tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42079311460526846632024-02-19T07:04:12.961-08:00Art & Poems~ Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks ~ SimonidesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-45232482025413498032015-03-29T06:31:00.001-07:002015-03-29T06:31:16.526-07:00" La Domenica dell' Olivo "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Hanno compiuto in questo dì, gli uccelli<br /> il nido (oggi è la festa dell olivo)<br /> di foglie secche, radiche, fuscelli; <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> quel sul cipresso, questo su l'alloro,<br /> al bosco, lungo il chioccolo d'un rivo,<br /> nell'ombra mossa d'un tremolio d'oro.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"> E covano sul musco e sul lichene<br /> fissando muti il cielo cristallino,<br /> con improvvisi palpiti, se viene<br /> un ronzio d'ape, un vol di maggiolino.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8rTwhBfjHnrKLMpo5Iu9AX9_-nBj01JVjpzqezSm2vr7htg4zWhyZW2Y3-zGy_PJpzbBvKdmDDigiecFRcuoj4_1jJz5BDRvlaZxinC_rTUOSLpHAffPL6Yzc8_ipjnjKs73O_zAmJ48/s1600/Artist+Lynn+Bywaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8rTwhBfjHnrKLMpo5Iu9AX9_-nBj01JVjpzqezSm2vr7htg4zWhyZW2Y3-zGy_PJpzbBvKdmDDigiecFRcuoj4_1jJz5BDRvlaZxinC_rTUOSLpHAffPL6Yzc8_ipjnjKs73O_zAmJ48/s1600/Artist+Lynn+Bywaters.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"> <i>Giovanni Pascoli "La Domenica dell' Olivo"<br /> Artist Lynn Bywaters</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-90086973978575428282015-03-28T11:04:00.004-07:002015-03-29T06:09:20.610-07:00" L'Arte di amare "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Non conviene,<br />credimi, accelerare il gaudio estremo,<br />ma lentamente devi ritardarlo<br />con raffinato indugio. E quando il luogo<br />tu scoprirai su cui goda carezze<br />più che altrove da te, vano pudore<br />non freni le tue magiche carezze.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsQN9dyUK1Cbjs4vlqGnvQ9Z9MucIsp9j43aYNqlFRHdv1QW8-hshuNGbetER4UPc-zri1uG_25qMdzQzARAw3VezBHoeyVJtS6a6abmDsbKrF0-Ke1OmKRQXs_D4nnOfh7h21bYRj37n/s1600/Artist++Jeff+Burgess+~+Considering+Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBsQN9dyUK1Cbjs4vlqGnvQ9Z9MucIsp9j43aYNqlFRHdv1QW8-hshuNGbetER4UPc-zri1uG_25qMdzQzARAw3VezBHoeyVJtS6a6abmDsbKrF0-Ke1OmKRQXs_D4nnOfh7h21bYRj37n/s1600/Artist++Jeff+Burgess+~+Considering+Love.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;">Publio Ovidio Nasone</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Artist Jeff Burgess ~ Considering Love</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-8767456554631565692015-03-28T10:37:00.000-07:002015-03-28T10:37:41.088-07:00" Un abitante della terra "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">La terra mi ha rubato al mare,<br /> per questo vedi le mie labbra, di sabbia,<br /> le mie parole, scogli ricoperti di muschio.<br /> <br /> La terra mi ha rubato al mare.<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Per questo vedi i miei occhi<br /> come due pesci,<br /> i miei sguardi muti,<br /> e anche se le mie pupille non sono azzurre<br /> le mie lacrime restano…<br /> salate.<br /> <br /> Il mare mi ha invitato a sognare con lui,<br /> ma sono andata prima all’appuntamento fissato<br /> per paura che i suoi sogni iniziassero<br /> senza di me.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I sogni del mare<br /> sono immensi ed imperscrutabili,<br /> tu sei il mio sogno, <br /> che li rende…<br /> più azzurri e misteriosi.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<i><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="color: #660000;">Un abitante della terra – Maram al-Masri<br /> Artist ~ George Henry Boughton</span><br /> </span></span></span></span></span></span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-7918491498837760992015-03-27T10:36:00.000-07:002015-03-27T10:36:29.618-07:00" Touched by an Angel "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">We, unaccustomed to courage<br /> exiles from delight<br /> live coiled in shells of loneliness<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> until love leaves its high holy temple<br /> and comes into our sight<br /> to liberate us into life.<br /> <br /> Love arrives<br /> and in its train come ecstasies<br /> old memories of pleasure<br /> ancient histories of pain.<br /> Yet if we are bold,<br /> love strikes away the chains of fear<br /> from our souls.<br /> <br /> We are weaned from our timidity<br /> In the flush of love's light<br /> we dare be brave<br /> And suddenly we see<br /> that love costs all we are<br /> and will ever be.<br /> Yet it is only love<br /> which sets us free. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Maya Angelou<br /> William Adolphe Bouguereau, Flora And Zephyr</span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-17249774072038233032015-03-27T10:29:00.000-07:002015-03-28T10:33:14.653-07:00" Addio A una vista "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Non ce l’ho con la primavera<br /> perché è tornata.<br /> Non la incolpo<br /> perché adempie come ogni anno<br /> ai suoi doveri.<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> <br /> Capisco che la mia tristezza<br /> non fermerà il verde.