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May 21 2017

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From Memoirs of a Geisha 

At the temple there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.

Arthur Golden

April 24 2017

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Cherry Blossoms
fall at the peak of their beauty
in this world to teach our hearts
to be free of attachment

Otagaki Rengetsu  Ōtagaki Rengetsu  (1791- 1875)

Image: Terasaki Kôgyô - 月夜桜花 - Cherry Blossoms and Moon, 1890–1910, Museum of Fine Arts

April 22 2017

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Wearing nothing but snakeskin
boots, I blazed a footpath, the first
radical road out of that old kingdom
toward a new unknown.
When I came to those great flaming gates
of burning gold,
I stood alone in terror at the threshold
between Paradise and Earth.
There I heard a mysterious echo:
my own voice
singing to me from across the forbidden
side. I shook awake—
at once alive in a blaze of green fire.

Let it be known: I did not fall from grace.

I leapt
to freedom.

Ansel  Elkins - Autobiography of Eve

Photographer: Marta Bevacqua

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Ode to Clothes

Every morning you wait,

clothes, over a chair,

to fill yourself with

my vanity, my love,

my hope, my body.


risen from sleep,

I relinquish the water,

enter your sleeves,

my legs look for

the hollows of your legs,

and so embraced

by your indefatigable faithfulness

I rise, to tread the grass,

enter poetry,

consider through the windows,

the things,

the men, the women,

the deeds and the fights

go on forming me,

go on making me face things

working my hands,

opening my eyes,

using my mouth,

and so,


I too go forming you,

extending your elbows,

snapping your threads,

and so your life expands

in the image of my life.

In the wind

you billow and snap

as if you were my soul,

at bad times

you cling

to my bones,

vacant, for the night,

darkness, sleep

populate with their phantoms

your wings and mine.

I wonder

if one day

a bullet

from the enemy

will leave you stained with my blood

and then

you will die with me

or one day

not quite

so dramatic

but simple,

you will fall ill,


with me,

grow old

with me, with my body

and joined

we will enter

the earth.

Because of this

each day

I greet you

with reverence and then

you embrace me and I forget you,

because we are one

and we will go on

facing the wind, in the night,

the streets or the fight,

a single body,

one day, one day, some day, still

Pablo Neruda

Image:  Adam and Eve, 1917–18 detail, Gustav Klimt

April 21 2017

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How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds

Jack Gilbert - The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

Image:  Early Sumerian pictograph

April 19 2017

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April 18 2017

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littlebunnysunshine  Edward Gorey - The Epileptic-Bicycle  - a warning to heed. via: feedthecrows

Artemis:  and the other

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So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.
We have heard of those princes’ heroic campaigns.


trans: Seamus Heaney -  prologue lines 1-3

Full translation (pdf) HERE

Seamus Heaney’s introduction to Beowulf (below) 

And  now this is ‘an  inheritance'—  

Upright, rudimentary, unshiftably planked

In  the long ago, yet  willable forward 

Again and again and again.

Image:  Sutton Hoo Helmet -  Helmet found at Sutton Hoo probably belonged to King Raedwald of East Anglia, about 625 AD. Based on a Roman parade helmet design, it has decorations like those on contemporary Swedish helmets found at Old Uppsala (from the British Museum) Photo by user:geni

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Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf

At various times, I have asked myself what reasons
moved me to study, while my night came down,
without particular hope of satisfaction,
the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons.

Used up by the years, my memory
loses its grip on words that I have vainly
repeated and repeated. My life in the same way
weaves and unweaves its weary history.

Then I tell myself: It must be that the soul
has some secret, sufficient way of knowing
that it is immortal, that its vast, encompassing
circle can take in all, can accomplish all.

beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,
the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting.

Jorge Luis Borges (trans: Alastair Reid)

Image: David Levene - The Sutton Hoo helmet      

From the Guardian: “On a visit to St Andrews, Jorge Luis Borges asked to be taken down to the pier. There the blind Argentine recited many of Beowulf’s verses at the North Sea.”  (from an article in The Guardian,  26 September 1999, Michael Alexander)

April 13 2017

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Tashi Lhunpo Monastery, Xigazê Tibet  

Steve McCurry 

Artemis:  I’m reminded of a poem by Masaoka Shiki (Japan, 1867-1902). I know that poverty isn’t always the reason but any time I see a child monk it comes to mind.

Such a little child
To send to be a priestling…
Icy poverty

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A Buddhist monk enters the formidable doors of Trongsa Dzong, the Ancestral home of Bhutan

Ami Vitale  (via pinterest - Nikon Music Festival - France)

April 08 2017

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 Another year is gone

A travel hat on my head

Straw sandals on my feet


Image:  Early Morning Light by T. Enami (1859 – 1929)   

April 07 2017

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Locked-In Series   

Anne-Laure Autin  HERE

Twitter: AnneLaureAutin
Facebook: AnneLaureAutinPhotographer

See in lightbox for individual titles.  

This series is based on temporary paralysis the artist experienced during a migraine.  Terrifying.  Read more on this project:  HERE    Via pinterest and web.

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April 06 2017

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April 04 2017

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by yume

Reposted bySniacyZycie SniacyZycie


the waves

into the



Artemis:  writer on Tumblr the-silent-troubadour

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by yume

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by yume

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