Tuesday, June 22, 2010


in this issue--

“Ready for writing afresh
Study in Tones of the Sunset...”
(Lara Biuts)

*The Snow of Poplars*
Every year in June, the mysterious days come. The snow falls at the height of summer. It’s the poplar-trees are blooming. It looks like somebody’s persiflage, related to old-fashioned joshing, as though someone above the big town smiles ironically infringing the usual rhythm and logic. The snow of poplars. I love it. Not the real snow, but its spirit and image. It is dear and much more expensive, like the apples on the canvas made by Renoir. The fluffy snow falls in the morning--incomprehensible, illogical--beware! it tells! Some could object: stop it, stop talking about the “illogical” or something which “tells”. Why, it’s simply the poplars are blooming, and this fluff, true oh so white, looks like the snow, but it is so annoying. Don’t worry, several days will pass, and it all will return to the order of things: summer will be summer, then autumn, then winter and the real snow. Yes, real, and not this. What’s this? And I’d reply: it’s a trail. Every year the sly poplars check up us all: whether we can appreciate Renoir’s apples or not. I feel agitated when the time comes--the time of the fear of being adult and logical.

“All animals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoy it.”--The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler

*poem by Heinrich Heine :*

Heart, my heart, oh, be not shaken!
Bravely bear thy fate. Once more
Shall the coming Spring restore
What the Winter rude hath taken.
How abundant is thy measure!
Still, O world, how fair thou art!
And thou yet may'st love, my heart,
Everything that gives thee pleasure.

*lyrics El Condor Paso aka If I Could :*
I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail
Yes I would, if I could, I surely would
I'd rather be a hammer than a nail
Yes I would, if I only could,
I surely would
Away, I'd rather sail away
Like a swan that's here and gone
A man gets tied up to the ground
He gives the world its saddest sound
Its saddest sound
I'd rather be a forest than a street
Yes I would, if I could, I surely would
I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes I would, if I only could,
I surely would

White Moon. My translation of the poem White Moon by Paul Verlaine--

read “my Evelyn Waugh” on Scribd:


*la blanche biche aka my kitty Sophie*

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