<br /> Il filo d’erba, se oscilla,<br /> è solo al vento.<br /> <br /> Non mi fa soffrire<br /> che gli isolotti di ontani sulle acque<br /> abbiano di nuovo con che stormire.<br /> <br /> Prendo atto<br /> che la riva di un certo lago<br /> è rimasta – come se tu vivessi ancora -<br /> bella come era.<br /> <br /> Non ho rancore<br /> contro la vista per la vista<br /> sulla baia abbacinata dal sole.<br /> <br /> Riesco perfino ad immaginare<br /> che degli altri, non noi<br /> siedano in questo momento<br /> sul tronco rovesciato d’una betulla.<br /> <br /> Rispetto il loro diritto<br /> a sussurrare, ridere<br /> e a tacere felici.<br /> <br /> Suppongo perfino<br /> che li unisca l’amore<br /> e che lui la stringa<br /> con il suo braccio vivo.<br /> <br /> Qualche giovane ala<br /> fruscia nei giuncheti.<br /> Auguro loro sinceramente<br /> di sentirla.<br /> Non pretendo alcun cambiamento<br /> dalle onde vicine alla riva,<br /> ora leste, ora pigre<br /> e non a me obbedienti.<br /> <br /> Non pretendo nulla<br /> dalle acque fonde accanto al bosco,<br /> ora color smeraldo,<br /> ora color zaffiro,<br /> ora nere.<br /> <br /> Una cosa non accetto.<br /> Il mio ritorno là.<br /> Il privilegio della presenza -<br /> ci rinuncio.<br /> <br /> Ti sono sopravvissuta solo<br /> e soltanto quanto basta<br /> per pensare da lontano.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqIDtDcy7k6nNIylNB0Mm2Rry7yfKRhyphenhyphenzX-PWWlKtrx9S6PC2hoj6hog_GCyvIaxh_wz9nkqpV5OxNmk9CNZNSLIKCP0cQuPTfG5TGBYnQYFmymlxVg8oJWu9gFfv05640qlOGcvDSo1H/s1600/Artist+Robert+Fowler.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqIDtDcy7k6nNIylNB0Mm2Rry7yfKRhyphenhyphenzX-PWWlKtrx9S6PC2hoj6hog_GCyvIaxh_wz9nkqpV5OxNmk9CNZNSLIKCP0cQuPTfG5TGBYnQYFmymlxVg8oJWu9gFfv05640qlOGcvDSo1H/s1600/Artist+Robert+Fowler.png" /></a></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-51880358263066053302015-03-26T13:01:00.001-07:002015-03-26T13:01:40.912-07:00" Guardare e ascoltare "<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Io siedo alla finestra e guardo...<br /> Guardo e ascolto; <br /> però che in questo è tutta la mia forza: <br /> guardare e ascoltare...</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmdCHogDia9RYJctLCDAaBVCCpvkoMeMN84qCCr02GY_JHPsKbHh_RWYbxOA_vVZkOWo3-4fwi9t5NAGa3wFQVIWu4srJgDo7xaUgCLTax0D-hgCJft-JkrrmdOZH_7eMjYK1KOT4ueh-/s1600/Dawn+-+Edmund+Hogson+Smart+1907.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmdCHogDia9RYJctLCDAaBVCCpvkoMeMN84qCCr02GY_JHPsKbHh_RWYbxOA_vVZkOWo3-4fwi9t5NAGa3wFQVIWu4srJgDo7xaUgCLTax0D-hgCJft-JkrrmdOZH_7eMjYK1KOT4ueh-/s1600/Dawn+-+Edmund+Hogson+Smart+1907.png" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-35841347058438217522015-03-26T09:34:00.002-07:002015-03-26T10:36:54.237-07:00" Ofelia " <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #660000;"> Sull’onda calma e nera dove le stelle dormono<br /> Fluttua la bianca Ofelia come un gran giglio, fluttua<br /> Lentissima, distesa sopra i suoi lunghi veli…<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> – S’odono da lontano, nei boschi, hallalì.<br /> Da mille anni e più la dolorosa Ofelia<br /> Passa, fantasma bianco, sul lungo fiume nero;<br /> Da mille anni e più la sua dolce follia<br /> Mormora una romanza al vento della sera.<br /> La brezza le bacia il seno e distende a corolla<br /> Gli ampi veli, dolcemente cullati dalle acque;<br /> Le piange sull’omero il brivido dei salici,<br /> S’inclinano sulla fronte sognante le giuncaie.<br /> Sgualcite, le ninfee le sospirano intorno;<br /> Ella ridesta a volte, nell’ontano che dorme,<br /> Un nido, da cui sfrùscia un batter d’ali:<br /> – Un canto misterioso scende dagli astri d’oro.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"> Pallida Ofelia! Come neve bella!<br /> In verde età moristi, trascinata da un fiume!<br /> – Calati dai grandi monti di Norvegia, i venti<br /> Ti avevano parlato di un’aspra libertà;<br /> Poi che un soffio, attorcendoti la chioma folta,<br /> All’animo sognante recava strane voci;<br /> E il tuo cuore ascoltava la Natura cantare<br /> Nei sospiri della notte, nei lamenti dell’albero;<br /> Poi che il grido dei mari dementi, immenso rantolo,<br /> Frantumava il tuo seno, fanciulla, umano troppo, e dolce;<br /> Poi che un mattino d’aprile, un bel cavaliere pallido<br /> Sedette, taciturno e folle, ai tuoi ginocchi!<br /> Cielo! Libertà! Amore! Sogno, povera Folle!<br /> Là ti scioglievi come neve al fuoco:<br /> Le tue grandi visioni ti facevano muta<br /> – E il tremendo Infinito atterrì il tuo sguardo azzurro!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"> E il Poeta racconta che al raggio delle stelle<br /> Vieni, la notte, a prendere i fiori che cogliesti,<br /> E che ha visto sull’acqua, stesa nei lunghi veli,<br /> Fluttuare bianca come un gran giglio Ofelia.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Arthur Rimbaud " Ofelia " <br /> John William Waterhouse - Ophelia 1889 </i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-38275419890033202032015-03-25T09:25:00.000-07:002015-03-26T09:26:16.309-07:00" Per caso, mentre tu dormi."