Evening Sun

me. photography, inspiration,words, life and others. Flickr www.last.fm/user/lia9090 Redbubble Twiitter ask me anything
Created with flickr slideshow from softsea.

untitled on Flickr.Via Flickr:“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.” 
― Rumi

untitled on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.”
― Rumi

5/52. Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing on Flickr.
HAPPY WOMEN”S DAY!Via Flickr:I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens….
….
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look—my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.
~Margaret AtwoodFull poemredbubbleTwittertumblr

5/52. Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing on Flickr.



HAPPY WOMEN”S DAY!



Via Flickr:
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens….
….

There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look—my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.
~Margaret Atwood

Full poem



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Twitter
tumblr

The Future is an Animal


by Tina Chang

In every kind of dream I am a black wolf
careening through a web. I am the spider
who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf’s body.
In another dream I marry the wolf and then
am very lonely. I seek my name and they name me
Lucky Dragon. I would love to tell you that all
of this has a certain ending but the most frightening
stories are the ones with no ending at all.
The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking,
splitting like an endless atom, splitting
like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many
times as the book is read, the pages continue
to grow, multiply. They said, In the beginning,
and that was the moral of the original and most
important story. The story of man. One story.
I laid my head down and my head was heavy.
Hair sprouted through the skin, hair black
and bending toward night grass. I was becoming
the wolf again, my own teeth breaking
into my mouth for the first time, a kind of beauty
to be swallowed in interior bite and fever.
My mind a miraculous ember until I am the beast.
I run from the story that is faster than me,
the words shatter and pant to outchase me.
The story catches my heels when I turn
to love its hungry face, when I am willing
to be eaten to understand my fate.

#81 — esplendor by Luminous Lu on Flickr.Via Flickr:81/365Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior
Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!
É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja
Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!
É ter de mil desejos o esplendor
E não saber sequer que se deseja!
É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,
É ter garras e asas de condor!
É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!
Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim…
É condensar o mundo num só grito!
E é amar-te, assim, perdidamente…
É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim
E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!
 — Florbela Espanca 
——
It’s International Poetry Day and I felt the need to leave you with one of my favorite poems, by a portuguese poet from the 20th century. I couldn’t find a translation that I liked, but I can leave you with a sung version of this poem: www.youtube.com/embed/ShUdXlHaW2w?hl=es_ES&autoplay=1
. 
Despite wanting to post a portuguese poem (partly to quell the voices of those who have been complaining about the fact that I never post in portuguese), this photo relates not only to Florbela, but also to Sylvia Plath. Well, it relates to art in general; to how painful it is to create sometimes, how we pour every ounce of ourselves into what we do. How, if you squeezed our pieces, you should be able to draw blood. facebook || 500px || website || blog || vimeo || travel blog

#81 — esplendor by Luminous Lu on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
81/365

Ser poeta é ser mais alto, é ser maior
Do que os homens! Morder como quem beija!
É ser mendigo e dar como quem seja
Rei do Reino de Aquém e de Além Dor!


É ter de mil desejos o esplendor
E não saber sequer que se deseja!
É ter cá dentro um astro que flameja,
É ter garras e asas de condor!


É ter fome, é ter sede de Infinito!
Por elmo, as manhãs de oiro e cetim…
É condensar o mundo num só grito!


E é amar-te, assim, perdidamente…
É seres alma e sangue e vida em mim
E dizê-lo cantando a toda a gente!


— Florbela Espanca

——

It’s International Poetry Day and I felt the need to leave you with one of my favorite poems, by a portuguese poet from the 20th century. I couldn’t find a translation that I liked, but I can leave you with a sung version of this poem: www.youtube.com/embed/ShUdXlHaW2w?hl=es_ES&autoplay=1
.

Despite wanting to post a portuguese poem (partly to quell the voices of those who have been complaining about the fact that I never post in portuguese), this photo relates not only to Florbela, but also to Sylvia Plath. Well, it relates to art in general; to how painful it is to create sometimes, how we pour every ounce of ourselves into what we do. How, if you squeezed our pieces, you should be able to draw blood.

facebook || 500px || website || blog || vimeo || travel blog