In lumea mea

Tadayo, de acord. Se vrea mai multa socializare. In fine. Danke pt melodie.

Cum v-a fost finalul de saptamana?

Lucast a scris:

Emotii constructive. Am o bila neagra, totusi. Nu ma apropii de participanti.

Oare de ce?

Ma rog, nu imi prea pot imagina exact cum ii conectezi tu pe participanti spre ..trairea experientei.

Daca imi dai detalii, poate imi vin idei :)..de vrei.

Eu am avut parte de o duminica in natura. Am fost la Laguna Albastra in sfarsit. Peste tot ma preumblu cand e vorba de natura, dar niciodata suficient.

M-am tot codit daca sa adun sau nu palaria sarpelui, caci nu eram sigura ca e palaria sarpelui. Ah, da.

Padurea e pur si simplu senzationala...si am gasit o fraguta!!! Va dati seama?

In luna culorilor de foc-oranj in frunza...o fraguta coapta si zemoasa!

A innebunit vremea!

Tadaya, am citit cate ceva. Deja i ador pe Wislawa si Bucowski (pe al doilea il stiam). Mai e interesanta Derieva..si plina de angoase, deopotriva.

One of my Fav.

Poetul îşi citeşte versurile în faţa orbilor.N-ar fi crezut că o să-i fie atît de greu.Vocea îi tremură.Mîinile la fel.Îşi simte fiecare propoziţiesupusă unui test al întunericului.Trebuie să se descurce singur,fără ajutorul culorilor sau al luminii.Un efort mult prea marepentru stelele din poemele sale, pentru zorii de zi, curcubeiele, norii, luminiţele, luna,pentru peştii de culoarea argintului de sub apă,ori pentru vulturul atît de tăcut din înaltul cerului. Citeşte – de vreme ce e prea tîrziu să se oprească – despre băiatul în jachetă galbenă de pe pajiştea-nverzită,despre acoperişurile roşiatice gata de numărat în vale,despre numerele nărăvaşe de pe tricourile unor jucătorisau necunoscutul despuiat ce stă în uşa-ntredeschisă.Şi-ar dori să nu mai menţioneze – deşi nu are de ales – toţi sfinţii de pe cupola catedralei,fluturatul unei mîini de la fereastra unui tren,lentilele microscopului, inelul ce aruncă o sclipire,pînzele albe din cinematograf, oglinzile, albumul plin de chipuri.Dar nemăsurată e bunătatea orbilor,nelimitată le e îngăduinţa, mărinimia.Ei ascultă, zîmbesc şi aplaudă.Cîte unul chiar se apropiecu o carte ţinută pe doscerînd un autograf de nevăzut.Traducere de Doru Cosmin Radu

Ea. a scris:

https://www.etsy.com/listing/206625169/horse-photography-golden-brown-horse

Buey.

Ma topeeeeeeeeeeeeeesc instant cand vad cai. Which reminds me..ca nu am mai calarit de multisor....

faina poezia

Ea. a scris:

http://adevarul.ro/news/politica/tovarasa-firea-tara-jefuita-indobitocita-merita-copilul-meui-1_5437e0580d133766a8d378ff/index.html

Buei, proasta e Firea. Proasta si cu lipsa acuta de logica!

Poezia –
dar ce e poezia?
S-au dat atîtea răspunsuri evazive
la această întrebare.
Nici eu nu ştiu ce-i poezia,
şi mă agăţ de-acest nu ştiu ca de-un colac de salvare. 

Unora le place poezia - Wislawa Szymborska

stupid_me a scris:

Buei, proasta e Firea. Proasta si cu lipsa acuta de logica!

de acord. nu mi-a placut nici cand era la stiri

stupid_me a scris:

Buey.

Ma topeeeeeeeeeeeeeesc instant cand vad cai. Which reminds me..ca nu am mai calarit de multisor....

cand ai calarit ultima data si in ce context?

Fiero a scris:

http://beingandreea.blogspot.ro/2014/10/orhideea-probabil-deloc-salbatica.html

În concluzie, dacă eşti o persoană foarte sensibilă primul pas este să-ţi accepţi această trăsătură şi să renunţi să te lupţi cu ea sau să o ascunzi în faţa celorlalţi. Nu vei deveni o păpădie şi nu te va ajuta nici să te prefaci că ai fi una. Poţi în schimb să-ţi dezvolţi acele strategii prin care să atenuezi impactul evenimentelor negative, adică să fii o orhidee un pic mai rezilientă. Şi mai poţi ceva extraordinar de important: să-ţi creezi chiar tu acel mediu (fizic şi social) în care sensibilitatea ta devine un avantaj, deci să înfloreşti aşa cum numai orhideea, nu şi păpădiam o poate face.

mrrrda...dar eu chiar cred ca omul se poate schimba, transforma, renaste...chiar daca nu peste noapte!

Nu stiu. E posibil ca sa nu ne folosim anumite puteri, pentru ca ajungem la concluzia ca..nu le avem?

De acord, never sa ascunzi ceea ce esti...dar poti deveni cine doresti sa devii, cred. Adaptabilitatea are o limita, just. Dar pana la limita...e un drum deschis, nu e?

Ea. a scris:

cand ai calarit ultima data si in ce context?

Cand l-am dus pe John, sa simta si el ce inseamna calaria prin padure :))))

sau asta

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny

blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny

they are small, and the fountain is in France

where you wrote me that last letter and

I answered and never heard from you again.

you used to write insane poems about

ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you

knew famous artists and most of them

were your lovers, and I wrote back, it all right,

go ahead, enter their lives, I not jealous

because we never met. we got close once in

New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never

touched. so you went with the famous and wrote

about the famous, and, of course, what you found out

is that the famous are worried about

their fame not the beautiful young girl in bed

with them, who gives them that, and then awakens

in the morning to write upper case poems about

ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they told

us, but listening to you I wasn sure. maybe

it was the upper case. you were one of the

best female poets and I told the publishers,

editors, her, print her, she mad but she

magic. there no lie in her fire. I loved you

like a man loves a woman he never touches, only

writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have

loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a

cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,

but that didn happen. your letters got sadder.

your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all

lovers betray. it didn help. you said

you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and

the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying

bench every night and wept for the lovers who had

hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never

heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide

3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you

I would probably have been unfair to you or you

to me. it was best like this.

mie mi-ar fi frica

stupid_me a scris:

sau asta

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I not jealous
because we never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they told
us, but listening to you I wasn sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, her, print her, she mad but she
magic. there no lie in her fire. I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

greu e sa fie omul superficial pe topicu asta...

Oh, da.

Si asta

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.

Ea. a scris:

mie mi-ar fi frica

greu e sa fie omul superficial pe topicu asta...

Just open your heart in here and you won't need the rest. At least, not when you are in here.

Nu ti-ar fi frica daca ai fi cu mine. Trust me!

cine a scris asta?