<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Per caso mentre tu dormi<br /> per un involontario movimento delle dita<br /> ti faccio il solletico e tu ridi<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> ridi senza svegliarti<br /> così soddisfatta del tuo corpo ridi<br /> approvi la vita anche nel sonno<br /> come quel giorno che mi hai detto:<br /> lasciami dormire, devo finire un sogno.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><i><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Antonio Porta " Per caso, mentre tu dormi."<br /> Gustave Courbet</span></span></span></span></i> </span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-41835058724200837662015-03-25T09:10:00.000-07:002015-03-26T09:12:30.964-07:00" Ho pena delle stelle "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Ho pena delle stelle<br /> che brillano da tanto tempo,<br /> da tanto tempo…<br /> Ho pena delle stelle.<br /> <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Non ci sarà una stanchezza<br /> delle cose,<br /> di tutte le cose,<br /> come delle gambe o di un braccio?<br /> <br /> Una stanchezza di esistere,<br /> di essere,<br /> solo di essere,<br /> l’esser triste lume o un sorriso…<br /> <br /> Non ci sarà dunque,<br /> per le cose che sono,<br /> non la morte, bensì<br /> un’altra specie di fine,<br /> o una grande ragione:<br /> qualcosa così,<br /> come un perdono?</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gOPKamqUJvb0J3PvblcBGOvkFX9tpTAS_72oHwaA901blCWKDOKTQ2ZFj7OSzmuCodc81nR7AtMfYdNjGNORI5CxXSQs4fIXk6oao4HxGoYC4A6rVbpBDCrvpmFBcDTlEtxLusKt1-Kp/s1600/Vincent+Van+Gogh,+Starry+Night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2gOPKamqUJvb0J3PvblcBGOvkFX9tpTAS_72oHwaA901blCWKDOKTQ2ZFj7OSzmuCodc81nR7AtMfYdNjGNORI5CxXSQs4fIXk6oao4HxGoYC4A6rVbpBDCrvpmFBcDTlEtxLusKt1-Kp/s1600/Vincent+Van+Gogh,+Starry+Night.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i><span class="text_exposed_show">Fernando Pessoa ~ Ho pena delle stelle ~<br /> Vincent Van Gogh, Starry Night</span></i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-91847697649962789872015-03-23T08:59:00.000-07:002015-03-26T09:04:38.573-07:00" Angelo di bellezza "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Angelo di bellezza, <br /> cosa sai delle rughe, <br /> della paura di invecchiare, <br /> del tormento segreto <br /> di leggere l'oscena compassione <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> in occhi dove a lungo, avidi, <br /> i nostri occhi hanno bevuto? <br /> Angelo di bellezza, <br /> cosa sai delle rughe? </span></span></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-89165978959313685102015-03-23T07:57:00.000-07:002015-03-26T08:28:01.869-07:00" E' dolce primavera "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span style="color: #660000;">Alla selve, alle foglie dei boschi è dolce primavera;<br /> a primavera gonfia la terra avida di semi.<br /> Allora il Cielo, padre onnipotente, scende</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><span style="color: #660000;"><br /> Con piogge fertili<br /> E accende ogni suo germe. Gli arbusti risuonano<br /> Del canto degli uccelli, i prati rinverdiscono.<br /> E i campi si aprono: si sparge la tenera acqua;<br /> ora al nuovo sole si affidano i nuovi germogli.</span><br /> </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDC74aPJISnmrGJbFXUMnwCIm4UsVUorx50T_rMj7OM5exxty4P9xz2mjlu_fpPOstj7brnPPKAFCPLvczQrx0eDw9ncJxzPst3uvYL0rYbE7tKcFpzE6kcO9l_ddJFDS_zV6YMpaPCRWc/s1600/John+William+Waterhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDC74aPJISnmrGJbFXUMnwCIm4UsVUorx50T_rMj7OM5exxty4P9xz2mjlu_fpPOstj7brnPPKAFCPLvczQrx0eDw9ncJxzPst3uvYL0rYbE7tKcFpzE6kcO9l_ddJFDS_zV6YMpaPCRWc/s1600/John+William+Waterhouse.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Virgilio " E' dolce primavera "<br /> John William Waterhouse " Spring "</span></span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-83178370311135192062015-03-20T07:51:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:52:51.432-07:00" Parola "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Parola che l’amor da la rotonda <br /> bocca mi versa come unguenti e odori; <br /> Parola che da l’odio irrompi fuori <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> fischiando come sasso da la fionda; <br /> sola virtù che da la carne immonda <br /> alzi gli spinti e inebri di fulgori; <br /> o seme indistruttibile né cuori, <br /> Parola, o cosa mistica e profonda; <br /> ben io so la tua specie e il tuo mistero <br /> e la forza terribile che dentro <br /> porti e la pia soavità che spandi; <br /> ma fossi tu per me fiume tra i grandi <br /> fiumi più grande, e limpido nel centro <br /> de la Vita recassi il mio pensiero!</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoebyvj_gn4jOucMqfYrQ-vosb9m-eNBj8SeDbsGXbwPMLHAjPbuJ_EcSsyfdGRjo_sstKRX55jw4XkXQ7xkbRaLhmo9A9YDIxcxK1j5HTqoQRTsP64nnMjM-aVH4wQv41ZAqmQQVH6W0F/s1600/Artist+Johanna+Spinks%EF%BB%BF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoebyvj_gn4jOucMqfYrQ-vosb9m-eNBj8SeDbsGXbwPMLHAjPbuJ_EcSsyfdGRjo_sstKRX55jw4XkXQ7xkbRaLhmo9A9YDIxcxK1j5HTqoQRTsP64nnMjM-aVH4wQv41ZAqmQQVH6W0F/s1600/Artist+Johanna+Spinks%EF%BB%BF.