I have been here before

          

          I have been here before,

              But when or how I cannot tell:

          I know the grass beyond the door,

              The sweet keen smell,

    The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

          You have been mine before,—

              How long ago I may not know:

          But just when at that swallow's soar

              Your neck turned so,

    Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

          Has this been thus before?

              And shall not thus time's eddying flight

          Still with our lives our love restore

              In death's despite,

    And day and night yield one delight once more?

 (Sudden Light, Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

To be blunt and sentimental

I have been here before, I have done this another time, repeated the same gestures, pressed the same keys on the keyboard.  

I have even written these words. The blog that I am starting today has been hunting me for a year now, with an intensity

that almost bothered my day-to-day repeated actions.

And then, when time came, I started thinking of its appearance as one thinks of the things that bring joy. What colors to use, 

what words to write, what shape to give to all the incoming thoughts, all the unprocessed photos and all those travelled 

and travelled once more roads. It then occurred to me that beauty is simple and repetitive, that we all see the same things, 

albeit with different eyes and record them with different cameras. It is this beauty of repetition that has convinced me to start.

For A., who should remember that at the end of every journey there is a handful of red berries waiting for her.

Away for a while

Two and two and two more

2 (III)

2 (II)

2 (I)

Autumn encounter

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

*

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still.

*

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

T.S. Eliot: Ash Wednesday (fragments)

A time when for blue rain I long

*

Winter solitude

Winter solitude--

in a world of one color

the sound of wind.

Matsuo Basho: Winter solitude

***

Over the valley

Après quoi, tu dis : je vole

Mai întâi îţi strângi umerii,
mai apoi te înalţi pe vârful picioarelor,
închizi ochii
refuzi auzul.
Îţi spui în sine:
acum voi zbura.
Apoi zici:
Zbor
Şi acesta e zborul.

Tout d'abord tu serres tes épaules

ensuite tu t'élèves sur la pointe des pieds

tu fermes les yeux

et te bouches les oreilles.

Tu te dis à toi-même :

maintenant, je vais voler.

Après quoi, tu dis :

je vole

et c'est juste cela le vol.

Îţi strângi umerii
cum se strâng râurile într-un singur fluviu.
Îţi închizi ochii
cum închid norii câmpia.
Te-nalţi pe vârful picioarelor
cum se înalţă piramida pe nisip.
Refuzi auzul,
auzul unui singur secol,
şi-apoi îţi spui în sinea ta:
acum voi zbura
de la naştere spre moarte.
După aceea zici:
Zbor
Şi acesta e timpul.

Tu serres les épaules

à la manière des rivières qui se rassemblent dans un seul fleuve.

Tu fermes les yeux

pareillement aux nuages qui encerclent le champ.

Tu te hausses sur la pointe des pieds

telle la pyramide qui s'élève sur le sable.

Tu renonces complètement à l'ouïe

l'ouïe de tout un siècle

ensuite tu te dis à toi-même :

maintenant, je volerai

dès ma naissance jusqu'à la mort.

Après quoi tu te dis encore :

je vole -

et c'est bien cela le temps.

(Lecţia de zbor: Nichita Stănescu)/(La leçon de vol: Nichita Stănescu; Traduit du roumain par Constantin Crişan)

When the road turns...

'The distance unwound itself'