satomipoema

Once it happened, as I lay awake at night, that I suddenly spoke in verses, in verses so beautiful and strange that I did not venture to think of writing them down, and then in the morning they vanished; and yet they lay hidden within me like the hard kernel within an old brittle husk.
– Hermann Hesse – Steppenwolf

Ph : Kazuki Takamatsu

… the echo of a memory so far down in his soul it was all emotion, a burst of colour and warmth, adrift from time and place.
– Alexia Casale – House of Windows

After all, color in itself has no color — it’s simply a construction of the mind: a sensation, like the Humming Chorus from Madame Butterfly and the smell of honeysuckle.
– Jasper Fforde –

Would you dare to reach inside the vault of a feral heart?
Glare into the keyhole, eyes bound with intrigue…is it real what we perceive? or does the absent colour leave you lost or decieved?
– L V HALL –

Ph : Mikael Jansson

… just sit in the darkness and try to take it all in inside me. Contain everything in some corner of my heart so that when I had my shot, it could all come pouring out – all the lights and moments and colour.
– Brenna Ehrlich –

As we were born and introduced into this world,
We had a gift hard to express by word
And somewhere in our continuous road,
It kind of lost its sense and turned.

We have been slaved by our own mind,
Turned into something out of our kind
Slowly faded away from the present time …

Making us lose ourselves in sadly thoughts,
Wasting our days by living in the past
Depressed and haunted by the memories,
And yet still hoping to fly in our dreams.

– Virgil Kalyana Mittata Iordache –

In a sense, one could speak of the secret life of colour. Despite its outward beckoning, like true beauty, colour is immensely hesitant in giving away its secrets. Painters learn to respect the hesitancy of colour and endeavour to refine their skill to become worthy of its revelations. A painter learns the language of colour slowly. As with any language, you struggle for a long time outside the language. There is a willed deliberateness to how you sequence the strange words to make a sentence.Then one day the language lets you in to where the words dance to your thoughts with ease and fluency. Perhaps for the painter there is a day when colour lets him in, when his palette sings with synergy and delight.
– John O’Donohue –

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?
– James Joyce – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

… day and night meet fleetingly at twilight and dawn …
And their merging sometimes affords the beholder the most enchanted moments of all the twenty four hours. A sunrise or sunset can be ablaze with brilliance and arouse all the passion, all the yearning, in the soul of the beholder.
– Mary Balogh – A Summer to Remember