house on the field

lifts to another life, that which is lost
in this. He is gone and no matterwhat, the ground remains heaped
with the earth that turnsin its own house, the clock
on the wall, the downward swingthe voice that quivers and
falls silent as my wife,who rises from the bed to stand in
the doorway of the presentcertain as future, delicate as prayer.

trovants...the world of the living stones

Cu 6 milioane de ani inaintea nasterii marelui sculptor Constantin Brancusi, natura isi crea, nu departe de locul lui natal, propriile „Domnisoare Pogany”. Li se spune trovanti, dar numele care s-a incetatenit in randul localnicilor este „pietre care cresc”.

O lume de piatra
In apropiere de drumul care leaga Ramnicu Valcea de Targu Jiu, in comuna valceana Costesti, natura a creat unele dintre cele mai surprinzatoare sculpturi de piatra. Forme bizare, milimetrice sau de dimensiunea unui om, continua sa iasa la iveala pe masura ce oamenii exploateaza nisipul din cariera. In jurul balatrucilor sau dorobantilor, cum ii mai numesc localnicii, s-a tesut un adevarat folclor: unii spun ca bolovanii ar avea origini supranaturale, altii ca ar fi marturii ale existentei unor civilizatii extraterestre superioare. Cert e ca nici oamenii de stiinta nu au reusit, pana acum, sa desluseasca in totalitate misterul formarii trovantilor, si tot ce pot face, deocamdata, este sa emita ipoteze pe care sa incerce sa le verifice in laborator. Ei sustin că formatiunile, numite in literatura de specialitate si concretiuni grezoase, ar avea peste 6 milioane de ani vechime si ar fi aparut datorita unor cimentari locale ale nisipului, posibil pe fondul unei activitati seismice.

Trovants or concretions, also known as "growing stones", are geological formations found in sand accumulations and sandstone deposits cemented by waters rich in calcium carbonate. Trovants grow spontaneously from the center to the periferics - with a deposition rate of about 4-5 cm in 1200 years. They appear as mineral units, nodular, spherical or cylindrical with massive, concentric or plain structure ranging from a few millimeters to several meters.

The term Trovant is specific to the Romanian geological literature and was introduced first by the naturalist Gh. M. Murgoci in this work "The Tertiary in Oltenia".The trovants, also known as "growing stones", are geological formations found in sand accumulations and sandstone deposits cemented by waters rich in calcium carbonate. They appear as mineral units, nodular, spherical or cylindrical with massive, concentric or plain structure ranging from a few millimeters to several meters. The trovants have a hard stone core, but their shells are made of sand. They trovants represent a cementation in the reservoir of sand that contains them in various shapes, some of the very strange. 6 million years ago there was a sedimentation basin here. The sand reservoir was formed as a consequence of the successive sedimentation of detritic material, transported by rivers from the continent. Along with this sediments, from the water get accumulated chemical substances in excess (carbonates). The, over the first beds of sand the sedimentation continues and the sand get compressed under the beds above. the water is eliminated through the empty spaces between the sand particles, that get pressed. Trovants grow spontaneously from the center to the margins - with a deposition rate of about 4-5 cm in 1000 years. Trovants can be found in Romania at two locations in Vâlcea County. The first location is a sand quarry on the left side of DN67, before the entry in Costeşti village. On an area of 1100 m2 there are several trovants of various forms, several tons heavy, extracted from the steep sand quarry wall. The second location, and the most spectacular, is along Gresarea Brook that flows into a river in the nearby of the Oteşani village, approximately 15 km from Horezu. Going up the Gresarea brook you will find trovants in many forms, with weights ranging from only a few grams to hundreds of kilograms. Trovants can be seen at the "Trovants Museum" Natural Reserve in Costeşti, Vâlcea County, declared UNESCO monument,

