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Marzo 15, 2005
Oda al Tiempo Venidero
Tiempo, me llamas. Antes
eras
espacio puro,
ancha pradera.
Hoy
hilo o gota
eres,
luz delgada
que corre como liebre hacia las zarzas
de la cóncava noche
---
Time, you're calling me. Before
you were
pure space,
a far-reaching meadow.
Today,
you are a thread, a droplet,
or a slim light
running like a hare into the brambles
of concave night
Pablo Neruda
Posted by sarita at 10:30 PM
Sharing food...
Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
M. F. K. Fisher, from An Alphabet for Gourmets.
Posted by sarita at 10:01 PM
Marzo 11, 2005
Now is the time to use our languages...
Now is the time to use our languages, public-address systems, communication tricks and arts to fight these devastating trends, to make our art available to the forces which revolt against these evil empires and horrible inefficient and unjust economic and political systems under which we live.
Peter Schumann, from A Lecture to Art Students, 1987
Posted by sarita at 1:24 PM
Marzo 8, 2005
I Knew a Woman
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Theodore Roethke
Posted by sarita at 1:55 PM