualche amico o parente,si controllano

valigie e passaporti, si completa

il corredo, si acquista un supplemento

di lamette da barba, eventualmente

si dà un’occhiata al testamento, pura

scaramanzia perché i disastri aerei

in percentuale sono nulla;

prima

del viaggio si è tranquilli ma si sospetta che

il saggio non si muova e che il piacere

di ritornare costi uno sproposito.

E poi si parte e tutto è OK e tutto

è per il meglio e inutile.

E ora che ne sarà

del mio viaggio?

Troppo accuratamente l’ho studiato

senza saperne nulla. Un imprevisto

è la sola speranza. Ma mi dicono

che è una stoltezza dirselo.

#eugenio montale #poetry #italian poetry #prima del viaggio

[gius-96]

wrongonyou - Killer

I wanna go to mars.

to kill you into the fog.

the sound of your death.

is killing me in my brain.

#wrongonyou #killer #fog #Mars #music #Rebirth #i wanna go to mars

[gius-96]

“Quando, distrutto l’abbozzo,

ti sforzi di trattenere nella mente

il periodo senza pesanti glosse,

unito e uno nella notte interiore,

e, gli occhi socchiusi, la frase si regge

unicamente sul suo slancio –

sta, quel periodo, alla carta

come la cupola ai cieli vuoti.”

#osip mandelstam #poetry

[gius-96]

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S. Eliot

“S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.”

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.                So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.                And should I then presume?                And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head                Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;                That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:                “That is not it at all,                That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

#ts eliot #the love song of j. alfred prufrock #sea-girl #poetry #the fool #tarot #Dante

[gius-96]

Life Is Strange - Before The Storm: The Right Way Around by Daughter (Ma...

#music #daughter #music from before the storm #life is strange #the right way #theright way around #video games #soundtrack

[gius-96]

Le Vibrazioni - Respiro

#Respiro #breath #music #le vibrazioni #italian music #april is the cruellest month

[gius-96]

Claude Monet, Vétheuil nella nebbia, 1879 Parigi, Musée Marmottan Monet

#Claude Monet #impressionism #Vetheuil #art

[gius-96]

Spirit is Life It flows thru the death of me endlessly like a river unafraid of becoming the sea

Gregory Corso

#Gregory Corso #spirit #life #sea #river #beat generation #poetry

[gius-96]

The Lion For Real

"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..." I came home and found a lion in my living room Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion! Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days Called up old Reichian analyst who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana 'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room' 'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.' Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!' He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn        Ants But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's        bathroom. But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat 'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father        hath no lion You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for        your Bridegroom.' Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink        in Harlem Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside        thru the window My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in        deafening stillness We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang        greeting. I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board. He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence. Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha. Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten        face stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had        nightmares Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by        Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus, I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible        Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!' It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to        steady its trembling body Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in        Mexico Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--        but I will be back again." Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your        Mercy.

Paris, March 1958

#allen ginsberg #beat generation #poetry #lion #thelion for real #idole contemplative

[gius-96]

Asaf Avidan // Different Pulses

My life is like a wound I scratch so I can bleed

Regurgitate my words, I write so I can feed

And Death grows like a tree that's planted in my chest

Its roots are at my feet, I walk so it won't rest

Oh, Baby I am Lost...

I try to push the colors through a prism back to white

To sync our different pulses into a blinding light

And if love is not the key. If love is not a key.

I hope that I can find a place where it could be

I know that in your heart there is an answer to a question

That I'm not as yet aware that I have asked

And if that tree had not drunk my tears

I would have bled and cried for all the years

That I alone have let them pass

Oh, Baby I am yours...

#Asaf Avidan #Different pulses #music

[gius-96]

Pink Floyd - Brain Damage

The lunatic is on the grass The lunatic is on the grass Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs Got to keep the loonies on the path

The lunatic is in the hall The lunatics are in my hall The paper holds their folded faces to the floor And every day the paper boy brings more

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon And if there is no room upon the hill And if your head explodes with dark forbodings too I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

The lunatic is in my head The lunatic is in my head You raise the blade, you make the change You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane You lock the door And throw away the key There's someone in my head but it's not me.

And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear You shout and no one seems to hear And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes I'll see you on the dark side of the moon "I can't think of anything to say except... I think it's marvellous! HaHaHa!"

#pink floyd #classics #music #brain damage #the dark side of the moon

[gius-96]

Juan Mirò

 The gold of blue (1967)

#art #paintings #Juan Mirò #The Gold of blue

[gius-96]