Just saying...

Ode to summer

Summer, red violin, clear cloud,
the hum of a saw meror cicadas announce your arrival.
The heavens arch to a smoothness, lucent as an eye.

(…)

In the afternoon, fire rests, air makes clover dance; it enters
the deserted factory: a fresh star rises in the cloudy sky.
A summer night sizzles without burning. 
_____________________________
Verano, violín rojo, nube clara,
un zumbido de sierra o de cigarra te precede,
el cielo abovedado, liso, luciente como un ojo.
(...)
Y en la tarde descansa el fuego, el aire hace bailar el trébol, entra
en la usina desierta, sube una estrella fresca por el cielo sombrío,
crepita sin quemarse la noche del verano.

Pablo Neruda

Últimos días de Invierno

...“Beginning my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,

The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,

The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,

I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,

But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs”

_________________

“Al comenzar mis estudios, el primer paso me agradó mucho,

El mero hecho consciente, las formas, el poder moverme,

El menor insecto o animal, los sentidos, la vista, el amor,

El primer paso me dominó y tanto me agradó

Que me costó proseguir y si me detuve fue

Porque quise detenerme allí, holgazaneando para celebrar

eso en mis extasiados cantos.”

- Hojas de hierba, Walt Whitman.

Risa estúpida, cafés eternos, inocencia inútil, moleskines por completar. Atiborrarse a Gin-Tonics, literatura decadente del XIX, música en directo y Vírgenes Suicidas. Arriesgarse a pedir un bolígrafo teniendo el estuche rebosante de Bics.

Nuestros últimos años de estudio. Nuestros últimos días de invierno.

Y es que, como dijo Whitman en sus legendarios versos, si nos costó proseguir fue porque quisimos detenernos allí, holgazaneando, para celebrar esto en nuestros extasiados cantos.

Nos separarán 9 horas en tren ♥

pd: esta es mi primera entrada en el blog, espero que os guste xx.

Ph.: our youth, mymagicdiary, piccsy, elise muller, sadie harris, adriana's advice. 

Sonnet 54

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

for that sweet odour which doth in it live.

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

as the perfumed tincture of the roses,

hang on such thorns and play as wantonly

when summer's breath their masked buds discloses:

But, for their virtue only is their show,

they live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,

die to themselves.

Sweet roses do not so;

of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:

and so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

when that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

- William Shakespeare

Ph.: natalie nguyen, the dreamers, olga onischenko, abby powell, the virgin suicides

Howl

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness

starving hysterical nakedAngelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection

to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and hollow-eyed and high

sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats,

floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing

obscene odes on the windows of the skullLost battalion of platonic conversationalists

who ate fire in paint hotels

and purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams,

with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and endless balls

who burned cigarette holes in their arms

protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism who walked all night with their shoes full of blood

waiting for a door in the East River to open to

a room full of steamheat and opium,

under the blue floodlight of the moon

... and their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion.


Photos: Louis Garrel by Hedi Slimane
Poem: Extract from 'Howl' by Allen Ginsberg