Photo (and Poetry) Blog

Wien, Wien, nur du allein ...

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Week-end in Vienna - so lovely!


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Roses in full bloom in Volksgarten. All photos taken with Canon EOS 5D Mark III and Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM.



Placido Domingo sings Wien, Wien, nur du allein.





In My Garden Right Now

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All photos taken with Canon EOS 5D Mark III and Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM.



Summer

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Summer, blue, cloudless skies, long days, butterflies and bees, flowers … so much to enjoy!


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All photos taken with Canon EOS 5D Mark III and Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM.




Twilight Metaphysics

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It’s too late to teach my heart anything.
The alphabet of suffering
I already know by heart. I test it live.
Life knows more than the Sybil.

Time has stopped. What bliss is there in flowing?
Reality resembles a moth-eaten sweater —
This is poetry.
Life limps like a crippled girl
Who hopes to marry well
Even though her heart is scarred with memories.
Biography of fire and water.
These are the worthless and painful reserves
With which one starts on a long, uncertain journey
Over one’s own private homeland
On which every foot steps on in boots.

Older than Cain is every suffering,
Even this one which like a cousin from far away
Has come for a three-day visit
And stayed, made herself comfortable,
Took up all the room —
And says nothing about leaving!

The time of miracles is behind us.
Time of tower-building,
Heavenly and earthly gardens
From schoolbooks and poems.
The so-called Greek luck awaits us
Where we will never arrive.
Therefore, if you can,
Water the flowers and the heart
From the same pitcher.
Time doesn’t dry up,
Nor make steps quicker, as they say.
Time swallows its own images
As if they were its children.

Get it through your head, throwing a blanket
Over your face won’t help you.
Even if underneath it a dear body waits for you.
No use stuffing wax in your ears either.
The siren’s song will be a part of your scream.

Those born happy and less happy
Die before their own body dies.
They wear their faces like other people’s clothes
As in paintings of Hieronimus Bosch.

The one who wrote the sky, the earth and the sea,
And above all, snow and dreams,
The phases of the moon, the color of leaves, our faces,
Seems distant and cold like the North Pole.

Don’t call that nihilism or blasphemy.
With wrong syntax and bad diction
Was how the world was created —
So many apples of divisiveness
Have been tossed between us,
One of them will roll even at your feet,
Perhaps, just as you’ve brought in the harvest,
Added up the accounts,
Thrown your hands over your head
Chasing rings of smoke and reveries.

Dead-born will be your wishes.
Your every hope will be a widow.
And as for love, not enough
To spread on a slice of bread.


by Radmila Lazic (translated from Serbian by Charles Simic).


Radmila Lazic (born 1949) is a prominent Serbian poet, editor and critic.




Future Perfect

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Where you were

before you were born,

and where you are

when you’re not anymore

might be very close.

Might be the same place,

though neither is

as slipper

as being here but

imagining where

you will have been - 

that point

where things land,

are finished, over, and

gone but not yet.



by Lia Purpura.


Lia Purpura (born 1964) is an American poet, writer and educator; she is currently Writer-In-Residence at University of Maryland in Baltimore, Maryland.



Psalm Of Despair

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I dwell in a land of despair

In the city of despair

Among desperate people

Myself desperate

I embrace my desperate lover

With desperate hands

Whispering desperate words

Kissing him with desperate lips.


In despair we make children

In despair we strangle them

And feed our desperate offspring

With our own despair

So that they may multiply

By giving birth to ever more desperate children

And so on.


For the God of Despair is our Lord

And his envoys of despair

With their instruments of despair

That coat our homes with despair

Drape our windows with despair

And board up our doors with it

As despair rises around us like walls.


Preaching the religion of despair

For gain and wealth

Instructing us in Holy Despair

Fow which we are to earn life eternell

So our dead will rise again

In despair.


The wandering lamb

That found no path or shelter

No dawn and no morning

Forever and ever - 


Damn you wicked hand

That wrote this in the year 2013 of our lord.



by Radmila Lazic (translated from Serbian by Charles Simic).


Radmila Lazic (born 1949) is a prominent Serbian poet, editor and critic.




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