Tuesday, 29 July 2014

Sylvia Plath

 

Lady Lazarus 

One year in every ten   
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine   
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   
O my enemy.   
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be   
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.   
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   
The peanut-crunching crowd   
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.   
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   
The first time it happened I was ten.   
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.   
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.   
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute   
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.   
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   
For a word or a touch   
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   
So, so, Herr Doktor.   
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,   
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   
A wedding ring,   
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair   
And I eat men like air.

Friday, 25 July 2014

Małgorzata Lazarek





1.  advice from  Lucien

2. Sampler  by unknown (late 18th–early 19th century).
    Medium: silk embroidery on linen foundation.
    Technique: embroidered on plain weave.
    Cooper–Hewitt, National Design Museum 

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Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Mary Oliver

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never
before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of
the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the
branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small
kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work
in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with
a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into
something better.
     - Mary Oliver

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Sunday, 20 July 2014

Mariko Ishikawa



Pink & Green, papers and watercolor, 36 x 26 x 4.7 in., 2013

Joseph M. Jahn

artistjournals:

Winter Lamb 
 Joseph M. Jahn 

Winter Lamb
Via
Link
 

Pascal Campion

Sunday morning for you too.#pascalcampionart.It’s Sunday morning… I felt like doing a sketch, but didn’t feel like I wanted to draw the way I usually do, so I tried something different( again).On a different note.We are now at $60 000 on our Kickstarterhttps://www.kickstarter.com/projects/3000moments/3000-momentsI can’t believe it.. I’ll make a thank you note , but, just for now, THANK YOU SO SO SO much everybody. This is amazing!Lastly… I’l be doing a live Q&A tonight,at 8 Pm ( Pacific time) with Geek Pile.Here is the link.http://www.blogtalkradio.com/geekpile/2014/07/21/40—pascal-campion-3000-moments-qahave a GREAT ( lazy) Sunday! 

Sunday morning for you too

Link

Untitled



Unknown source

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Brigitte Romaszko

Microcosme3

Microcosme3
Mixed
Sand, earth-paper, wire and bits of string

Link

Patricia Bin

Rebecca Jewell

Mizuki Goto

Čestmíra Suška

Chris Shaw

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Stay Close
When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.

When sadness is
more powerful than words
more powerful
than deeds
your warm hand
your quiet company
your self in a chair
saying nothing
will be a gift.

You may wonder
"What can I do?"
There may be
nothing
you can do.

You may wish
to run.
Do not run.

Hold hands.
Eat soup.
Listen.
Trace a sunbeam
with your fingers
on the table.
 Let yourself smile.
Let yourself cry.

When sorrow comes
to those you love
stay close.

When sorrow comes
to you
let others
stay close too.
 -contributed by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

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