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><i><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Gabriele D'Annunzio Annunzio<br /> Artist Johanna Spinks</span></span></span></span></i> </span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-19086469769394153472015-03-19T07:43:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:48:04.934-07:00" Io ho appreso a vivere con semplicità, con saggezza "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Io ho appreso a vivere con semplicità, con saggezza,<br /> a guardare il cielo e a pregare Iddio,<br /> e a girellare a lungo innanzi sera,<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> per stancare l’inutile angoscia.<br /> <br /> Quando nel dirupo frusciano le bardane<br /> e declina il grappolo del sorbo giallo-rosso,<br /> io compongo versi festevoli<br /> nella vita caduca, caduca e bellissima.<br /> <br /> Ritorno. Mi lambisce il palmo<br /> il gatto piumoso che ronfa con più tenerezza,<br /> e un fuoco smagliante divampa<br /> sulla torretta della segheria lacustre.<br /> <br /> Soltanto di rado squarcia il silenzio<br /> il grido d’una cicogna volata sul tetto.<br /> E se tu busserai alla mia porta,<br /> mi sembra che non udrò nemmeno.</span></span></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-91382842947639246182015-03-19T07:37:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:40:30.901-07:00...Da "Pianissimo" <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Padre, se anche tu non fossi il mio<br /> padre, se anche fossi a me un estraneo,<br /> fra tutti quanti gli uomini già tanto<br /> pel tuo cuore da fanciullo t'amerei.<br /> <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Da "Pianissimo" 1914</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i><span class="text_exposed_show">Artist Lyn Deutsch ~ The Father's love<br /> Camillo Sbarbaro "Padre, se anche tu non fossi il mio"</span></i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-31386503996339332622015-03-18T11:09:00.000-07:002015-03-25T06:54:31.876-07:00" Parigi di notte "<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;">Il primo per vedere il tuo viso tutto intero </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;">Il secondo per vedere i tuoi occhi </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;">L'ultimo per vedere la tua bocca </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;">E l'oscurità totale per ricordare tutto ciò </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;">Mentre ti stringo a me fra le mie braccia</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7kgJ94p7S8pA16hCuhg8KwN0QcQWx0SYAlD1QjfM1_CHPz7U52UIpgzMsBZeavzfwVYRPCWa4Z6-UqgxU3XlIG0l8_bGAhQ-Qqo82W4Ywb5lSr0gX1L991lC3PsCBaVS9oKTp6ieXQ33/s1600/Georges+Stein+~+Paris+at+night%EF%BB%BF.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7kgJ94p7S8pA16hCuhg8KwN0QcQWx0SYAlD1QjfM1_CHPz7U52UIpgzMsBZeavzfwVYRPCWa4Z6-UqgxU3XlIG0l8_bGAhQ-Qqo82W4Ywb5lSr0gX1L991lC3PsCBaVS9oKTp6ieXQ33/s1600/Georges+Stein+~+Paris+at+night%EF%BB%BF.png" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000;"><i>Jacques Prevert</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); color: #660000; text-align: start;"><i>Georges Stein ~ Paris at night</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-55547059894021325362015-03-18T11:00:00.000-07:002015-03-21T11:00:53.123-07:00" L'eucaplyptus "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Non una dolcezza mi matura, <br />e fu di piena deriva <br />ad ogni giorno <br />il tempo che rinnova <br />a fiato d'aspre resine. <br />In me un albero oscilla <br />da assonnata riva, <br />alata aria <br />amare fronde esala. <br /><br />M'accori, dolente rinverdire, <br />odore dell'infanzia <br />che grama gioia accolse, <br />inferma già per un segreto amore <br />di narrarsi all'acque. <br /><br />Isola mattutina: <br />raffiora a mezza luce <br />la volpe d'oro <br />uccisa a una sorgiva.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IsOnOrSIjeVIw9zVNunA8Nb-zJouGmh3iX4dwFvruY0wXLf3EY2qd4qOxDR0UM3iDUMTTnJToy33ivMixrpjwZvMRl-XRrlkSVebM6aajZklI1ZhME1-T-QlpK923tSP4UHOQToHTq0s/s1600/Opera+%E2%80%9CPearl%E2%80%9D+24+x+30+inches.+Acrylic+on+canvas..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IsOnOrSIjeVIw9zVNunA8Nb-zJouGmh3iX4dwFvruY0wXLf3EY2qd4qOxDR0UM3iDUMTTnJToy33ivMixrpjwZvMRl-XRrlkSVebM6aajZklI1ZhME1-T-QlpK923tSP4UHOQToHTq0s/s1600/Opera+%E2%80%9CPearl%E2%80%9D+24+x+30+inches.+Acrylic+on+canvas..jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;">Salvatore Quasimodo</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;">Opera “Pearl” 24 x 30 inches. Acrylic on canvas.</span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-36674863991579610102015-03-18T10:50:00.000-07:002015-03-21T10:51:03.267-07:00 "Quale dolce mela"<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Quale dolce mela che su alto <br />ramo rosseggia, alta sul più alto; <br />la dimenticarono i coglitori; <br />no, non fu dimenticata: <br />invano tentarono raggiungerla...<br /><br />Frammento 116</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMfbErO1lqFqa7MBcUv-ERF8zp42nVtK9LpgJ243u5R3IAQJrDHkjkkDa4PN526qxZHieXzIb9Ue3kFDeWFSpfh6NYYzYeV0MxLqHDQiOZ_DXukT6sQ2iQLUH5r_G9Lf6PEUwvuKVyyXF/s1600/Tiziano+Vecellio.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMfbErO1lqFqa7MBcUv-ERF8zp42nVtK9LpgJ243u5R3IAQJrDHkjkkDa4PN526qxZHieXzIb9Ue3kFDeWFSpfh6NYYzYeV0MxLqHDQiOZ_DXukT6sQ2iQLUH5r_G9Lf6PEUwvuKVyyXF/s1600/Tiziano+Vecellio.