at the knight's grave

THE WILD KNIGHTThe wasting thistle whitens on my crest,The barren grasses blow upon my spear,A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faithAnd love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,Among the golden loves of all the knights,Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous,The love of God: I hear the crumbling creedsLike cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;I hear a noise of words, age after age,A new cold wind that blows across the plains,And all the shrines stand empty; and to meAll these are nothing: priests and schools may doubtWho never have believed; but I have loved.Ah friends, I know it passing well, the loveWherewith I love; it shall not bring to meReturn or hire or any pleasant thing--Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vainAnd rolled back shattered-- Babbling neophytes!Blind, startled fools--think you I know it not?Think you to teach me? Know I not His ways?Strange-visaged blunders, mystic cruelties.All! all! I know Him, for I love Him. Go!So, with the wan waste grasses on my spear,I ride for ever, seeking after God.My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume,And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyesThe star of an unconquerable praise:For in my soul one hope for ever sings,That at the next white corner of a roadMy eyes may look on Him.... Hush--I shall knowThe place when it is found: a twisted pathUnder a twisted pear-tree--this I sawIn the first dream I had ere I was born,Wherein He spoke.... But the grey clouds come downIn hail upon the icy plains: I ride,Burning for ever in consuming fire.THE WILD KNIGHT_A dark manor-house shuttered and unlighted, outlined against a palesunset: in front a large, but neglected, garden. To the right, in theforeground, the porch of a chapel, with coloured windows lighted. Hymnswithin.__Above the porch a grotesque carved bracket, supporting a lantern.Astride of it sits CAPTAIN REDFEATHER, a flagon in his hand_.REDFEATHER.I have drunk to all I know of,To every leaf on the tree,To the highest bird of the heavens,To the lowest fish of the sea.What toast, what toast remaineth,Drunk down in the same good wine,By the tippler's cup in the tavern,And the priest's cup at the shrine?[_A Priest comes out, stick in hand, and looks right and left._]VOICES WITHIN.The brawler ...PRIEST.He has vanishedREDFEATHER.To the stars.[_The Priest looks up._]PRIEST [_angrily_].What would you there, sir?REDFEATHER.Give you all a toast.[_Lifts his flagon. More priests come out._]I see my life behind me: bad enough--Drink, duels, madness, beggary, and pride,The life of the unfit: yet ere I dropOn Nature's rubbish heap, I weigh it all,And give you all a toast--[_Reels to his feet and stands._]The health of God![_They all recoil from him._]Let's give the Devil of the Heavens His due!He that made grass so green, and wine so red,Is not so black as you have painted him.[_Drinks._]PRIEST.Blaspheming profligate!REDFEATHER [_hurls the flagon among them._] Howl! ye dumb dogs,I named your King--let me have one great shout,Flutter the seraphim like startled birds;Make God recall the good days of His youthEre saints had saddened Him: when He came backConqueror of Chaos in a six days' war,With all the sons of God shouting for joy ...PRIEST.And you--what is your right, and who are you,To praise God?REDFEATHER. A lost soul. In earth or heavenWhat has a better right?PRIEST. Go, pagan, go!Drink, dice, and dance: take no more thought than blindBeasts of the field....REDFEATHER. Or ... lilies of the field,To quote a pagan sage. I go my way.PRIEST [_solemnly_].And when Death comes....REDFEATHER.He shall not find me dead.[_Puts on his plumed hat. The priests go out._]REDFEATHER.These frozen fools....[_The Lady Olive comes out of the chapel. He sees her._]Oh, they were right enough.Where shall I hide my carrion from the sun?[_Buries his face. His hat drops to the ground._]OLIVE [_looking up._]Captain, are you from church? I saw you not.REDFEATHER.No, I am here.