Akosah Kwadwo ~ The Heart Is Not Yet Sweet
And then we added the colors in the rain
The hundred pins in the skeletons of dust
In the dawn and evening
Of the wedding of mourning
In the earth of the harsh country
But if the sun falls
Within you in the years
And the heart is not yet sweet
Let no one touch it
In the how many years of the sun…
Akosah Kwadwo
2012
Painting is A Summer Night, 1890 by Winslow Homer
Daniil Kharms ~ On Poetry
“One must write poetry in such as way that if one threw the poem in a window, the pane would break.”
― Daniil Kharms
(1905-1942)


Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev(Даниил Иванович Юёв) was born in St. Petersburg, into the family of Ivan Yuvachev, a well known member of the revolutionary group, The People's Will. By this time the elder Yuvachev had already been imprisoned for his involvement in subversive acts against the tsar Alexander III and had become a religious philosopher, acquaintance of Anton Chekhov during the latter's trip to Sakhalin.

Daniil invented the pseudonym Kharms while attending high school at the prestigious German "Peterschule". While at the Peterschule, he learned the rudiments of both English and German, and it may have been the English "harm" and "charm" that he incorporated into "Kharms".rs. It is rumored that he scribbled the name Kharms directly into his passport.

In 1924, he entered the Leningrad Electrotechnicum, from which he was expelled for "lack of activity in social activities". After his expulsion, he gave himself over entirely to literature. He joined the circle of Aleksandr Tufanov, a sound-poet, and follower of Velemir Khlebnikov's ideas of zaum (or trans-sense) poetry. He met the young poet Alexander Vvedensky at this time, and the two became close friends and inseparable collaborators.

In 1927, the Association of Writers of Children's Literature was formed, and Kharms was invited to be a member. From 1928 until 1941, Kharms continually produced children's works and had a great success.

In 1928, Daniil Kharms founded the avant-garde collective OBERIU, or Union of Real Art. He embraced the new movements of Russian Futurism laid out by his idols, Khlebnikov, Kazimir Malevich, and Igor Terentiev, among others. Their ideas served as a springboard. His aesthetic centered around a belief in the autonomy of art from real world rules and logic, and the intrinsic meaning to be found in objects and words outside of their practical function.

By the late 1920s, his antirational verse, nonlinear theatrical performances, and public displays of decadent and illogical behavior earned Kharms — who always dressed like an English dandy with a calabash pipe — the reputation of being a talented but highly eccentric “fool” or “crazy-man” in Leningrad cultural circles.

Even then, in the late 20s, despite rising criticism of the OBERIU performances and diatribes against the avant-garde in the press, Kharms nurtured a fantasy of uniting the progressive artists and writers of the time (Malevich, Filonov, Terentiev, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Kaverin, Zamyatin) with leading Russian Formalist critics (Tynianov, Shklovsky, Eikhenbaum, Ginzburg, etc.,) and a younger generation of writers (all from the OBERIU crowd—Alexander Vvedensky, Konstantin Vaginov, Nikolai Zabolotsky, Igor Bakhterev), to form a cohesive cultural movement of Left Art. Needless to say it didn't happen that way.

Kharms was arrested in 1931 together with Vvedensky, Tufanov and some other writers, and was in exile from his hometown (forced to live in the city of Kursk) for most of a year. He was arrested as a member of "a group of anti-Soviet children's writers", and some of his works were used as an evidence. Soviet authorities, having become increasingly hostile toward the avant-garde in general, deemed Kharms’ writing for children anti-Soviet because of its absurd logic and its refusal to instill materialist and social Soviet values.

He continued to write for children's magazines when he returned from exile, though his name would appear in the credits less often. His plans for more performances and plays were curtailed, the OBERIU disbanded, and Kharms receded into a very private writing life.



Source ...Good Reads
Octavio Paz ~ The Love In Love
At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death;
the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens;
the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments;
the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page;
the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses,
for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert;
the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self;
the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors;
the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the
garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought;
the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands;
the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language;
the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.”
― Octavio Paz
Oscar Wilde ~ On Poets
A poet can survive everything but a misprint.
~Oscar Wilde
Jean Genet ~ On Revolution
The main object of a revolution is the liberation of man... not the interpretation and application of some transcendental ideology.
- Jean Genet
Louise Erdrich ~ Risk Your Heart
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
Louise Erdrich - The Painted Drum
I ~ Poem By Tom Sheldon
Know that space dilates with your own breath;
sing out, as a bird in the desert
from the shadowy rafters of its own high perch-
Our senses cannot fathom this darkness, so
learn the transformations through and through
staving off the inevitable is futile, non-efficacious and fruitless
Be the meaning of this strange encounter;
at their crossing, be the glowing center.
Immerse yourself at the precipice
With the words: I am.
Tom Sheldon
I © Copyright Tom Sheldon
A Soul Inside ~ Poem By Monique Lucy Weberink
For sure you must have a soul
Somewhere there buried inside
With strong metal welded shut tide
You play your mister perfect role
But things are not as they always seem
Fragile are the walls that you keep up
And if I could peak through the cracks
Its all just compromises into extreme
Why don't you show your true face now
For once lower the wooden painted mask
I beg you to show me your teardrops
All I get is a lonely sounding sough
I admit when you do I might run scared
Your face forward straight and open wide
With eyes as window holes without the glass
It happened right after you no longer cared
Shadows growing on the walls and floors
The room gets dark and a struggle starts
Its following me and freaking me inside out
Paranoid trying to escape via narrow doors
Personal private sufferings took control
You committed suicide of your inner self
I know noble thoughts are fighting inside
just figure out whats wrong with your soul
I want to run away from you for good
To be the one who ditches you hard
Make you feel the same pain and anger
Being the girl who did what she could
Taken your passion and your freedom restrained
Trying to break your soul free from its cage
Bittersweet deep down up till its solid core
but the key to unlock is all that maintained
I am forced to lie, but do whatever it takes
Shorty said, exactly that and not a bit more
Every wise man should know himself to be a foul
To save you even when it takes till day breaks
Its made from paper so there is nothing to destroy
Only delineate it to get it back to the surface
Writing memories down with different colors of ink
Red curves for our love and black words to deploy
Watching the ink lines getting sucked dry
I just elegantly reclaimed my true soul mate
You are not going to take me down again
If erasing is the only option, I wonder why
Then that is what I will do.
Monique Lucy Weberink
February 2012