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Saffo "Quale dolce mela"<br />Tiziano Vecellio Adamo ed Eva, c. 1550</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-52143337199281555762015-03-18T07:30:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:34:59.418-07:00" Io vidi li occhi dove Amor si mise "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Io vidi li occhi dove Amor si mise<br /> quando mi fece di sé pauroso,<br /> che mi guardar com’ io fosse noioso:<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> allora dico che ‘l cor si divise;<br /> <br /> e se non fosse che la donna rise,<br /> i’ parlerei di tal guisa doglioso,<br /> ch’Amor medesmo ne farei cruccioso,<br /> che fe’ lo immaginar che mi conquise.<br /> <br /> Dal ciel si mosse un spirito, in quel punto<br /> che quella donna mi degnò guardare,<br /> e vennesi a posar nel mio pensero:<br /> <br /> elli mi conta sì d’Amor lo vero,<br /> che ogni sua virtù veder mi pare<br /> sì com’ io fosse nello suo cor giunto.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1wFun-PBWOPaEvZ2cjoI30kPHAfcHHNqqql6U49yIEep4Cs75u07jyC0J88Xxtq6gRJSVQap50upcGXm3QNcBJGkH6Za06JYgHeptM0tw0B_jNbM_z36rYskj3KUBwrC4nhUG3bm5nzU/s1600/Pompeo+Girolamo+Batoni+(Lucca%2B1708-1787%2BRome).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1wFun-PBWOPaEvZ2cjoI30kPHAfcHHNqqql6U49yIEep4Cs75u07jyC0J88Xxtq6gRJSVQap50upcGXm3QNcBJGkH6Za06JYgHeptM0tw0B_jNbM_z36rYskj3KUBwrC4nhUG3bm5nzU/s1600/Pompeo+Girolamo+Batoni+(Lucca%2B1708-1787%2BRome).jpg" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-79228728335442956772015-03-18T07:26:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:26:44.014-07:00" Candele "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Stanno i giorni futuri innanzi a noi <br /> come una fila di candele accese, <br /> dorate, calde e vivide. <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> <br /> Restano indietro i giorni del passato, <br /> penosa riga di candele spente: <br /> le più vicine danno fumo ancora, <br /> fredde, disfatte, e storte. <br /> <br /> Non le voglio vedere: m'accora il loro aspetto, <br /> la memoria m'accora il loro antico lume. <br /> E guardo avanti le candele accese. <br /> <br /> Non mi voglio voltare, ch'io non scorga, in un brivido, <br /> come s'allunga presto la tenebrosa riga, <br /> come crescono presto le mie candele spente.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZgdJL1B6YtbN-9VHuLJuv-Zu251Q1fTaGjNvyJWh4t-mSRsOPAdog1exa034sxPPnz1Dtpf54C8Dhv77OG5fvbevrsjPfRZMvLf7H0PsJCUJ1BW6ex4v7CDgmWtY2hAOxUGGTI7eiOAa/s1600/Gilly+Marklew+~+Reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZgdJL1B6YtbN-9VHuLJuv-Zu251Q1fTaGjNvyJWh4t-mSRsOPAdog1exa034sxPPnz1Dtpf54C8Dhv77OG5fvbevrsjPfRZMvLf7H0PsJCUJ1BW6ex4v7CDgmWtY2hAOxUGGTI7eiOAa/s1600/Gilly+Marklew+~+Reflection.jpg" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-41495945236673452282015-03-18T07:18:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:21:51.158-07:00" Il più bello dei mari "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Il più bello dei mari <br /> è quello che non navigammo. <br /> Il più bello dei nostri figli <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> non è ancora cresciuto. <br /> I più belli dei nostri giorni <br /> non li abbiamo ancora vissuti. <br /> E le più belle parole <br /> che vorrei dirti <br /> non te l'ho ancora dette....</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggqA45ikiKh7q1yeTmksiRc5P_Zdy6l-3HuhZeIqq-k5OAzZmaepjHxGPQPi9nCILmSQYyjjeWnXlWUJ3Duc2L8azJXEcDjXyT7q4-YIqV5r-gkP3aq6xTWpYSvvd8l1ou2siaN-2vzzi/s1600/Dominique+Amendola+Reading+a+letter+on+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggqA45ikiKh7q1yeTmksiRc5P_Zdy6l-3HuhZeIqq-k5OAzZmaepjHxGPQPi9nCILmSQYyjjeWnXlWUJ3Duc2L8azJXEcDjXyT7q4-YIqV5r-gkP3aq6xTWpYSvvd8l1ou2siaN-2vzzi/s1600/Dominique+Amendola+Reading+a+letter+on+the+beach.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><i>Nazim Hikmet<br /> Dominique Amendola ~ "Reading a letter on the beach"<br /> </i></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-53786637929419307192015-03-18T07:14:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:15:30.738-07:00" Ciò che ho scritto di noi "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Ciò che ho scritto di noi è tutta una bugia <br /> è la mia nostalgia <br /> cresciuta sul ramo inaccessibile <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> è la mia sete <br /> tirata su dal pozzo dei miei sogni <br /> è il disegno <br /> tracciato su un raggio di sole <br /> <br /> ciò che ho scritto di noi è tutta verità <br /> è la tua grazia <br /> cesta colma di frutti rovesciata sull'erba <br /> è la tua assenza <br /> quando divento l'ultima luce all'ultimo angolo della via <br /> è la mia gelosia <br /> quando corro di notte fra i treni con gli occhi bendati <br /> è la mia felicità <br /> fiume soleggiato che irrompe sulle dighe <br /> <br /> ciò che ho scritto di noi è tutta una bugia <br /> ciò che ho scritto di noi è tutta verità.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><i><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Nazim Hikmet<br /> Dominique Amendola ~ "The love letter"</span></span></span></i> </span></span></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-48690392536285524952015-03-18T07:07:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:10:31.791-07:00" Il Piccolo Principe VIII - Il fiore "<span id="fbPhotoSnowliftSpecificAudience"></span><br /><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_551410521cf830f39160298">
