With the face goes a mirror

With the face goes a mirror
As with the mind a world.
Likeness tells the doubting eye
That strangeness is not strange.
At an early hour and knowledge
Identity not yet familiar
Looks back upon itself from later,
And seems itself.

To-day seems now.
With reality-to-be goes time.
With the mind goes a world.
Wit the heart goes a weather.
With the face goes a mirror
As with the body a fear.
Young self goes staring to the wall
Where dumb futurity speaks calm,
And between then and then
Forebeing grows of age.

The mirror mixes with the eye.
Soon will it be the very eye.
Soon will the eye that was
The very mirror be.
Death, the final image, will shine
Transparently not otherwise
Than as the dark sun described
With such faint brightnesses.

~ Laura Riding Jackson ~

phantom

"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
Often have I been to it,
Even to its highest tower,
From whence the world looks black."

"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom;
Long have I pursued it,
But never have I touched
The hem of its garment."

And I believed the second traveller;
For truth was to me
A breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom,
And never had I touched
The hem of its garment.

~ Stephen Crane ~

light [in a dream]

Always we are following a light,
Always the light recedes; with groping hands
We stretch toward this glory, while the lands
We journey through are hidden from our sight
Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night,
We care not, all our utmost need demands
Is but the light, the light! So still it stands
Surely our own if we exert our might.
Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,
Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,
Its value is that it doth always seem
But just a little farther on. Distraught,
But lighted ever onward, we are brought
Upon our way unknowing, in a dream.

~ Amy Lowell ~

Don't Let Go // Sojourns in the Parallel World [Zwei Seelen, ach...!]

dedicated to C

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can't believe this moment's come
It's so incredible that we're alone
There's so much to be said and done
It's impossible not to be overcome
Will you forgive me if I feel this way
Cuz we've just met - tell me that's OK
So take this feeling'n make it grow
Never let it - never let it go
(Dont let go of the things you believe in)
You give me something that I can believe in
(Dont' let go of this moment in time)
Go of this moment in time
(Don't let go of things that you're feeling)
I can't explain the things that I'm feeling
(Dont' let go)
No, I won't let go

Now would you mind if I bared my soul
If I came right out and said your'e beautiful
Cuz there's something here I can't explain
I feel I'm diving into driving rain
You get my senses running wild
I can't resist your sweet, sweet smile
So take this feeling'n make it grow
Never let it - never let it go

[Chorus:]
I've been waiting all my life
To make this moment feel so right
The feel of you just fills the night
So c'mon - just hold on tight

~ Bryan Adams ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We live our lives of human passions,
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension – though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal – then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we've been, when we're caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
– but we have changed, a little.

~ Denise Levertov ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ .

friends

Two of my three cats, 13 and 15 years old; sometimes, when I overlook the years we spent together, I think (and I feel and I know) that they are among the best friends I ever had.


My friends do not know.
But what could my friends not know?
About what? What friends?

~ James A. Emanuel ~

more than myself [selfreflexion]

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me...
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

~ Anne Sexton ~

The Play [selfreflexion]

I am the only actor.
It is difficult for one woman
to act out a whole play.
The play is my life,
my solo act.
My running after the hands
and never catching up.
(The hands are out of sight -
that is, offstage.)
All I am doing onstage is running,
running to keep up,
but never making it.

Suddenly I stop running.
(This moves the plot along a bit.)
I give speeches, hundreds,
all prayers, all soliloquies.
I say absurd things like:
egss must not quarrel with stones
or, keep your broken arm inside your sleeve
or, I am standing upright
but my shadow is crooked.
And such and such.
Many boos. Many boos.

Despite that I go on to the last lines:
To be without God is to be a snake
who wants to swallow an elephant.
The curtain falls.
The audience rushes out.
It was a bad performance.
That’s because I’m the only actor
and there are few humans whose lives
will make an interesting play.
Don’t you agree?

~ Anne Sexton ~

inverse world

On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world,
where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the
earth and recede to the first slime of love.

And in the evening the sun is just rising.

Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon
childhood robs them of their pleasure.

In such a world there is much sadness which, of course,
is joy.

~ Russell Edson ~

Ghost Shadow [selfreflexion]

she looks at the world from
another side of the window

her essence a sandy presence
before an astral stage curtain

elevator hallucinations
my mind caught
between piped ideas and
tea cloud beams

my heart waiting
with anticipation, struggling
with her nightmares

hour of solitary in meditation

I have looked into antiquity
to find her name waited for
her to show her self to me,

to disclose where I can find
her prediction, looking to
understand what is it that has
brought her here, what makes me
want to give my soul to her cause

I have told her I would
follow her wherever
she desires, to be with her,
our spirits as one
searching heavens eventide

looking to find the next
dimension, the meaning behind
death, before it’s too late

our souls binned outside life’s prisms,
her ghost shadow, waiting for me to
find the consequence of our purgatory

she looks at the world from
another side of the window

waiting for my resolve her love
comforting my soul, I would
destroy your world to free her

~ Joseph Mayo Wristen ~

fate [selfreflexion]

You may think, passer-by, that Fate
Is a pit-fall outside of yourself,
Around which you may walk by the use of foresight
And wisdom.
Thus you believe, viewing the lives of other men,
As one who in God-like fashion bends over an anthill,
Seeing how their difficulties could be avoided.
But pass on into life:
In time you shall see Fate approach you
In the shape of your own image in the mirror;
Or you shall sit alone by your own hearth,
And suddenly the chair by you shall hold a guest,
And you shall know that guest,
And read the authentic message of his eyes.

