Thursday, 22 September 2011
Friday with Charlotte and The Tree
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
For you
The meanings of words aren’t discreet entities, like dictionary definitions. They’re concepts.
A stunning article about the art of writing.....
http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/the-fine-art-of-writing-small-2358073.html
http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/the-fine-art-of-writing-small-2358073.html
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Haiku Varsovie
La vieille ville clignote
pour decrire sa belle epoque
avant la chute rouge
On fete le football
parmi les vrais ukrainiens
une victoire de races
Tournez le futur
en tartes aux pommes polonaises
douces et invitantes.
pour decrire sa belle epoque
avant la chute rouge
On fete le football
parmi les vrais ukrainiens
une victoire de races
Tournez le futur
en tartes aux pommes polonaises
douces et invitantes.
Heart of my own
Basia Bulat
Under that bird
Beneath that falls
Down on these walls
Burnin my arms
I've been alone
When I sat by you
For every word I could undo
I've been uncrossed
and I've been untrue
I've been the thorn
I've been the hunt
With a heart of my own
Burn it down low
The light in your verse
And the shadow between
The way that I was when I used to roam
Back home
What do I hold?
For the maid or the mother I'll be
If only the loom and a thread will hold.
It is work too but as that I hear it
Tomorrow I'll mend it
The empty bones.
There are the roses that come without seekin'
They are the ones that I have to sow.
In your verses that I have repeated
The way that I was when I used to know.
I wrote on these walls
A simple charm
To keep the wounds at bay
Gave of a heart
The strength of my arms
To hold you close and safe
But I kept my eyes closed
I'll never know
Where the shadows are these days
I stood in the room of a house divided
Ah, and it washed away from me.
It washed away from me, oh,
And It washed away from me.
It washed away to take my own
Burn it down low
The light in your verse
And the shadow between
The way that I was when I used to roam
Back home
What do I hold?
For the maid or the mother I'll be
If only the loom and a thread will hold.
It is work too but as that I hear it
Tomorrow I meant it
The empty bones
There are the roses that come without sinkin
They are the ones that I have to sow
In your verses that I have repeated
The way that I was when I used to know.
Wild Horses a different way
Sunday, 18 September 2011
France chooses film for the Oscars
La guerre est declaree ( War is declared )
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