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<span style="color: #660000;">Imparai ben presto a conoscere meglio questo fiore. <br /> C'erano sempre stati sul pianeta del piccolo principe dei fiori <br /> molto semplici, ornati di una sola raggiera di petali, <span class="text_exposed_show"></span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> che non tenevano posto e non disturbavano nessuno. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Apparivano un mattino nell'erba e si spegnevano la sera. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Ma questo era spuntato un giorno, da un seme venuto chissa' </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> da dove, e il piccolo principe aveva sorvegliato </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> da vicino questo ramoscello che non assomigliava a nessun altro ramoscello. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Poteva essere una nuova specie di baobab. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Ma l'arbusto cesso' presto di crescere e comincio' a preparare un fiore. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Il piccolo principe che assisteva alla formazione di un bocciolo enorme, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> sentiva che ne sarebbe uscita un'apparizione miracolosa, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> ma il fiore non smetteva piu' di prepararsi ad essere bello, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> al riparo della sua camera verde. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Sceglieva con cura i suoi colori, si vestiva lentamente, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> aggiustava i suoi petali ad uno ad uno. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non voleva uscire sgualcito come un papavero. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non voleva apparire che nel pieno splendore della sua bellezza. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Eh, si, c'era una gran civetteria in tutto questo! </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> La sua misteriosa toeletta era durata giorni e giorni. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> E poi, ecco che un mattino, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> proprio all'ora del levar del sole, si era mostrato. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> E lui, che aveva lavorato con tanta precisione, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> disse sbadigliando: </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Ah! mi sveglio ora. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Ti chiedo scusa... sono ancora tutto spettinato..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Il piccolo principe allora non pote' frenare la sua ammirazione: </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Come sei bello !" </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Vero", rispose dolcemente il fiore, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "e sono insieme al sole..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Il piccolo principe indovino' che non era molto modesto, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> ma era cosi' commovente! </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Credo che sia l'ora del caffe' e latte", aveva soggiunto, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "vorresti pensare a me..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> E il piccolo principe, tutto confuso, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> ando' a cercare un innaffiatoio di acqua fresca e servi' </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> al fiore la sua colazione. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Cosi' l'aveva ben presto tormentato con la sua vanita' </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> un poco ombrosa. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Per esempio, un giorno, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> parlando delle sue quattro spine, gli aveva detto: </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Possono venire le tigri, con i loro artigli!" </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Non ci sono tigri sul mio pianeta", </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> aveva obiettato il piccolo principe, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "e poi le tigri non mangiano l'erba". </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Io non sono un'erba", aveva dolcemente risposto il fiore. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Scusami..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Non ho paura delle tigri, ma ho orrore delle correnti d'aria... </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non avresti per caso un paravento?" </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Orrore delle correnti d'aria?" </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "E' un po' grave per una pianta", </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> aveva osservato il piccolo principe. