Nox Oculis – actero nomia poetika i


Voie lactée ô soeur lumineuse… (extraits)

 

Voie lactée ô soeur lumineuse
Des blancs ruisseaux de Chanaan
Et des corps blancs des amoureuses
Nageurs morts suivrons nous d’ahan
Ton cours vers d’autres nébuleuses

(…)

Ses regards laissaient une traîne
D’étoiles dans les soirs tremblants
Dans ses yeux nageaient les sirènes
Et nos baisers mordus sanglants
Faisaient pleurer nos fées marraines

Mais en vérité je l’attends
Avec mon coeur avec mon âme
Et sur le pont des Reviens-t’en
Si jamais reviens cette femme
Je lui dirai Je suis content

Mon coeur et ma tête se vident
Tout le ciel s’écoule par eux
O mes tonneaux des Danaïdes
Comment faire pour être heureux
Comme un petit enfant candide (…)

 

Clair de lune

 

Lune melliflueuse aux lèvres des déments
Les vergers et les bourgs cette nuit sont gourmands
Les astres assez bien figurent les abeilles
De ce miel lumineux qui dégoutte des treilles
Car voici que tout doux et leur tombant du ciel
Chaque rayon de lune est un rayon de miel
Or caché je conçois la très douce aventure
J’ai peur du dard de feu de cette abeille Arcture
Qui posa dans mes mains des rayons décevants
Et prit son miel lunaire à la rose des vents

collectionne ALCOOLS

Guillaume Apollinaire  ,

de son vrai nom Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary de Wąż-Kostrowicki1, est un écrivain français (né polonais, sujet de l’Empire russe), né le 26 août 1880 à Rome et mort le 9 novembre 1918 à Paris.

Il est l’un des plus grands poètes français du début du xxe siècle, auteur notamment du Pont Mirabeau. Il a écrit également des nouvelles et des romans érotiques. Il pratiquait le calligramme (terme de son invention désignant ses poèmes écrits en forme de dessins et non de forme classique en vers et strophes). Il fut le chantre de toutes les avant-gardes artistiques, notamment lecubisme, poète et théoricien de l’Esprit nouveau2, et précurseur du surréalismedont il a forgé le nom.

 

 

 

Ode

The spacious firmament on high
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
The unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator’s power display,
And publishes in every land
The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth ;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball ?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ?
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine :
“The hand that made us is divine !”

collection ,The Spectator, 1712

 

Joseph Addison,

(1 May 1672 – 17 June 1719) was an English essayist, poet, playwright and politician. He was a man of letters, eldest son of Lancelot Addison. His name is usually remembered alongside that of his long-standing friend, Richard Steele, with whom he founded The Spectator magazine.

 

 

Morning Song of Senlin

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair :
How small and white my face ! -–
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea…
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me…

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god ?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence !
I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains…
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more ;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor…

… It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know…

Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

Evening Song of Senlin

It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
I ascend my stairs once more,
While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,
Crash on a white sand shore.
It is moonlight. The garden is silent.
I stand in my room alone.
Across my wall, from the far-off moon,
A rain of fire is thrown…
There are houses hanging above the stars,
And stars hung under a sea :
And a wind from the long blue vault of time
Waves my curtain for me…
I wait in the dark once more,
Swung between space and space :
Before my mirror I lift my hands
And face my remembered face.
Is it I who stand in a question here,
Asking to know my name ? …
It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
Nor why, nor whence I came.
It is I, who awoke at dawn
And arose and descended the stair,
Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun, —
In a woman’s hands and hair.
It is I whose flesh is gray with the stones
I builded into a wall :
With a mournful melody in my brain
Of a tune I cannot recall…
There are roses to kiss : and mouths to kiss ;
And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
I remember a rain-drop on my cheek, —
A wind like a fragrant breath…
And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven ;
And the heavens are dark and steep…
I will forget these things once more
In the silence of sleep.

 

Conrad Potter Aiken,

(5 August 1889 – 17 August 1973) was an American novelist and poet, whose work includes poetry, short stories,novels, and an autobiography

(TO BE CONTINUED)

SOURCE  http://pages.infinit.net   ,WIKI

About sooteris kyritsis

Job title: (f)PHELLOW OF SOPHIA Profession: RESEARCHER Company: ANTHROOPISMOS Favorite quote: "ITS TIME FOR KOSMOPOLITANS(=HELLINES) TO FLY IN SPACE." Interested in: Activity Partners, Friends Fashion: Classic Humor: Friendly Places lived: EN THE HIGHLANDS OF KOSMOS THROUGH THE DARKNESS OF AMENTHE
This entry was posted in POECIA=ΠΟΙΗΣΗ and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.