Photography + poem + art
All photographs are memento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.
– Susan Sontag –
Is it really possible to tell someone else what one feels?
– Leo Tolstoy – Anna Karenina
Deep within your heart, you know it’s plain to see
Like Adam was to Eve, you were made for me
They say the poisoned vine breeds a finer wine
Our love is easy
If you ask me plainly I would glady say
I’d like to have you round just for them rainy days
I like the touch of your hand, the way you make no demands …
Melody Gardot – Our love is easy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&persist_app=1&v=4RhovgEvCUw
What she said was always strange. It had happened long ago. It seemed insignificant. And yet it was something you remembered forever. The words as well as the story. The voice as much as the words.
– Marguerite Duras – Summer Rain
Ph : Mecuro B Cotto
The words emerge from her body without her realizing it, as if she were being visited by the memory of a language long forsaken.
– Marguerite Duras – Summer Rain
Ph : Mecuro B Cotto
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
– Jean Cocteau –
Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.
– T.S. Eliot –
I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It’s probably what I love most about writing—that words can be used in a way that’s like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They’re the best moments in a day of writing—when an image appears that you didn’t know would be there when you started work in the morning.
– Markus Zusak – The Book Thief
The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in the heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody’s fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.
– Katherine Mansfield –
satomipoema 