Friday, 30 March 2012 @08:45
"Go and open the door.
Maybe outside there’s
a tree, or a wood,
or a magic city.
Go and open the door.
If there’s a fog
it will clear.
Go and open the door.
Even if there’s only
the darkness ticking,
even if there’s only
the hollow wind, even if
nothing is there,
go and open the door.
To live fully, you need to follow the wind.
Miroslav Holub was a Czech poet. Today’s verses come from the anthology "Staying alive", Bloodaxe Books.
Friday, 23 March 2012 @08:03
"We should hope for the best and prepare for the worst".
(Aung San Suu Kyi)
Grace under pressure.
(Not a poet today, but isn’t fighting for freedom a poem, isn’t revolution a poem? Aung San Suu Kyi won the Nobel prize for Peace in 1991. She’s still fighting, a non-violent revolution with flowers in her hair, in Burma).
Friday, 16 March 2012 @08:44
"Ce qui me grisa quand je rentrais à Paris, en septembre 1929, ce fut d’abord ma liberté. J’y avais rêvé dès l’enfance… Soudain, je l’avais: à chacun de mes gestes je m’émervellais de ma légèreté".
(Simone de Beauvoir)
La force de l’âge, c’est la force de la légèreté. La (in)soutenable légèreté de l’être.
(Merci à Simone de Beauvoir, qui nous rappelle, dans "La force de l’âge", la force de la légèreté).
Friday, 9 March 2012 @08:22
"What I forgot to tell you in that last poem
if you were paying attention at all
was that I really did love her at the time.
The maritime light in the final lines
might have seemed contrived…
And the same could be said
for the many imaginary moons
I said were circling our bed as we slept,
the cosmos enclosed by the walls of the room.
But the truth is we loved
to take long walks on the windy shore,
not the shore between the sea of her
and the symbolic land of me,
but the real shore of empty shells,
the sun rising, the water running up and back".
You, the sea, no other noise but the waves. How I miss all of this.
It's an excerpt from "Addendum": "Ballistics", Random House.
Friday, 2 March 2012 @08:57
"What is it that makes trees grow – is it happiness?"
Happiness, or the longing for it. Reach out your branches. Bloom. Touch the sky.
Even singers can be poets. As Lucio Dalla, who suddendly died yesterday, and whose songs meant so much to generations of italians. A life’s soundtrack, for so many of us.
Yes, I write. Yes, I believe in the magic of words. That’s why you’ll find me here, every Friday: Lisa “globish”!
I believe in the magic of words, and I believe Piazza Unità in Trieste, where I was born, is the most romantic square in the world. (And yes, it’s in Italy, proudly facing the sea). I love roses in every form. And, of course, I do love my blog, expecially now that I can carry it around on my iPhone.