[_Lays his hand on a gargoyle._] I, too, am a grotesque,And dance with all the devils on the roof.OLIVE [_with a strange smile._]For Satan, also, I have often prayed.REDFEATHER [_roughly_].Satan may worry women if he will,For he was but an angel ere he fell,But I--before I fell--I was a man.OLIVE.He too, my Master, was a man: too strongTo fear a strong man's sins: 'tis written HeDescended into hell.REDFEATHER.Write, then, that I[_Leaps to the ground before her._]Descended into heaven.... You are ill?OLIVE.No, well....REDFEATHER.You speak the truth--you are the Truth--Lady, say once again then, 'I am _well_.'OLIVE.I--ah! God give me grace--I am nigh dead.REDFEATHER [_quietly._]Lord Orm?OLIVE.Yes--yes.REDFEATHER. Is in your father's house--Having the title-deeds--would drive you forth.Homeless, and with your father sick to death,Into this winter, save on a conditionNamed....OLIVE. And unnameable. Even so; Lord Orm--Ah! do you know him?REDFEATHER. Ay, I saw him once.The sun shone on his face, that smiled and smiled,A sight not wholesome to the eyes of man.OLIVE.Captain, I tell you God once fell asleep.And in that hour the world went as it would;Dogs brought forth cats, and poison grew in grapes,And Orm was born....REDFEATHER. Why, curse him! can he notBe kicked or paid?OLIVE [_feverishly_]. Hush! He is just behindThere in the house--see how the great house glares,Glares like an ogre's mask--the whole dead housePossessed with bestial meaning....[_Screams_] Ah! the face!The whole great grinning house--his face! his face!His face!REDFEATHER [_in a voice of thunder, pointing away from the house_].Look there--look there!OLIVE.What is it? What?REDFEATHER.I think it was a bird.OLIVE.What thought you, truly?REDFEATHER.I think a mighty thought is drawing near.[_Enter THE WILD KNIGHT._]THE WILD KNIGHT.That house....[_Points._]OLIVE.Ah Christ! [_Shudders._] I had forgotten it.THE WILD KNIGHT [_still pointing_].That house! the house at last, the house of God,Wherein God makes an evening feast for me.The house at last: I know the twisted pathUnder the twisted pear-tree: this I sawIn the first dream I had ere I was born.It is the house of God. He welcomes me.[_Strides forward._]REDFEATHER._That_ house. God's blood!OLIVE [_hysterically_].Is not this hell's own wit?THE WILD KNIGHT.God grows impatient, and His wine is poured,His bread is broken.[_Rushes forward._]REDFEATHER [_leaps between_]. Stand away, great fool,There is a devil there!THE WILD KNIGHT [_draws his sword, and waves it as he rushes_].God's house!--God's house!REDFEATHER [_plucks out his own sword_].Better my hand than his.[_The blades clash._] God alone knowsWhat That within might do to you, poor fool,I can but kill you.[_They fight. OLIVE tries to part them._]REDFEATHER.Olive, stand away!OLIVE.I will not stand away![_Steps between the swords._] Stranger, a word,Yes--you are right--God is within that house.REDFEATHER.Olive!OLIVE. But He is all too beautifulFor us who only know of stars and flowers.The thing within is all too pure and fair,[_Shudders._]Too awful in its ancient innocence,For men to look upon it and not die;Ourselves would fade into those still white firesOf peace and mercy.[_Struggles with her voice._]There ... enough ... the law--No flesh shall look upon the Lord and live.REDFEATHER [_sticking his sword in the ground_].You are the bravest lady in the world.THE WILD KNIGHT [_dazed_].May I not go within?REDFEATHER.Keep you the law--No flesh shall look upon the Lord and live.THE WILD KNIGHT [_sadly_].Then I will go and lay me in the flowers,For He may haply, as in ancient time,Walk in the garden in the cool of day.[_He goes out._][OLIVE _reels._ REDFEATHER _catches her._]You are the strongest woman upon earth.The weakest woman than the strongest manIs stronger in her hour: this is the law.When the hour passes--then may we be strong.OLIVE [_wildly._]The House ... the Face.REDFEATHER [_fiercely_].I love you. Look at me!OLIVE [_turns her face to him._]I hear six birds sing in that little tree,Say, is the old earth laughing at my fears?I think I love you also....REDFEATHER. What I amYou know. But I will never curse a man,Even in a mirror.OLIVE [_smiling at him_].And the Devil's dance?REDFEATHER.The Devil plotted since the world was youngWith alchemies of fire and witches' oilsAnd magic. But he never made a man.OLIVE.No; not a man.REDFEATHER. Not even my Lord Orm.Look at the house now--[_She starts and looks._]Honest brick and tiles.OLIVE.You have a strange strength in this hour.REDFEATHER. This hourI see with mortal eye as in one flashThe whole divine democracy of things,And dare the stars to scorn a scavenge-heap.Olive, I tell you every soul is great.Weave we green crowns--how noble and how high;Fling we white flowers--how radiant and how pureIs he, whoe'er he be, who next shall crossThis scrap of grass....