Odilon Redon
Silence
Teresa Wilms Montt ~ “to Die, After Feeling Everything And Being Nothing…”
TERESA WILMS MONTT  POET FROM CHILE (Viña del Mar, 1893 – París 1921): She was born in a wealthy family, daughter of Federico Guillermo Wilms Montt and Brieba, and his wife Luz Victoria Montt and Montt. Given the social context of that time, her primary instruction was given to her by governesses and particular teachers.
When Teresa turned 17, she got married with Gustavo Balmaceda Valdés. In the following years (1911 y 1913) she gave birth to her daughters, Elisa and Silvia Luz. Almost right after the wedding, the problems between Gustavo and Teresa started, mainly due to how much the husband felt aggravated by his wife’s personality, who frequently attended to literary gatherings, and followed the anarchist ideals, and free masonry. Gustavo reacted sheltering himself in the gambling and alcohol; Teresa, on her side, sheltered herself in her friend and Gustavo’s cousin, Vicente Balmaceda Zañartu (whom she will refer on the future at her diaries as Jean).
After numerous marital conflicts, moving from one city to another and letters from Vicente Balmaceda addressed to Teresa, Gustavo Balmaceda convened a family trial, which contaminated her confinement in the convent of Preciosa Sangre, which she entered on October 18th of 1915, and escaped from it on June of 1916 setting off for Buenos Aires, helped by Vicente Huidobro. During her stay in the convent, she started a journal, in which she wrote her feelings about the loss of her daughters, being separated from Vicente Balmaceda and the motivations for her first suicide attempt on March 29th, 1916.
In Buenos Aires, she contributed to Nosotros magazines, in which also did contributed Gabriela Mistral and Ángel Cruchaga Santa María, among others. She also published her first work “Inquietudes Sentimentales”, a collection of fifty poems with surrealistic threads, that enjoyed an amazing success among the intellectual circles of Buenos Aires society. the same happened to “Los Tres Cantos”, work that explored eroticism and spirituality.
Two years after this work and after traveling to Barcelona and New York, she came back to Buenos Aires and published “Cuentos para Hombres que Todavía son Niños”. In it she evoked her childhood and some vital experiences, in tales of great originality and fantasy. “En la Inquietud del Mármol” was published in Barcelona and constituted a lyric toned elegy, made of 35 fragments, which central leitmotif was death. Written on first person, she focused her interest on the mediating role of love between life and death.
She continued traveling across Europe, visiting London and Paris, but always being a resident of Madrid. In 1920 she was reunited with her daughters in Paris; but after they were separated she become gravely ill. In this crisis, she consumed a large dose of Barbital , and she died on December 24th 1921.
In the last pages of her diary, she wrote: “To die, after feeling everything and being nothing…”.

Source count of the Moon
Feeling Of Immortality ~ Poem By Monique Lucy Weberink
FEELING OF IMMORTALITY
Please stop, I need silence inside
Be quiet, there is so much noise
No longer is it possible to live
Words are floating away from me
Dragged along with the ocean tide
My body and soul are kept in piece
While walking along this seashore
Feelings are drawn away from me
Picked up by the unpredictable tide
Gone forever dragged into the deep
New waves keep arriving onshore
The water looks so tender and soft
But at the same time so very cruel
I am much aware of my vulnerability
So small am I in the presence of you
Why did you always need control
You have drowned my personality
And the water continued to call me
Always these same waveless voices
Why didn't you just let me drift away
A meander of tears escaping my eyes
This desperate heart of mine is leaking
Flooding my remorse and bitter feelings
A pool  which colors are nothing but dark
Slowly vaporized by the heat of hatred
The sand sticks to my feet as if a warning
But its no use I am encouraged to walk on
This luring abyss is dangerously present
A constant flux of changes but I hesitate
Before me the sun disappears at horizons end
I realize I am just focused on my own pain
Words no longer reach my sinking heart
But the emotional wound is cut too deep
I am desperately seeking my own relief
Do I honestly think this is not the end?
Monique Lucy Weberink
January, 2012


Demon and Angel with Tamara's Soul (1891) by Vrubel