“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce (1916) ★★★★

Not to Be Reproduced (La Reproduction Interdite). René Magritte, 1937.
Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam

“To arts unknown he bends his wits, and alters nature.”

― Ovid, Metamorphoses.

Myriads of evocative images permeate the debut novel of the most influential Irish modernist, conveying the entire spectrum of feelings ranging from religious fervour to the ardour of lust. A master of intertextuality, Joyce intermingles philosophical discussions (unfortunately, often one-sided, despite their doubtless intellectual splendour) with “scraps of poetry and madness” – playful allusions to ancient myths and historical events. Nevertheless, a vivid combination of excessive naturalism and vague surrealism may be exhausting for the reader, as the rigorous author does not attempt to ease the acute transitions from one state of consciousness into another. It is only for the literary adventurers themselves to decide whether this egocentric coming-of-age journey is worth the effervescent, yet turbulent ride.

Continue reading ““A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce (1916) ★★★★”

Orphic Symphony ~ Dedicated to E.

“Anger of Poseidon” by Mariusz Lewandowski
The Mermaid” by Howard Pyle
“Orpheus Leading Eurydice from the Underworld” by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot
“Orpheus and Eurydice” by Emil Neide
“Orphee et Eurydice” by Eduard Kasparides
Crossing the ocean
In the arms of Poseidon
My heart will reach you.

Bleeding with sea-foam,
Wrapped in a mermaid's soft hair,
Our spirits emerge

From the stormy waves
Where Aphrodite was born,
Pink-glowing, pearl-hung.

My tenderness plays
The Apollonian lyre
With your slender hands.

There is no escape
From the darkness of Hades
To the Olympus.

Approaching the light,
I succumb, mesmerized by
The sound of your voice.

"Beloved," you beg:
"Turn around!" Eurydice - 
Forever, farewell!

Portrait de la jeune fille en feu (2019) ★★★★★

The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra

A Haunted House

Cliff House, San Francisco, 1901.
Courtesy of the Cliff House Project.

The sultry honey aroma of wild apple trees haunts you, while the darkness of a tangy spring fog envelops the world. Fragile pearl threads stretch from the sky, penetrating the warmth of your skin, leaving dusky traces on the defenseless clothes. You run away, seeking shelter, and return to the house, a black shadow looming over your silhouette, over the luscious garden, over the whole Earth.

Continue reading “A Haunted House”

We will meet… In a Thousand Years

You will not see these tender verses,
The message from my fragile hand.
We’re farther than the universes,
Though closer than the grains of sand.
Your trace 
                   is vanishing
                                          away:
The words, 
                    The moments,
                                              Nights and days.
You. Are. Not. Here. Anymore.
Towards infinity you soar,
And to the stars say “I adore…”
Not me,
Not me,
Not me,
Not me –
You have no place on Earth to be!
And when the world comes to an end,
Through time and space I’ll hold your hand.
Oh, but you won’t remember me!
In dreams, if dreams there ever be, 
You will unknowingly repeat
That in a thousand years…
                                               We’ll meet.
A silly overwhelming lie!
How dare you keep me up at night?
Oh, how can I this voice forget?
I wish I could, without regret,
Leave all the memories behind…
“Be gone! Come back to me!” – I cried.
“Forever, I will be with you!” –
Alas, these words cannot be true.
You’ve told me, holding back the tears:
“We will meet…
                           In a thousand years.”
I will be here! I will abide –
Your answer in my heart will hide.
Let recollections disappear,
For neither time nor death I fear.
And when the somber glow is near,
Your answer I’ll repeat, my dear:
“We will meet…
                           In a thousand years.”

The Night

The loneliest of hours are the best,
The sweetest moments of my tangled life,
When only those are by the Heaven blessed,
Who never love and never ever fight.

The silence of the night was calming like
The soothing breeze or humming of the flame
But thunderstorm with its desire to strike,
A mighty demon, to the ground came.

I didn’t fear it, nor did I stand still;
As burning poison flowed across my spine,
And then I ran, and ran against my will,
And even lost the precious count of time.

I drifted in the darkness with a smile,
Not that of madness, but of sad delight,
As if my friends returned for a while
To disappear for their final fight.

No pain, no tears, no pity for myself.
I felt the whispering of crystallized sparks,
And flew from them as if I were an elf,
Which was invisible but left flamboyant marks.

Why do night spirits dwell there, in my soul,
Where nothing lives, and feelings make no sound?
Sometimes they rise, at other times they fall,
And howl with pain, when no one is around.

“We hate you, garish, overwhelming sun!
You shine with powerful and blinding grace
Of perfect creature, which to Earth has come
From silent land, entitled now as “space.”

You cannot save a secret from one’s eyes,
You have no charm, no beauty of your own,
You hide inside a miserable vice,
You keep it deep within the scarlet glow!”

The voices of night spirits in my head
Have murmured so with fiery delight
Of beasts, by hatred poisoned and led
Into the meaningless, atrocious fight.

Adoring their passion, like my own,
I felt, indeed – there is no solid truth;
The moon and stars will soon be fully gone,
Then night itself shall have no real use.

Oh, rose-red sunrise, take my somber soul!
Erase it swiftly with your golden wings,
Before the Sacred Light I shall not bow,
For now I fear the tragic thoughts it brings.

My heart, concealed by the mist of tears,
Can’t help, but miss the tender love of night,
Which does not hurt unfeigned fragile feels,
But fondles them with care and holds them tight.