[_Enter LORD ORM. _]OLIVE [_screams_].Ah!REDFEATHER [_pointing to the chapel_]. Olive, go and prayfor a man soon to die. Good-day, my Lord.[_She goes in._]LORD ORM.Good-day.REDFEATHER.I am a friend to Lady Olive.LORD ORM.Sir, you are fortunate.REDFEATHER. Most fortunateIn finding, sword on thigh and ready, oneWho is a villain and a gentleman.LORD ORM [_picks up the flagon_].Empty, I see.REDFEATHER. Oh sir, you never drink.You dread to lose yourself before the stars--Do you not dread to sleep?LORD ORM [_violently_].What would you here?REDFEATHER.Receive from you the title-deeds you hold.LORD ORM.You entertain me.REDFEATHER.With a bout at foils?LORD ORM.I will not fight.REDFEATHER. I know you better, then.I have seen men grow mangier than the beasts,Eat bread with blood upon their fingers, grinWhile women burned: but one last law they served.When I say 'Coward,' is the law awake?LORD ORM.Hear me, then, too: I have seen robbers rule,And thieves go clad in gold--age after age--Because, though sordid, ragged, rude, and mean,They saw, like gods, no law above their heads.But when they fell--then for this cause they fell,This last mean cobweb of the fairy talesOf good and ill: that they must stand and fightWhen a man bade, though they had chose to standAnd fight not. I am stronger than the world.[_Folds his arms._]REDFEATHER [_lifts his hand_].If in your body be the blood of man,[_Strikes him._]Now let it rush to the face-- God! Have you sunkLower than anger?LORD ORM.How I triumph now.REDFEATHER [_stamps wildly]_.Damned, whimpering dog! vile, snivelling, sick poltroon!Are you alive?LORD ORM. Evil, be thou my good;Let the sun blacken and the moon be blood:I have said the words.REDFEATHER [_studying him_]. And if I struck you dead,You would turn to daisies!LORD ORM.And you do not strike.REDFEATHER [_dreamily_].Indeed, poor soul, such magic would be kindAnd full of pity as a fairy-tale:One touch of this bright wand [_Lifts his sword_] and down would dropThe dark abortive blunder that is you.And you would change, forgiven, into flowers.LORD ORM.And yet--and yet you do not strike me dead.I do not draw: the sword is in your hand--Drive the blade through me where I stand.REDFEATHER. Lord Orm,You asked the Lady Olive (I can speakAs to a toad to you, my lord)--you askedOlive to be your paramour: and she--LORD ORM.Refused.REDFEATHER. And yet her father was at stake,And she is soft and kind. Now look at me,Ragged and ruined, soaked in bestial sins:My lord, I too have my virginity--Turn the thing round, my lord, and topside down,You cannot spell it. Be the fact enough,I use no sword upon a swordless man.LORD ORM.For her?REDFEATHER.I too have my virginity.LORD ORM.Now look on me: I am the lord of earth,For I have broken the last bond of man.I stand erect, crowned with the stars--and why?Because I stand a coward--because youHave mercy--on a coward. Do I win?REDFEATHER.Though there you stand with moving mouth and eyes,I think, my lord, you are not possible--God keep you from my dreams.[_Goes out._]LORD ORM. Alone and free.Since first in flowery meads a child I ran,My one long thirst--to be alone and free.Free of all laws, creeds, codes, and common tests,Shameless, anarchic, infinite. Why, then,I might have done in that dark liberty--If I should say 'a good deed,' men would laugh,But here are none to laugh. The godless worldBe thanked there is no God to spy on me,Catch me and crown me with a vulgar crownFor what I do: if I should once believeThe horror of that ancient EavesdropperBehind the starry arras of the skies,I should--well, well, enough of menaces--should not do the thing I come to do.What do I come to do? Let me but tryTo spell it to my soul. Suppose a manPerfectly free and utterly alone,Free of all love of law, equally freeOf all the love of mutiny it breeds,Free of the love of heaven, and also freeOf all the love of hell it drives us to;Not merely void of rules, unconscious of them;So strong that naught alive could do him hurt,So wise that he knew all things, and so greatThat none knew what he was or what he did--A lawless giant.