“Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice! I do not praise your halting adolescent brush or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times, but I laud your longing for eternity with limits”.
When the phenomenal world is seen as it really is, a magical display of interconnected, insubstantial, and constantly changing flow of energies the need for solidity or attachments vanishes.
And the understanding of eternity, without form, limits, or boundaries is realized.
My dad used to take me to the corridas in Madrid when I was a child. I absolutely loved them. The toreador was my hero, and a clean kill was rewarded with an ear or tail. the picador on foot came in second for bravery. The one on horseback, third.
Occassionally a bull would get under the horses protective skirt and gore the horse. That was a tragedy. But when a matador was killed... its' cinco de la tarde.
I love the shadows in the corrida. Out of the hot sun.
Moderns don't appreciate death. To a Spaniard, the rituals of death surround you. The old ways are not forgotten. The 'sacred' lives in their hearts, and in their streets.
He was profoundly affected by the spectacle of bullfighting, writing,
It isn't just brutal like they always told us. It's a great tragedy—and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and takes more guts and skill and guts again than anything possibly could. It's just like having a ringside seat at the war with nothing going to happen to you.[52]
He demonstrated what he considered the purity in the culture of bullfighting—called afición—and presented it as an authentic way of life, contrasted against the inauthenticity of the Parisian bohemians.[53] To be accepted as an aficionado.
old post on San Fermin the setting for The Sun Also Rises...
"Aunt Julia and the Script Writer," and "A Fish in the Water." Two great books. Llosa is up there in my admiration along with my favorite South American poet, Pablo Neruda
The street filled with tomatoes, midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets. In December, unabated, the tomato invades the kitchen, it enters at lunchtime, takes its ease on countertops, among glasses, butter dishes, blue saltcellars. It sheds its own light, benign majesty. Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red viscera a cool sun, profound, inexhaustible, populates the salads of Chile, (...)
Every Day You Play Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water. You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars if the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. the wind. I can only contend against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honey suckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. I go so far as to think that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
21 comments:
Always.
“Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits”.
Federico García Lorca, “Ode to Salvador Dalí”.
When the phenomenal world is seen as it really is, a magical display of interconnected, insubstantial, and constantly changing flow of energies the need for solidity or attachments vanishes.
And the understanding of eternity, without form, limits, or boundaries is realized.
"At Five in the Afternoon," by Garcia Lorca
My dad used to take me to the corridas in Madrid when I was a child. I absolutely loved them. The toreador was my hero, and a clean kill was rewarded with an ear or tail. the picador on foot came in second for bravery. The one on horseback, third.
Occassionally a bull would get under the horses protective skirt and gore the horse. That was a tragedy. But when a matador was killed... its' cinco de la tarde.
I love the shadows in the corrida. Out of the hot sun.
Moderns don't appreciate death. To a Spaniard, the rituals of death surround you. The old ways are not forgotten. The 'sacred' lives in their hearts, and in their streets.
"The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down"
“It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.”-- Hemingway -- "The Sun Also Rises."
From Wiki:
He was profoundly affected by the spectacle of bullfighting, writing,
It isn't just brutal like they always told us. It's a great tragedy—and the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and takes more guts and skill and guts again than anything possibly could. It's just like having a ringside seat at the war with nothing going to happen to you.[52]
He demonstrated what he considered the purity in the culture of bullfighting—called afición—and presented it as an authentic way of life, contrasted against the inauthenticity of the Parisian bohemians.[53] To be accepted as an aficionado.
old post on San Fermin the setting for The Sun Also Rises...
The Sun also rises is a roman a chef...
because:
It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.”-- Hemingway -- "The Sun Also Rises."
Death & Romance.
Another great moves on.
"Aunt Julia and the Script Writer," and "A Fish in the Water." Two great books. Llosa is up there in my admiration along with my favorite South American poet, Pablo Neruda
I love Pablo!
:)
He's wonderful.
...more Neruda
Ode to Tomatoes
Pablo Neruda
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
(...)
Every Day You Play
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars if the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. the wind.
I can only contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honey suckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Yes, another Spanish festival. I loved Spain and its' traditions and festivals. The fallas in Valencia are a wonderful bonfire of the vanities
I try and feel that wonder and delight every single day... I don't always achieve it, but I do try.
Thanks for sharing Shaw.
I especially loved his "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair." Amazingly beautiful poems.
It's been a while. I'll have to look for it.
Ah, his numbered poems. This is my favorite... stunningly beautiful.
Post a Comment