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "E' molto complicato questo fiore..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Alla sera mi metterai al riparo sotto a una campana di vetro. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Fa molto freddo qui da te... </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non e' una sistemazione che mi soddisfi. Da dove vengo io..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Ma si era interrotto. Era venuto sotto forma di seme. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non poteva conoscere nulla degli altri mondi. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Umiliato di essersi lasciato sorprendere a dire una bugia cosi' </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> ingenua, aveva tossito due o tre volte, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> per mettere il piccolo principe dalla parte del torto... </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "E' questo un paravento?..." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Andavo a cercarlo, ma tu non mi parlavi!" </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Allora aveva forzato la sua tosse per fargli venire dei rimorsi. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Cosi' il piccolo principe, nonostante tutta la buona volonta' </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> del suo amore, aveva cominciato a dubitare di lui. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Aveva preso sul serio delle parole senza </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> importanza che l'avevano reso infelice. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Avrei dovuto non ascoltarlo", </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> mi confido' un giorno, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "non bisogna mai ascoltare i fiori. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Basta guardarli e respirarli. Il mio, profumava il mio pianeta, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> ma non sapevo rallegrarmene. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Quella storia degli artigli, c </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> he mi aveva tanto raggelato, </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> avrebbe dovuto intenerirmi." </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> E mi confido' ancora: </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> "Non ho saputo capire niente allora! </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Avrei dovuto giudicarlo dagli atti, non dalle parole. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Mi profumava e mi illuminava. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Non avrei mai dovuto venirmene via! </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Avrei dovuto indovinare la sua tenerezza dietro le piccole astuzie. </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> I fiori sono cosi' contraddittori! </span><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Ma ero troppo giovane per saperlo amare". </span></span></div>
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<i><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></i><div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span class="text_exposed_show"> <span style="color: #660000;">Antoine De Saint-Exupéry</span></span><span style="color: #660000;"><br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Opera The beauty on the lawn</span></span></i></div>
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</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-9548931911415828762015-03-18T06:58:00.000-07:002015-03-26T07:03:19.687-07:00" Angeli, di primo mattino "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Angeli, di primo mattino <br /> Si possono vedere fra le Rugiade, <br /> Fermarsi - cogliere - sorridere - volare - <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Sono i Germogli là per loro? <br /> Angeli, quando il sole è rovente <br /> Si possono vedere fra le sabbie, <br /> Fermarsi - cogliere - sospirare - volare - <br /> I fiori avvizziti portano con sé.<br /> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB74ieRhY6lQcL-Xe3Hdf5d0ynd9ls1B9-KNSJMVIC9qG6f1difgH4ryOfU7fNadi6phVSX4c3e3CvI-n6Xou9tyfyXbIBd_CbEKN3Xje188bmFoVNxTC8ZMlP5tSuRcdniaQoSJJjgbb1/s1600/ArtistVictor+Florence+Pollet+~+Nymph+Driving+Love+Away+With+A+Torch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB74ieRhY6lQcL-Xe3Hdf5d0ynd9ls1B9-KNSJMVIC9qG6f1difgH4ryOfU7fNadi6phVSX4c3e3CvI-n6Xou9tyfyXbIBd_CbEKN3Xje188bmFoVNxTC8ZMlP5tSuRcdniaQoSJJjgbb1/s1600/ArtistVictor+Florence+Pollet+~+Nymph+Driving+Love+Away+With+A+Torch.