[_A pause: then in a low voice._] Would he not be good?Hate is the weakness of a thwarted thing,Pride is the weakness of a thing unpraised.But he, this man....He would be like a childGirt with the tomes of some vast library,Who reads romance after romance, and smilesWhen every tale ends well: impersonalAs God he grows--melted in suns and stars;So would this boundless man, whom none could spy,Taunt him with virtue, censure him with vice,Rejoice in all men's joys; with golden penWrite all the live romances of the earthTo a triumphant close.... Alone and free--In this grey, cool, clean garden, washed with winds,What do I come to do among the grass,The daisies, and the dews? An awful thing,To prove I am that man. That while these saintsTaunt me with trembling, dare me to revenge,I breathe an upper air of ancient goodAnd strong eternal laughter; send my sunAnd rain upon the evil and the just,Turn my left cheek unto the smiter. HeThat told me, sword in hand, that I had fallenLower than anger, knew not I had risenHigher than pride.... Enough, the deeds are mine.[_Takes out the title-deeds._]I come to write the end of a romance.A good romance: the characters--Lord Orm.Type of the starved heart and stored brain,Who strives to hate and cannot; fronting him--Redfeather, rake in process of reform,At root a poet: I have hopes of him:He can love virtue, for he still loves vice.He is not all burnt out. He beats me there(How I beat him in owning it!); in loveHe is still young, and has the joy of shame.And for the Lady Olive--who shall speak?A man may weigh the courage of a man,But if there be a bottomless abyssIt is a woman's valour: such as ICan only bow the knee and hide the face(Thank God there is no God to spy on meAnd bring his cursed crowns). No, there is none:The old incurable hunger of the worldSurges in wolfish wars, age after age.There was no God before me: none sees where,Between the brute-womb and the deaf, dead grave,Unhoping, unrecorded, unrepaid,I make with smoke, fire, and burnt-offeringThis sacrifice to Chaos. [_Lights the papers._] None beholdMe write in fire the end of the romance.Burn! I am God, and crown myself with stars.Upon creation day: before was nightAnd chaos of a blind and cruel world.I am the first God; I will trample hell,Fight, conquer, make the story of the stars,Like this poor story, end like a romance:[_The paper burns._]Before was brainless night: but I am GodIn this black world I rend. Let there be light![_The paper blazes up, illuminating the garden._]I, God ...THE WILD KNIGHT [_rushes forward_]. God's Light! God's Voice; yes, it is HeWalking in Eden in the cool of the day!LORD ORM [_screams_].Tricked! Caught!Damned screeching rat in a hole![_Stabs him again and again with his sword; stamps on his face._]THE WILD KNIGHT [_faintly_].Earth grows too beautiful around me: shapesAnd colours fearfully wax fair and clear,For I have heard, as thro' a door ajar,Scraps of the huge soliloquy of GodThat moveth as a mask the lips of man,If man be very silent: they were right,No flesh shall look upon the Lord and live.[_Dies._]LORD ORM [_staggers back laughing_].Saved, saved, my secret.REDFEATHER [_rushing in, sword in hand_]. The drawn sword at last!Guard, son of hell![_They fight. ORM falls. OLIVE comes in._] He too can die. Keep back!Olive, keep back from him! I did not fearHim living, and he fell before my sword;But dead I fear him. All is ended now;A man's whole life tied in a bundle there,And no good deed. I fear him. Come away.GOOD NEWSBetween a meadow and a cloud that sped In rain and twilight, in desire and fear. I heard a secret--hearken in your ear,'Behold the daisy has a ring of red.'That hour, with half of blessing, half of ban, A great voice went through heaven, and earth and hell, Crying, 'We are tricked, my great ones, is it well?Now is the secret stolen by a man.'Then waxed I like the wind because of this, And ran, like gospel and apocalypse, From door to door, with new anarchic lips,Crying the very blasphemy of bliss.In the last wreck of Nature, dark and dread, Shall in eclipse's hideous hieroglyph, One wild form reel on the last rocking cliff,And shout, 'The daisy has a ring of red.'

