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| Art by Marie Bortolotto 2019 |
June 25, 2019
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| Marie Bortolotto 2019 Poetry And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river, I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names, my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire, and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating plantations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe. And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind. -Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet-diplomat 1904 - 1973 |
June 23, 2019
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| Marie Bortolotto 2019 Treading along in this dreamlike, illusory realm, Without looking for the traces I may have left; A cuckoo’s song beckons me to return home, Hearing this, I tilt my head to see Who has told me to turn back; But do not ask me where I am going, As I travel in this limitless world, Where every step I take is my home. - Eihei Dogen 1200 - 1253 AD |
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