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #783f04;"><i><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show">Emily Dickinson </span></span></span><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Angeli, di primo mattino </span></span> </span></span><br /> ArtistVictor Florence Pollet ~ Nymph Driving Love Away With A Torch</span></span></span></i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-5342137624857106652015-03-17T08:47:00.001-07:002015-03-17T08:50:23.168-07:00" Tempi passati "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Una fisarmonica suona la canzone dei vecchi tempi</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>in allegria si festeggiava la vendemmia</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>si rideva insieme agli amici di sempre.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Racconta mia madre la gioventù</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>gli occhi illuminati dai ricordi</i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>semplici avventure, episodi infantili.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Si credeva che i figli nascessero da chissà dove.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Fichi secchi e mandorle scomparivano dalle</i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>credenze.</i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Nel letto, riscaldato dallo scaldino</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>si raccontavano segrete storie d’amore.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Il primo bacio,rubato lungo le scale</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>sguardi innamorati in presenza dei genitori.</i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>Memoria di vita permea l’aria di echi, di risa</i></span>
<span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><i>che vivono ancora.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPx3ivFhuaNDz9ON7vWFw0TJRHv071k_UAi0sAAXEP7sjRXuU4RWI6nqleTzd60ADP9-4W0bnrPCu5o7sPim_lor4A65XPoJkqJ0Y0FPOQPvzZQaVi3xdYe-mgK_bU1a9i4OID7jHyqmCq/s1600/a-merry-moment-antonina-leonardov-rzhevskaya.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPx3ivFhuaNDz9ON7vWFw0TJRHv071k_UAi0sAAXEP7sjRXuU4RWI6nqleTzd60ADP9-4W0bnrPCu5o7sPim_lor4A65XPoJkqJ0Y0FPOQPvzZQaVi3xdYe-mgK_bU1a9i4OID7jHyqmCq/s1600/a-merry-moment-antonina-leonardov-rzhevskaya.png" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;"><i>Poetry </i>Maristella Angeli " Tempi passati "</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="st"><i>Artist Antonina</i> Leonardov <i>Rzhevskaya - </i> <i>"A Merry Moment"</i></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;"><span class="st"><i> </i></span> </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4207931146052684663.post-62115433516483064182015-03-17T07:47:00.001-07:002015-03-17T07:47:12.295-07:00" Ave Maria "<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">Suonano le campane, squilla l’Ave Maria</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">e la tonda finestra che della chiesa è rosa</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">multicolore porta divien del paradiso</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">e del creder sincero raccoglie i “così sia “.<br /><br /> Un gregoriano canto lesto s’alza dal coro</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">e ad aleggiare prende fra le navate scarne</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">e le lunghe colonne che vigorose e forti</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">come diritte braccia paion reggere il cielo.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">Lassù dove materia nello spazio s’estende,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">meravigliata turba, viva in sublime affresco,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">in preci alla madonna trasforma le parole</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">al papa magno offerte dal santo trino soffio.<br /></span> <span style="color: #660000;"><br />Dal serafico canto l’anima è carezzata</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">sì che presto discosta dai terreni tormenti</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">con la croce si fonde nel mortale ricordo </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">che sacro la dilata, dal padre suo la guida. <br /><br /> Lo scaccino d’argento le candele già spegne,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;">abbracciati dall’ombra s’attardano gli afflitti,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">trasfigurati visi nel tremolio di luci</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #660000;">che in fra le note avvinti s’innalzan verso Dio. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRAy7rg_nVE7ZhmAdUo_HWmieFlqflTRjxisJpzqpffqyobpPtL4Ncg-eysorRIw5fyC6M2WZ8qcBaVMoXJEV6OD645ZiFx9REpkRKpalw3a0Z9bTWF-7-1HhxjM3qUi5ILKz9LBIT-on/s1600/%E2%80%9CThe+Madonna+at+Prayer%E2%80%9D+detail,+Giovanni+Battista+Salvi+da+Sassoferrato+(1640-50).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRAy7rg_nVE7ZhmAdUo_HWmieFlqflTRjxisJpzqpffqyobpPtL4Ncg-eysorRIw5fyC6M2WZ8qcBaVMoXJEV6OD645ZiFx9REpkRKpalw3a0Z9bTWF-7-1HhxjM3qUi5ILKz9LBIT-on/s1600/%E2%80%9CThe+Madonna+at+Prayer%E2%80%9D+detail,+Giovanni+Battista+Salvi+da+Sassoferrato+(1640-50).png" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #660000;">Poetry Alberto Baroni<br />“The Madonna at Prayer” detail, Giovanni Battista Salvi da Sassoferrato (1640-50)</span></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02490720203316411952noreply@blogger.com