religion books seller

Books about :
Christian personalities:
God, Yeshua/Jesus, Mary, Saints, and, of course, Satan & demons

up dating moment

An Old Woman's Skin
The beauty, the character, the pain,
suffering, sorrow, joy laughter, tears.
A lifetime of living and giving.
A thousand and one stories to tell.
A roadmap of wisdom, perhaps
a bit of cynicism. All in the
wrinkled, crinkled lines
of an old woman's skin.
- Sandy Finelli

after the rain

Whatever your cross, whatever your pain,There will always be sunshine after the rainPerhaps you may stumble, perhaps even fall,But God's always ready to answer your callHe knows every heartache, sees every tear,A word from His lips can calm every fearYour sorrows may linger throughout the night,But suddenly vanish at dawn's early lightThe Savior is waiting somewhere above,To give you His grace and send you His loveWhatever your cross, whatever your pain,God always sends rainbows after the rain

I want a slice of wedding cake !

A Slice of Wedding Cake by Robert Graves
Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girlsMarried impossible men?Simple self-sacrifice may be ruled out,And missionary endeavour, nine times out of ten.Repeat 'impossible men': not merely rustic,Foul-tempered or depraved(Dramatic foils chosen to show the worldHow well women behave, and always have behaved).Impossible men: idle, illiterate,Self-pitying, dirty, sly,For whose appearance even in City parksExcuses must be made to casual passers-by.Has God's supply of tolerable husbandsFallen, in fact, so low?Or do I always over-value womanAt the expense of man?Do I?It might be so.

Melancholetta

Melancholetta
by Lewis Carroll
WITH saddest music all day longShe soothed her secret sorrow:At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrongSuch cheerful words to borrow.Dearest, a sweeter, sadder songI'll sing to thee to-morrow."
I thanked her, but I could not sayThat I was glad to hear it:I left the house at break of day,And did not venture near itTill time, I hoped, had worn awayHer grief, for nought could cheer it!
My dismal sister! Couldst thou knowThe wretched home thou keepest!Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,Is thankful when thou sleepest;For if I laugh, however low,When thou'rt awake, thou weepest!
I took my sister t'other day(Excuse the slang expression)To Sadler's Wells to see the playIn hopes the new impressionMight in her thoughts, from grave to gayEffect some slight digression.
I asked three gay young dogs from townTo join us in our folly,Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drownMy sister's melancholy:The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,And Robinson the jolly.
The maid announced the meal in tonesThat I myself had taught her,Meant to allay my sister's moansLike oil on troubled water:I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones,And begged him to escort her.
Vainly he strove, with ready wit,To joke about the weather -To ventilate the last 'ON DIT' -To quote the price of leather -She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit:Let us lament together!"
I urged "You're wasting time, you know:Delay will spoil the venison.""My heart is wasted with my woe!There is no rest - in Venice, onThe Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted lowFrom Byron and from Tennyson.
I need not tell of soup and fishIn solemn silence swallowed,The sobs that ushered in each dish,And its departure followed,Nor yet my suicidal wishTo BE the cheese I hollowed.
Some desperate attempts were madeTo start a conversation;"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed,"Which kind of recreation,Hunting or fishing, have you madeYour special occupation?"
Her lips curved downwards instantly,As if of india-rubber."Hounds IN FULL CRY I like," said she:(Oh how I longed to snub her!)"Of fish, a whale's the one for me,IT IS SO FULL OF BLUBBER!"
The night's performance was "King John.""It's dull," she wept, "and so-so!"Awhile I let her tears flow on,She said they soothed her woe so!At length the curtain rose upon'Bombastes Furioso.'
In vain we roared; in vain we triedTo rouse her into laughter:Her pensive glances wandered wideFrom orchestra to rafter -"TIER UPON TIER!" she said, and sighed;And silence followed after.

street in Sibiu

Sibiu (Romanian pronunciation: [siˈbiw]; German: Hermannstadt; Hungarian: Nagyszeben; Serbian: Сибињ/Sibinj; Yiddish: הערמאנשטאדט (Hermanshtadt) or סזעבען (Szeben), ) is an important city in Transylvania, Romania with a population of 154,548[1]. It straddles the Cibin River, a tributary of the river Olt. It is the capital of Sibiu County and is located some 282 km NW of Bucharest. Between 1692—1791 it was the capital of Principality of Transylvania.
It is one of the most important cultural and religious centres in Romania as well a major transportation hub in central Romania. The city used to be the centre of the Transylvanian Saxons in Romania until World War II.
Sibiu was designated European Capital of Culture for the year 2007 together with Luxembourg.

"All cities are mad: but the madness is gallant. All cities are beautiful: but the beauty is grim."- Christopher Morley (1890 - 1957)

the holy man

Not every wino is a Holy Man. Oh, but some of them are. I love those who've learnedto sit comfortably for long periods with their hamspressed against their calves, outdoors, with a wall for a back-rest, contentedly saying nothing.These move about only whennecessary, on foot, and almost alwaysin pairs.I think of them as oblates. Christ's blood is in their veins or they thirst for it. They have looked into the eyesof God, unprotected by smoked glass. Alden Nowlan

the old nun

SOME keep the Sabbath going to church;

I keep it staying at home,

With a bobolink for a chorister,

And an orchard for a dome.


Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;

I just wear my wings,

And instead of tolling the bell for church,

Our little sexton sings.


God preaches,—a noted clergyman,—

And the sermon is never long;

So instead of getting to heaven at last,

I ’m going all along!



(Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.)

prayer

My love is awakened as I gaze wide-eyed at
Your creation.
I study it and try to open,
widen and stretch
my soul, my being
to take in the glory I see.
I try to let it fill me.
Satisfy me, O Lord!
How can it be? I feel less filled.
Emptiness.
I'm blown away by all I see--I'm overwhelmed by
the vibrance of life that surrounds me.
But still . . . there's something wrong with me.
Emptiness.
I'm not filled up. I'm still hollow all the way
to the bottom. I can't open my soul that far.
My soul is a bottle--deep and wide,
but the
mouth is tiny and inflexible.
I want Your
love to fill me up,
but all I feel is this
empty place
at the bottom of myself.
I long for You
Yearn
to feel Your satisfaction
deep within me.
I simply want to be
Covered
Surrounded by
Filled
With Your presence.
For without You, I am nothing.
I long for, even yearn, for the courts of Your dwelling place.

some people in the crowd : an accusatorial sight for the photographer

THE CHILD'S SIGHT????????
The child’s wisdom is in sayingThey say what they see when they see itI am beginning to remember howWhen I don’t say it when I see itI remember it differentlyI am walking with the childrenThey have included meNone of us eavesdrop anymoreWe speak the same celestial gibberishOur spirit ticks the same timeI feel again and am part of the inside worldThe child is a little inspector when it crawlsIt touches and tastes the earthRolls and stumbles toward the objectZigzags like a snailAnd outmanoeuvres the roomI am learning the child’s wayI pick up wood pieces from the groundAnd see shapes into themI notice a purple velvet bee resting on a flowerAnd stop to listen to its buzzThey have included meAnd though I will not be put away to rock aloneAnd I don’t roll down the plush hillsNor spit for luckI am learning their wayThey have given me back the bliss of my senses???U dont get it??? - How do children experience the world??? or even...how has the author's life been changed by his experience /w children??

the art lesson

I say that good painters imitated nature; but that bad ones vomited it.
Miguel de Cervantes

...and still birds sing

"An interesting and encouraging intersection between the 'two cultures' of science and humanities is the emergence of books and conferences on whether or not the delightful songs of birds can be considered a form of music, situated as it is in a time of fascination with questions of animal consciousness with the realization that under sexual selection, animals make choices based on signals; and birdsongs are surely signals that appeal to other birds, but even to humans but wholly aesthetic reasons.

