Saturday, April 09, 2016

flora




A dried flower, unscented,
Forgotten, in a book I see,
And already my soul
is filled with a strange dream.

--A.S. Pushkin

Цветок засохший, безуханный,
Забытый в книге вижу я;
И вот уже мечтою странной
Душа наполнилась моя.

А.С. Пушкин



Last night, I dreamed I rode a bicycle with two small children wedged in between myself and the handlebars. When I parked the bicycle, I found that I had arrived in one of Moscow's central city squares, near a metro station, where many street vendors were plying their wares. I approached a woman selling currant buns, thinking to buy some for the children, but when I opened up my wallet, all I could find were Chinese coins. I laughed awkwardly, and apologized to her. What struck me most about this dream was a rushing sense of exhilaration, the fact that the energy of the very cobblestones greeted me warmly. (On a side-note, it is difficult for me to spend a long period of time in most cities. There must be some aspect peculiar to the ancient ones, which allows my nervous system to relax in the midst of the bustle.) Perhaps just a silly dream, but it caused me to wonder, yet again, who I am, and what am I all about.
_____________________



I found an unusual recording of the Vaganova ballet school, which performs a very old-fashioned version of the Awakening of Flora here:






The willow-catkins and I eagerly await the arrival of Flora to the North.



Where did it flower? When, in which spring?
Did it flower long? And was it plucked by whom,
A stranger or an acquainted hand?
And why was it placed in here?

--A.S. Pushkin

Где цвел? когда? какой весною?
И долго ль цвел? и сорван кем,
Чужой, знакомой ли рукою?
И положен сюда зачем?

А.С. Пушкин

Monday, April 04, 2016

home






Home

These four walls compose the grace of still life:
a boy nuzzling a gray tabby cat,
a chair, favorite books, a piano,
the translucent leaf of an angel-wing begonia.

They do not account for the flighty senses
that swoop from skin to branch to sky like larks,
nor do they speak of the wildest delights,
those un-fathomed as the call of the sea.







En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...

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