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Posts Tagged ‘fire’

Fall Bouquet

Posted in art,poetry,writing, Photography, Poetry, Writing, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 24, 2011| 2 Comments »

Cafe' De Flore, Paris, October 2011.

Cafe' De Flore, Paris, October 2011.


Fall Bouquet


“El cariño que te tengo. Yo no lo puedo negar.”

Paris sun

is the glow of her cafes.

It is a dusk sun that burns in the night,

the warmth of crowds,

bright minds while shadows fall.

Cigarette ambers,

the heat of Bossanova bass

in St. Germain.


“Llego a Cueto, voy para Mayarí”

Fallen leaves of orange, gold, copper

I make a bouquet

for our house of glass love.

Sunset is each day’s autumn.

I fill rooms with colours

Gardener of my own heart.

Draw before you lose them

Orange umbrellas

I’m left with buttons.

“¡Y ahora si quieren bailar,
búsquense otro timbalero!”

 

You opened my heart

with a wound of light.

 

There are flamenco guitars and sheeshas

on roof terraces

There are nights such as these

–filled with stars–

in Tunis or Bayreuth.

 

There are dancing sunrises in Ibiza

and white cabanas on Miami beaches.

 

There is a cafe where our traveling souls will meet

There is poetry after the fire.



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View from the Seine

Posted in Architecture, art, Paris Diaries, Photography, Quotes, tagged , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2011| 2 Comments »

Lanternes et Notredame. Paris. 2011

 

To walk in Paris is to behold, and be part of, a living and continuously changing painting.

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My Father’s Kimono (stolen)

Posted in art,poetry,writing, Photography, Spontaneous Constructs, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2009| Leave a Comment »

Photograph Feb. 09

Photograph Feb. 09

This is an example of extemporaneous art.

Art happens all the time, on the edge of our consciousness.

The difference between the artist and the art-aware, is that the artist captures the object of wander and preserves it for future use.  We do not/ cannot let go of  a moment in which Art manifests herself.  We need to posess it, not only experience it.  We are collectors, time keepers.  We are greedy.

This play of light happened as I hung my father’s japanese robe on a window.
I appropriated this robe few years ago, as it was stored inside my parents’ armoire and had never been used since my father received it as a gift, sometimes in the 70′ s or 80’s.
The light streaming through the silk yarns made it alive. Red light bathed the room.  What was captured with the camera is, at best, an approximation, as are all emotions “collected in tranquillity” (Wordsworth).
The robe- and the air in the room- was on fire.

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