Before the night comes

16 hunters for evening meal

their's and their offspring's

and then returning home

Just in Time

Peonies in German are called ...

... Pfingstrosen (Whitsun Roses).

Saturday Night Music – Khatia Buniatishvili

Khatia Buniatishvili *21 June 1987
Franz Schubert (31 January 1797 – 19 November 1828)

Friday is Skyday

From my diary of May 29th, 1985,
which was my first of 66 evenings in Ireland
[Killarney]
"Having dinner in a restaurant
I hear about the desaster in Bruxelles.
One hour later entering a pub,
the game still has not begun.
Two hours later,
the "battle" not ended,
the dead bodies not yet driven away,
the teams are entering the pitch.
What a farce.
'The show must go on.'
Without me, though.
I empty my glass and walk to my B&B.
At 11 p.m. I am in bed."

Laughing Lhursday*

Old beholder:
Fine piece of artwork.
What is its title?
Young artist:
Storm.

* [For first time visitors]: Typo in the title? Nah. It's just that I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

World Champions

And the Winner is:
Nation of Procrasti!
Who cares about peace?!

On Convention

Today, while admiring the elegance of the swallows giving me the honour to again spending a summer under Seanhenge's roof, suddenly Chapter 5 [On Convention] in 'The Short Story' by Sean O'Faolain came to my mind.
I jumped up, took the book, opened page 173, finally put on my skirt in order to type the following:
'We forget when enjoying the pleasure of any art, of music, poetry, painting or the theatre, that a very great part of our pleasure has been dependent on convention. We are expected to forget it. In the theatre we have all tacitly agreed to see nothing odd about a room that, on the stage, has only three sides; or, in painting, it does not seem odd to us that we see a view as if our heads were held in a vice whereas in life we let our eyes wander east and west, shift position a dozen times and see the landscape under fifty changing lights. The point is elementary; that is why it so important; because it is so very obvious it is constantly forgotten, and this forgetting has, as I will show in this chapter, profound implications. I will here barely hint at one of them by recalling how a humourous philosopher once pointed to a cow in a field and said to me, 'What do you see there?'
I obligingly said that I perceived a cow. 'But you do not,' he replied. 'You deduce a cow. All you see is the appearance of one-half of the outside of a cow. And when you look at a portrait of your aunt all you see is a picture of the outside of one-half of your aunt. You go through a series of lightning processes before accepting this superficies as a portrait of your aunt. It is, for instance, the whole case against realism that it concentrates on giving us the outside of the one-half of everything.' In other words the convention of realism depends for its success on our forgetting that realism is a convention. So does every other convention.'

The peace of the night!

Chimneys

. . .

Those were the days – Dublin 1960s

Saturday Night Music – Max Bruch's Scottish Fantasy

Max Bruch (6 January 1838 – 2 October 1920)

Friday is Skyday

. . .

The house is black

There is no shortage of ugliness in the world.
If man closed his eyes to it, there would be even more.
But man is a problem solver.
On this screen will appear an image of ugliness…
a vision of pain no caring human being should ignore.
To wipe out this ugliness and to relieve the victims…
is the motive of this film and the hope of its makers.
I thank you, God…
for creating me,
I thank you, God…
for creating my caring mother, my […] father
I thank you, God for […]ng the flowing water and the fruiting trees.
I thank you for giving me hands to work with
I thank you for giving me eyes…
to see the marvels of this world.
I thank you for giving me ears
to enjoy beautiful songs.
I thank you for giving me feet…
to go wherever I will.
Who is this in hell praising you, O Lord?
Who is this in hell?
Saturday…
Sunday…
Monday…
Tuesday…
Wednesday…
Thursday…
Friday…
Saturday…
I will sing your name, O Lord
I will sing your name with the ten-string lute.
For I have been made in a strange and frightening shape.
My bones were not hidden from you when I was being created,
I was molded in the bowels of the earth.
In your book all my party have been written…
and your eyes, O Lord, have seen my fetus.
I won’t see the spring.
These lines are all that will remain.
As the heavens circles, I fell into the bedlam.
I’m gone.
My heart is filled with sorrow.
O Muslims, I am sad tonight.
Leprosy is chronic and contagious.
Leprosy is not hereditary,
Leprosy can be anywhere or everywhere
Leprosy goes with poverty
Upon attacking the body
It deepens and enlarges wrinkles…
eats away the tissues, covers the nerves with a dry shield,
dulls sensitivity to heat and touch,
causes blindness,
destroys the nasal septum,
it finds its way to the liver and bone marrow,
withers the fingers,
it clears the way for other diseases.
Leprosy is not incurable.
Taking care of lepers stops the disease from spreading.
Wherever lepers have been adequately cared for…
the disease has vanished.
When the leper is cared for early he can be treated completely
Leprosy is not incurable
God is the Greatest. O God, the Great Lord,
the Generous, thou bestow thy kindness on our supplication.
thou art the Supreme over men and ghosts. In the name of God…
the Clement, the Caring. In the name of God and from God and by God.
I submit my being to you, O God, and turn my face towards…
thine and leave my affairs to thy command. I leave my fate between…
Your hands, my left and my right, my north and my south,
my sides and my destiny. All to thy command and power
as there is no turning and no power. except from God,
I said if I had wings of a dove…
I would fly away and be at rest.
I would go far away and take refuge in the desert.
I would hasten my escape from the windy storm and tempest.
For I have seen misery and wickedness on earth.
The universe is pregnant with inertia
and has given birth to time.
Where would I escape from your face?
And where would I go from your presence?
If I hang on to the wings of the morning breeze
And reside in the deep of the sea,
Your hand will still weigh on me.
You have made me drunk with indecision.
How awesome are your deeds!
How awesome are your deeds!
I speak of the bitterness of my soul.
I speak of the bitterness of my soul.
When I was silent, my life was rotting
from my silent screams all day long.
Remember that my life is wind.
I have become the pelican of the desert,
the owl of the ruins,
and like a sparrow, I am sitting alone on the roof.
I am poured out like water…
as those who have long been dead. 
On my eyelids is the shadow of death. 
Leave me, leave me, for my days are but a breath.
Leave me before I set out for the land of no return,
the land of infinite darkness.
O God, don’t entrust the life of your dove to the wild beast.
O God, remember my life is wind…
and you have given me a time of idleness,
and around me the song of happiness,
the sound of the windmill, and the brightness…
of the light have vanished
Lucky are those who are harvesting now,
and their hands are picking sheaves of wheat.
Let’s listen to the soul who sings in the remote desert.
The one who sighs and stretches his hands out saying,
“Alas, my wounds have numbed my spirit.“
O, the time-forgotten one,
dressing yoourself [sic] in red, and wearing golden ornaments,
anointing your eyes with kohl,
remember you have made yourself beautiful in vain,
for a song in the remote desert,
and your friends who have denigrated you
Alas, for the day is fading, the evening shadows are stretching.
Our being, like a cage full of birds,
is filled with moans of captivity.
And none among us knows how long he will last.
The harvest season passed, the summer season came to an end,
and we did not find deliverance.
Like doves we cry for justice… and there is none.
 




