Archive for the ‘Books’ Category
Posted in art, Books, Coffee, Collage, Poetry, Quotes, Writing, tagged Anna Karenina, Bassam's San Diego, coffee shop, collage, fountain pen, literary cafe art, writing on December 3, 2013| Leave a Comment »
“We will never walk along the river again,
So walk with me in this poem.”
The night shift belongs to the poets.
Posted in art, Books, Featured Artists, Poetry, Writing, tagged books, custom made, Design, etsy, fabric, paragraph of book, Poetry, scarf, screenprint, textile art, vintage, word art on September 21, 2012| Leave a Comment »
Posted in art,poetry,writing, Books, Cures for the Nothing, Music, Poetry, Writing, writing, tagged american book company, bach, bartley, beck, book, edited by stephens, english romantic poets, glenn gould, le ultime lettere di jacopo ortis, lord byron, michael schmidt, Poetry, romantic, snow, stanzas written on the road between florence and pisa, the last letters of jacopo ortis, the lives of the poets, the well-tempered clavier, ugo foscolo, writing on July 2, 2012| Leave a Comment »
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
‘Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame!—if I e’er took delight in thy praises,
‘Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
Romantics, for more on the lives of the Poets, you might hide here for a few days, and spend the evenings at your local cafe reading poems accompanied by a well-tempered clavier. For my part, I have ordered Ugo Foscolo’s Le Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis (The Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis)–and look forward to sinking in its lyrical, poignant song that so well describes the passion and contradiction of the Italian spirit (and carries me back to the Halcyon days of Literature and Poetry studies in high school). A presto, more watercolor portraits await…
Posted in ArchistDesign | Studio, Architectural Photography, Architecture, Art Show, art,poetry,writing, Books, digital collage, photography, writing, architecture, Habana Diaries, History of Architecture, Le flâneur, Lectures, Music, Photography, photography, Quotes, Reading, Research, School Work, Traveling, tagged Alejo Carpentier, Architectural Styles, Architecture, Centro Habana, city of colums, cuba, Cuban eclecticism, El Malecon, Federico Lorca, graham greene, Habana, Habana Vieja, Havana, havana as a rose, images, La Habana, literary quotes, Lost CIty, photographs, Photography, Quotes, ruins, urban design, Vedado on April 20, 2012| 1 Comment »
‘Habana is very much like a rose,’ said Fico Fellove in the movie The Lost City,
‘it has petals and it has thorns…so it depends on how you grab it.
But in the end it always grabs you.’
“One of the most beautiful cities in the world. You see it with your heart.”
Enrique Nunez Del Valle, Paladar Owner
Habana’s real essence is so difficult to pin down. Plenty of writers have had a try, though; Cuban intellectual Alejo Carpentier nicknamed Habana the ‘city of columns,’ Federico Llorca declared that he had spent the best days of his life there and Graham Greene concluded that Habana was a city where ‘anything was possible.’
Habana is, without doubt, one of the most attractive and architecturally diverse cities in the world. Shaped by a colorful colonial history and embellished by myriad foreign influences from as far afield as Italy and Morocco, the Cuban capital gracefully combines Mudéjar, baroque, neoclassical, art nouveau, art deco and modernist architectural styles into a visually striking whole.
But it’s not all sweeping vistas and tree-lined boulevards. Habana doesn’t have the architectural uniformity of Paris or the instant knock-out appeal of Rome. Indeed, two decades of economic austerity has meant many of the city’s finest buildings have been left to festering an advanced state of dilapidation. Furthermore, attempting to classify Habana’s houses,palaces, churches and forts as a single architectural entity is extremely difficult.
Cuban building – rather like its music – is unusually diverse. Blending Spanish colonial with French belle epoque, and Italian Renaissance with Gaudi-esque art nouveau, the over-riding picture is often one of eclecticism run wild.
Posted in Architecture, art, Books, Drawing, Photography, Poetry, San Francisco Diaries, sketchbook, sketching, Traveling, Writing, tagged berkeley sign, Drawing, Photography, san francisco, sketches on February 19, 2012| 2 Comments »
Posted in art, art,poetry,writing, Books, Photography, photography, Poetry, Writing, tagged art, fog, Huda Ablan, marine layer, Photograph, poem, Poetry, poetry and photgraphy, Strangers, the poetry of arab women on October 30, 2011| Leave a Comment »
by Huda Ablan
No one belongs to the path
except a pocket
stuffed with the leaves of the night.
It keeps steps in stock
from a shop at the crossroads of the will,
patched with the skin of an old dream.
it invites them to a dance
with few feet and much madness.
it devours their warm, ripe whispers.
it drinks their cries washed with holy water.
it forsakes its lenght and shrinks
to a remote corner of the heart
leafing through pictures of those
who have passed away
ensnaring with their song…
It will cast glances,
No one belongs to the rose
except its melting
in the hand of a sad lover
who plucks it from slumber
and plants it in the vase of a tear
overflowing with pain.
He teaches how love sings
and how to breathe the secret
hiding behind the eyes
so it may reveal itself
No one belongs to the heart.
Immersed in opening its chambers–
Shut tight with red forgetfulness–
It stirs the beats of a love
over which a curtain has been drawn
for a thousand nights,
and shakes a cup of blood
freezing as it faces circulation.
stabs the rug of a wound
made ready for crying
There is no one in the house
is dozing cracks obscure
the rounded journey of a small sun.
In the enclosure of the spirit
its walls bend in the face
of blows from the winds.
Its warmth ages and shrinks
in the coldness of waiting.
With the eyes of the absent
it soaks up warm places that flow
at the very edge of the passage
and melts in the shudder
of an endless beckoning.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .