The Moon and the Yew Tree | Sylvia Plath, 1961

Max Ernst - Au Premier Mot Limpide (At the first limpid word), 1923


This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

Fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.


The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness –

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.


I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness –

                blackness and silence. 


Sylvia Plath, The Moon and the Yew Tree, 1961


yew =a coniferous tree which has red berrylike fruits, and most parts of which 
are highly poisonous. Yews are linked with folklore and superstition and can
 live to a great age;

Substance and Void | Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, 1950s-1960s

Pablo Picasso, 1950s                                                   Pablo Picasso, Head of Jacqueline, 1957
Pablo Picasso, Bust of a Women, 1962                                                    Pablo Picasso, 1954
Picasso, Head of a Woman, 1957                                         Pablo Picasso, Head of a Woman, 1958
Pablo Picasso, Head of a Woman, 1957, cardboard                           Pablo Picasso,  Head of Jacqueline, 1957
Pablo Picasso, Woman's Head 1, 1962  
Pablo Picasso, 1950s                           Pablo Picasso, 1950s
Head of a Woman, Mougains, 1962     Pablo Picasso, Woman with Outstretched Arms, 1961
Pablo Picasso, Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe: Homme assis accoudé, 1962
Pablo Picasso, 1960s                                                              Pablo Picasso, Femme au Chapeau, 1950
Pablo Picasso - Head of a Woman (Profile), 1961
Picasso, Head of a Woman, 1957                                                   Pablo Picasso, 1956 
Tête (Maquette pour la sculpture en plein air du Chicago Civic Center), 1962-1964                      Picasso with his sculpture La Femme au Jardin, 1932


Also:

Aubade | Philip Larkin, 1977

Josef Albers, Movement of Grey, 1939


I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.   
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.   
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.   
Till then I see what’s really always there:   
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,   
Making all thought impossible but how   
And where and when I shall myself die.   
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse   
—The good not done, the love not given, time   
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because   
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;   
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,   
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,   
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,   
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,   
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill   
That slows each impulse down to indecision.   
Most things may never happen: this one will,   
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without   
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave   
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.   
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,   
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,   
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring   
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.


Philip Larkin, Aubade, 1977


Ωδή | Valery Larbaud, 1908

Alexandra Grinevsky, Illustration for Valery Larbaud's Deux Artistes Lyriquesa.1929


Δώσε μου το μεγάλο σου θόρυβο, το γλυκό μεγάλο σου βάδισμα
Το κύλισμά σου το νυχτερινό ανάμεσα στην πάμφωτην Ευρώπη,
ω τρένο πολυτελές! και την αγωνιώδη μουσική
που βουίζει κατά μήκος των φτιαγμένων από χρυσωμένο δέρμα διαδρόμων σου,
ενώ πίσω απ’ τις θύρες τις σκαλιστές με τις βαριές χάλκινες κλειδαριές
κοιμούνται οι εκατομμυριούχοι.

Κυκλοφορώ σιγανοτραγουδώντας στους διαδρόμους σου
κι ακολουθώ το τρέξιμό σου προς τη Βιέννη και τη Βουδαπέστη
σμίγοντας τη φωνή μου με τις εκατό χιλιάδες φωνές σου
πολύβουη φυσαρμόνικα!

Της ζωής τη γλύκα την αισθάνθηκα πρώτη φορά
σε μια καμπίνα του Nord-Express ανάμεσα Wirballen και Pskow.
Κυλούσαμε μέσ’ σε λειμώνες, οι βοσκοί
στις ρίζες τεράστιων δέντρων όμοιων με λόφους
ήταν ντυμένοι με προβιές ρυπαρές κι ακατέργαστες
(η ώρα οχτώ του φθινοπωρινού πρωινού κι η όμορφη πριμαντόνα
με τα μενεξελιά μάτια μέσ’ στη διπλανή καμπίνα τραγουδούσε).
Κι εσείς αιώνιοι πάγοι που είδα ανάμεσά σας να διαβαίνει η Σιβηρία
και του Σάμνιου τα βουνά
η άγρια κι άνανθη Καστίλλη κι η θάλασσα του Μαρμαρά
κάτω από μια χλιαρή βροχή!

Δώσε μου, ω Orient-Express, Sud-Brenner-Bahn, δώστε μου
τους θαυμαστούς υπόκωφους θορύβους σας
και τις παλλόμενες γοητευτικές φωνές σας
δώστε μου την εύκολην κι ανάλαφρην ανάσα
των υψηλών οστεώδικων ατμομηχανών με τις άνετες κινήσεις
των ατμομηχανών που γοργές
χωρίς καμιά προσπάθεια σέρνουν πίσω τους τέσσερα βαγόνια κίτρινα
με γράμματα χρυσά
μέσ’ στις βουνίσιες ερημιές της Σερβίας
και πιο μακριά μέσα στο πλήθος των βουλγαρικών ροδώνων…
Α! τούτοι οι θόρυβοι και τούτη η κίνηση
πρέπει να μπούνε στα τραγούδια μου και να ιστορούν για μένα,
για τη ζωή μου την ανέκφραστη, την παιδική μου ζωή
που πια δε θέλει τίποτα να ξέρει, μόνο
σ’ αβέβαια πράγματα παντοτινά να ελπίζει.


 Valery Larbaud,  Ωδή, 1908
Μτφ: Τάκης Σινόπουλος 

Paintings by Andreas Walser (1908 – 1930)

Andreas Walser in Paris, 1928                      Andreas Walser, Double portrait, 1928  


Andreas Walser (1908 – 1930) was a Swiss painter. He was born in Chur and moved to Paris at the
 age of 20 to become more involved in the art world and "to become completely and utterly french".
 Many of his works were produced under the influence of drugs. He died in Paris aged 22.

Les amants au balcon, 1929                                   Enlacement (Balcon),1929
Andreas Walser, 1929
Andreas Walser, Baigneurs (Am Strand), 1930
Andreas Walser, Portrait Jean Cocteau, 1929
Andreas Walser, Untitled, 1929
Andreas Walser, Nature morte – Statue à la fenêtre, 1929
Portrait de Pablo Picasso, 1928                                       Andreas Walser, Untitled, 1929
Andreas Walser, Abstraction 201 rouge – 2 têtes (morphine), 1929
Andreas Walser, Untitled , 1927

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...