Archive for October, 2008
and I still see their faces…
Posted in Photo with tags Judaica, Poland on October 31, 2008 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
seasonal citation
Posted in Art, Writing with tags Bruno Schulz on October 31, 2008 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
“Fall is a great touring show, poetically deceptive, an enormous purple-skinned onion disclosing ever new panoramas under each of its skins. No center can be reached. Behind each wing that is moved and stored away, new and radiant scenes open up, true and alive for a moment, until you realize that they are made of cardboard. All perspectives are painted, and only the smell is authentic, the smell of wilting scenery or theatrical dressing rooms, a pile up of discarded costumes among which you wade endlessly as if through yellow fallen leaves.”
Bruno Schulz, “A Second Fall”
auguries of autumn
Posted in Art, Painting with tags Tor Lundvall on October 26, 2008 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Under the Shadows of Trees #5, 2001
The Secret Place, 2000
October Moon, 2000
November, 1999 FRÈRE BOIS par TRISTAN TZARA
Posted in Poetry, Writing with tags Dada, Tristan Tzara on October 17, 2008 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
frère bois
et sœur pierre
les malins
vont au bois
cueillir des pierres
sur les douves
dans les prés
on ne trouve
que regrets
parait-il
*
tu ouvres les ailes
pour partir en voyage
tu te moques de nous
cheval
à ton âge
*
tard levé
tôt couché
soleil frileux
parle-moi de Botticelli
some crows
Posted in Art on October 12, 2008 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Japanese prints, early 20th century
anticipating winter in a warm season
Posted in Poetry, Writing with tags Wallace Stevens on October 12, 2008 by Dylan Thomas HaydenNo Possum, No Sop, No Taters
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.
–Wallace Stevens
Tigerloaf 