Monday, February 27, 2012



"How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander

the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head

like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.
That pile of fallen leaves drifting from

the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,

to the grooves in that man’s voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves

of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one’s bones. And now it plucks a single

tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain’s lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies

buzz away—while another accidental

coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain’s gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds

a fraying map from the pocket of the day."
Source: Poetry (February 2012).

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Never Again...

Masao Yamamoto

Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.

Robert Frost 


Thanks to Katia

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Milton's ghost / garden sense


"the names are written on signs/the growth is tall and thick in
the garden everything finds its name/full with held breath
and rustling

what shall I say in a garden where everything has a name


yet another question: what
can I say?

justice requires imagination/requires
exposure/thus truth becomes profusion/it merely states what is there

once more and nothing else


in a garden where everything has a name nothing
is possible/but

does everything have a name?/does that garden exist?

in a garden where some things have names and some do not everything is

possible/everything humanly possible

in such a garden

nothing nothing human is foreign to it here is precisely



inside the fence/what can I say?



I give

buttons, fringes, umbels, leaves, bulbs, and pods their names to
enjoy them all the more and hear them rustle as the

buttons, fringes, umbels, leaves, bulbs, pods,
and berries

they are/and let them banish my dejection


a garden where I have called everything by its proper name

where I can give things their names/only at night at night is
enough/it is sudden salvation

here I will quench my namethirst


here I will rest armtangled


where I have called by its proper name/all that should be called

by name
and let the rest be

a waiting rustling place/what does it wait for? what does it wait for?

to speak of things that have no names

yet/which are so small/or to think of things so evil they no longer
have a name/with held breath/not
allowed to have a name anymore

should nothing
human be foreign to me? I hope so or else

I hope not


the profusion is always there/even when it is a 
profusion that no one seems to need


everything may have a name but
I could come up with new ones for the lot if I wanted because
I am awake alone so

green fans red beads blue/veils and reveals/healthy and unhealthy
night with steeplehigh lightning

and even universal laws feel voluntary/now
small tortoiseshell/dwell in my tiny tortoise




gardens seem more humane than
humans/with all their costumes

the special order


neither too much freedom nor too little

to speak is so human it is like the
avenue of sphinxes/speechless faces/stoneheavy meaning not one
word over the lips/while all forms/the trees the houses flowers and windows

and the neighbors’ curtains and the living rooms behind them maybe they are quiet
quiet living rooms

no one is innocent but some are pure and many
many do have wings


but the costumes

reality/which is why the unadorned is sphinx-like/like a thing without a name


the garden grows thicker and thicker

more and more hanging/full/dry

nametangled/is all that just ornament? it is
profusion/excess/ornament if ornament is inevitable/what can I say?


the garden is quiet before fruiting/tonight the names set


© 2010, Ursula Andkjær Olsen
From: Have og helvede
Publisher: Gylendal, Copenhagen, 2010

© Translation: 2010, Thom Saterlee
Publisher: First published on PIW, 2010

Monday, February 20, 2012

Freedom in Art

Gottfried Helnwein  






Gottfreid Helnwein, Selektion (Ninth November Night), 1988, installation of photos in Cologne, Germany. 

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Duane Michals - Photographer

"This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen, she did love me. Look see for yourself."

"I was lucky because I never went to photography school and I didn't learn the photography rules," he says. "And in not learning the rules, I was free. I always say, you're either defined by the medium or you redefine the medium in terms of your needs."  - Duane Michals

Dr. Heisenberg’s Magic Mirror of Uncertainty

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

spaghetti westerns and musicboxes...

who doesn't love them?
and then there's Jack White!

Saturday, February 11, 2012

a day for smiles

"We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery."

 -- Charlie Chaplin

one more :)

Thursday, February 9, 2012

The Blood of a Poet

“By breaking statues one risks turning into one, oneself”

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

beautiful gifts

Thank you Nata

2 days, in bed with a phone

Comes a time when a girl just has to pull herself out of a bed of thought.
God forbid it's almost noon.

It's not like you're going to get a second glance or even a whisper,
I mean, who do you think you are?

Who's going to see you anyway, for all they know?
Maybe it would be good enough to live for the sake of living,
to put your big girl panties on and suck it up!.

images #1 by Elena Kovaleva
           #2 by Peter Lindbergh
           #3 by Stefan De Lay

Monday, February 6, 2012


nameless and faceless is how you found me and nameless and faceless is how I will remain
 you will never use me again!