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Thank you for the photo of the devilish young lady, Tobias.
Sir John Everett Millais was a founder of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and, later, became the most popular painter of Victorian England. (His The Order of Release was, in 1853, the first painting in history to require a bodyguard to protect it from the artist's fans!) He is not now as well known as he once was, although a reproduction of Ophelia once graced Des Lewis' living room wall -- and maybe still does. I think that such of his paintings as Ophelia, Lorenzo and Isabella and The Vale of Rest would sit well on this board. Perhaps there should be a Millais thread.
Thanks, Tobias. In fact we've decided to spend some more time here. Tomorrow I'll be visiting Cracovia on my way back to Warsaw. I will try to locate the tomb of Georg Trakl there - which won't be easy because it looks like it doesn't have a plate!
FERNEN - P. Célan
Aug in Aug, in der Kühle,
lass uns auch solches beginnen:
gemeinsam
lass uns atmen den Schleier,
der uns voreinander verbirgt,
wenn der Abend sich anschickt zu messen,
wie weit es noch ist
von jeder Gestalt, die er annimmt,
zu jeder Gestalt,
die er uns beiden geliehn.
http://www.dramsam.eu/file%20MP3/gael.mp3
By J.K. Potter:
"A Face" (1923) by Hagiwara Sakutaro, trans. Hiroaki Sato
About the time half-asleep cherries bloom
a white vague face floats
and is watching at the window.
In the shadow of an old old memory
I seem to have met it on a wharf somewhere
But it smells of a violet's morbid melancholy
from the glass window where the outdoor light
sparkles
ah it has disappeared into the distance like a rainbow.
I know of one melancholy
pass through life's dusky corner
and don't return again eternally."The Happy Corpse" by Charles Baudelaire (trans. Richard Howard)
Whenever the soil is rich and full of snails
I want to dig myself a nice deep grave--
deep enough to stretch out these old bones
and sleep in peace, like a shark in the cradling wave.
Testaments and tombstones always lie!
Before collecting such official grief,
I'd rather ask the crows, while I'm alive,
to pick my carcass clean from end to end.
They may be deaf and blind, my friends the worms,
Yet surely they will welcome a happy corpse;
feasting philosophers, scions of decay,
eat your way through me without a second thought
and let me know if one last twinge is left
for a soulless body deader than the dead!
"No Possum, No Sop, No Taters" (pub. 1947) by Wallace Stevens
He is not here, the old sun,
As absent as if we were asleep.
The field is frozen. The leaves are dry.
Bad is final in this light.
In this bleak air the broken stalks
Have arms without hands. They have trunks
Without legs or, for that, without heads.
They have heads in which a captive cry
Is merely the moving of a tongue.
Snow sparkles like eyesight falling to earth,
Like seeing fallen brightly away.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground.
It is deep January. The sky is hard.
The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
It is in this solitude, a syllable,
Out of these gawky flitterings,
Intones its single emptiness,
The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
It is here, in this bad, that we reach
The last purity of the knowledge of good.
The crow looks rusty as he rises up.
Bright is the malice in his eye . . .
One joins him there for company,
But at a distance, in another tree.
Sophia--the Wisdom of the Almighty (1932) by Nicholas Roerich
Halber Mensch
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