We wait for light and darkness reigns.
Venus. Sometimes at twilight we see a bright star.
The name of it is Venus.
Venus is very bright.
The planet Venus is very close to us.
The planet of Venus doesn’t twinkle.
Why should we thank God for having a father and mother?
You answer.
I don’t know, I have neither.
You name a few beautiful things.
The moon, the sun, flowers, playtime.
And you, name a few ugly things.
Hand.
foot…head,
Write a sentence with the word “house“ in it.
LEPER COLONY
The house is black.
O overruning river driven by the force of love,
flow to us, flow to us.
 

Made in fall 1962 for the Society For Assisting Lepers by Gulistan Film Co
Cinematography: Soleyman Minasian
Sound: Mahmud Hangval & Samad Poorkamali
Assistants: Herand Minasian & Amir Karrari
Produced by Ebrahim Gulistan
Edited and directed by Forough Farrokhzad

Forough Farrokhzad (29 December 1934 – 13 February 1967)

Another Birth

Forough Farrokhzad (29 December 1934 – 13 February 1967)


Another Birth

Translations by Ismā'il Salāmi

My entire soul is a murky verse
Reiterating you within itself
Carrying you to the dawn of eternal burstings and blossomings

In this verse, I sighed you, AH!
In this verse,
I grafted you to trees, water and fire

Perhaps life is
A long street along which a woman
With a basket passes every day
Perhaps life
Is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
Perhaps life is a child returning home from school
Perhaps life is the lighting of a cigarette
Between the lethargic intervals of two lovemakings
Or the puzzled passage of a passerby
Tipping his hat
Saying good morning to another passerby with a vacant smile
Perhaps life is that blocked moment
When my look destroys itself in the pupils of your eyes
And in this there is a sense
Which I will mingle with the perception of the moon
And the reception of darkness

In a room the size of one solitude
My heart
The size of one love
Looks at the simple pretexts of its own happiness,

At the pretty withering of flowers in the flower pots
At the sapling you planted in our flowerbed
At the songs of the canaries
Who sing the size of one window.

Ah
This is my lot
This is my lot
My lot
Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me
My lot is going down an abandoned stairway
And joining with something in decay and nostalgia
My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories
And dying in the sorrow of a voice that tells me:
"I love
Your hands"
I will plant my hands in the flowerbed
I will sprout, I know, I know, I know
And the sparrows will lay eggs
In the hollows of my inky fingers
I will hang a pair of earrings of red twin cherries
Round my ears
I will put dahlia petals on my nails

There is an alley
Where the boys who were once in love with me,
With those disheveled hairs, thin necks and gaunt legs
Still think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
Who was one night blown away by the wind
There is an alley which my heart
Has stolen from places of my childhood

The journey of a volume along the line of time
And impregnating the barren line of time with a volume
A volume conscious of an image
Returning from the feast of a mirror

This is the way
Someone dies
And someone remains
No fisherman will catch pearls
From a little stream flowing into a ditch

I
Know a sad little mermaid
Dwelling in the ocean
Softly, gently blowing
Her heart into a wooden flute
A sad little mermaid
Who dies with a kiss at night
And is born again with another kiss at dawn


Forough Farrokhzad (29 December 1934 – 13 February 1967)