...That'll be the life;No God any more, or sweating in the darkAbout hell and that, or having to hideWhat you think of the priest. HeAnd his lot will all go down the long slideLike free bloody birds...

genesis

Genesis
Cylinder sacks of water filling the oceans,
endless bullets of water,
skins full of water rolling and tumbling
as we came together.
As though light broke us apart.
As though light came with the rubble of words,
though we die among the husks of remembering.
It is as we knew it would be
in the echoes of endless terminals,
in the slow scaled guises of ourselves
when we came together in the envelopes of ourselves,
the bare shadow, the breath of words invisible;
as slight errors repeating themselves;
as degradation passes like madness through a crowd.
It was not ordained.

wish to be free

Thus for an instant the Sensation of this Eternal House passed thru my hair tho I couldn't liberate my body from the bed to float away—tho did glimpse the foot of the thought of the gate of Heaven—
and overall the vast blue flash & blast of open space the Sky of Time, empty as a big blue dream and as everlasting as the many eyes that lived to see it Time is the God, is the Face of the God

The huge gentle creature of the Cosmic joke that takes whatever form it can to Signify that it is the one that has come to its Home where all are invited to Enter in Secret eternally After they have been killed by the illusion of Impossible Death.

Anna Karenina...2009 version

Goodbye, my friend, goodbye My love, you are in my heart. It was preordained we should part And be reunited by and by. Goodbye: no handshake to endure. Let's have no sadness — furrowed brow. There's nothing new in dying now Though living is no newer.

extazy

Give me some extazy...Give me some extazy...I lick some god tears.Another place to hide.Give me some extazy...Give me some extazy...ExtazyExtazyExtazy, to be free !But god dislikes when we stand in his gardenHe will punish myselfAnd now I have no place to hide -I must return on earthI must go back in hell x4Go back in hell.I must return on earth.I must return on earthI must go back in hell x6

strange friendship between predator and victim

I die everyday just to live for you
but my strenght is invisible
maybe you won't see them any day
but who cares, my love for you is invisible

fusion...sand, birds and her grave

A Convergence of Symbols :
I tend to see my whole life through metaphors and symbols, perhaps explaining why I love poetry, painting, and photography so much. In fact, I sometimes wonder which came first, my love of poetry or my propensity for seeing the world through symbols. I suspect that I have always seen the world through metaphor and symbolism, and poetry and photography simply met those needs.

a farewell to innocence

He discovers his way in life. Filled with twist and turns taking him to places he thought never existed.

a whisper calling the wind

poetic renaissance — it rocks the boat of poetry and yet rocks the cradle of song like a forgotten lullaby. Its revelatory, musical language is accessible and challenging, wild and formal, energetic and sensitive, radical and traditional, as old as the hills and as new as tomorrow.

It’s a cry from the heart of the wilderness, a lamentation from the deep, an exhortation from the other side, an alarm bell from the kingdom, a bloody exciting skull-peel of a read. It’s the first concept album of poetry.

thank you very much for the 'Noblesse oblige' award !

And.... Cornel Gingarasu, who I also chose for the Noblesse Oblige.Two weeks ago, Sheila Tajima awarded me the Noblesse Oblige....refer to THE NO BLOG (just click)for all the details. Deb Keirce also bestowed thisdelightful award to the Windows to the Words Challenge. Thank you Deb, for the award and theflattering comments (blush, blush). I have chosen Cornel Gingarasu to pass this award on to, becauseof his remarkable photography/art blog.I love to recognize bloggers and artists whose work is "something else"...those I find that step outside the boundaries and offer original, inspiring, off-beat, and just downright enjoyable material on their blog. Cornel does that in a big way. Hailing from Romania, Cornel mixes exquisite photography with humor, spirituality, sensuality, and some really deep stuff that frazzles my little philosophical brain. I have, with his permission, posted one of his works, from a few weeks back, titled "Silent Meditation", below... There is a written work entitled "Desiderata". It begins "Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence". One thing I have become painfully aware of in recent years (maybe just cause I've got older and crankier, but I don't think so) is the level of noise in today's world. And the inability to find silence. Noise wears on the spirit like sandpaper on a graham cracker. It's a subject I could expound on for hours on end. But I won't. I'll save it for another time and place.

still life with pear

The creation of art is not the fulfillment of a need but the creation of a need. The world never needed Beethoven's Fifth Symphony until he created it. Now we could not live without it.
Louis I Kahn

abstract composition no. 23

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape...
Pablo Picasso