~ Edgar Lee Masters~

aliens [selfreflexion]

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.

~ Charles Bukowski ~

with both my hands [selfreflexion]

.
I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there --
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler --

[...]

~ Emily Dickinson ~
.

In case... [selfreflexion]

.
Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness
and yet, as things progressed,
I learned early about the stockade
or taken out, the fume of the enema.
By two or three I learned not to kneel,
not to expect, to plant my fires underground
where none but the dolls, perfect and awful,
could be whispered to or laid down to die.

Now that I have written many words,
and let out so many loves, for so many,
and been altogether what I always was —
a woman of excess, of zeal and greed,
I find the effort useless.
Do I not look in the mirror,
these days,
and see a drunken rat avert her eyes?
Do I not feel the hunger so acutely
that I would rather die than look
into its face?
I kneel once more,
in case mercy should come
in the nick of time.

~ Anne Sexton ~
.

absence of silence [selfreflexion]

.
My mind was a mirror:
It saw what it saw, it knew what it knew.
In youth my mind was just a mirror
In a rapidly flying car,
Which catches and loses bits of the landscape.
Then in time
Great scratches were made on the mirror,
Letting the outside world come in,
And letting my inner self look out.
For this is the birth of the soul in sorrow,
A birth with gains and losses.
The mind sees the world as a thing apart,
And the soul makes the world at one with itself.
A mirror scratched reflects no image —
And this is the silence of wisdom.

~ Edgar Lee Masters ~
.

believe [selfreflexion]

.
the walls of a city
in the background

a walkway leading
to a scene where the sky is green

a reflection found in an artist’s mirror

abstract pictures of people
without faces

colors
immersed
between beams of light
filtering
shadows of purple
radiance

a procession of monks
walking
beyond a row of decorated pillars

watching the red sands of the desert
crashing against the black horizon

a symbol of life suspended at the edge of the dream

the eye of our awakening
looking
over the throne
of the muse

a figure of a man turned to stone

here
is where the statue of death
lies
standing
in the garden of the Lotus

the picture
of what might have been
had we
chosen to believe

~ Joseph Mayo Wristen ~
.

... only a door [selfreflexion]

.

Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.

If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.

Things look at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.

If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthily

to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely

but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?

The door itself
makes no promises.
It is only a door.

~ Adrienne Rich ~

.

With the face goes a mirror [selfreflexion]

.
With the face goes a mirror
As with the mind a world.
Likeness tells the doubting eye
That strangeness is not strange.
At an early hour and knowledge
Identity not yet familiar
Looks back upon itself from later,
And seems itself.

To-day seems now.
With reality-to-be goes time.
With the mind goes a world.
Wit the heart goes a weather.
With the face goes a mirror
As with the body a fear.
Young self goes staring to the wall
Where dumb futurity speaks calm,
And between then and then
Forebeing grows of age.

The mirror mixes with the eye.
Soon will it be the very eye.
Soon will the eye that was
The very mirror be.
Death, the final image, will shine
Transparently not otherwise
Than as the dark sun described
With such faint brightnesses.

~ Laura Riding Jackson ~
.

listening

.

Well... the weather was fine today, so I put my resolution into action and went into town in order to take some "creative pics".

Even if it doesn't look so in the light of the pic above, it was a sunny and quite warm day, I had the first outside coffee of this year and enjoyed the rambling through town as much as you can enjoy something when you're feeling lonely.

Still fascinated by reflections, I returned to an old habit and took a series of about a dozen selfreflexion pics. I'll start to post them tomorrow, as usual combined with a borrowed poem, and I'll let them tell the story of this day without further statements.

Story telling pictures are NOT taken by being aware of the story; it's a matter of letting the unconscious choose subject and subject matter -- in this state, you're not the conductor but only the listener.

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

~ Galway Kinnell ~

.

knowledge

.
Now that I know
How passion warms little
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle, --

I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.

~ Louise Bogan ~
.

faith

.
Faith -- is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what We see
Unto the Scene that We do not --
Too slender for the eye

It bears the Soul as bold
As it were rocked in Steel
With Arms of Steel at either side --
It joins -- behind the Veil

To what, could We presume
The Bridge would cease to be
To Our far, vacillating Feet
A first Necessity.

~ Emily Dickinson ~
.

returning [to the body where I was born]

As I recently used this blog for purposes other than intended (look at all these goat pictures...), I decided to create an extra blog for my horned friends (and finally made two... one of them you can find here: http://abraphilia.blogspot.com/) in order to return to my primal abracassandra intentions: compositions of creative photography & poetry.

Well... as soon as the weather gets better, I'll try to make some other-than-
goat-pictures -- starting do dream again...

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human --
looks out of the heart
burning with purity --
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love --
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
-- cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

-- must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye --

yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.

~ Allen Ginsberg ~

risings

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

spring

The Earth is like a child that knows poems...

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

elegance & power

Nereida at the age of 12 months -- lust of life pure.

black pearl

She gets more and more beautiful with every day...

Philia - day three

The herd consists of three ladies now; Nereida will have her own baby in spring 2012 -- I'm already looking forward to it! :-)

Philia - day two

Philia, also called brotherly love, is one of the four ancient Greek words for love. In modern Greek, Philia means friendship; it is a dispassionate virtuous love, includes loyalty to friends, family, and community, and requires virtue, equality and familiarity.