Robert Frost: Darkness Or Light? : The New Yorker

The immense hope, and forbearance Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day  Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled  As night returns bringing doubts  That swarm around the sleeper’s head  But are fended off with clubs and knives, so that morning  Installs again in cold hope  The air that was yesterday, is what you are,  In so many phases the head slips form the hand.  The tears ride freely, laughs or sobs:  What do they matter? There is free giving and taking;  The giant body relaxed as though beside a stream  Wakens to the force of it and has to recognize  The secret sweetness before it turns into life—  Sucked out of many exchanges, torn from the womb,  Disinterred before completely dead—and heaves  Its mountain-broad chest. “They were long in coming,  Those others, and mattered so little that it slowed them  To almost nothing. They were presumed dead,  Their names honorably grafted on the landscape  To be a memory to me. Until today  We have been living in their shell.  Now we break forth like a river breaking through a dam,  Pausing over the puzzled, frightened plain,  And our further progress shall be terrible,  Turning fresh knives in the wounds  In the gulf of recreation, that bare canvas  As matter-of-fact as the traffic and that day’s noise.”  The mountain stopped shaking; its body  Arched into its own contradiction, its enjoyment,  As far from us lights were put out, memories of boys and girls  Who walked here before the great change,  Before the air mirrored us,  Taking the opposite shape of our effort,  Its inseparable comment and corollary  But casting us further and further out.  Wha—what happened? You are with  The orange tree, so that its summer produce  Can go back to where we got it wrong, then drip gently  Into history, if it wants to. A page turned; we were  Just now floundering in the wind of its colossal death.  And whether it is Thursday, or the day is stormy,  With thunder and rain, or the birds attack each other,  We have rolled into another dream.  No use charging the barriers of that other:  It no longer exists. But you,  Gracious and growing thing, with those leaves like stars,  We shall soon give all out attention to you.

—John Ashbery, “Spring Day” Art Credit Lottie Hedley

Modasa - It is just a Beginning

Modasa – It is just a Beginning

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The Cult of the Shining City Embraces the Plague — O Society by Jared Sexton edited by O Society April 1, 2020 Those who see Trump as a messianic figure believe the coronavirus will put a fallen world right again.

Chanel Dupree - "Delusions" (NPS 2014)

न्याय : परिदृश्य और परिप्रेक्ष्य

न्याय : परिदृश्य और परिप्रेक्ष्य प्रसन्न कुमार चौधरी प्रस्तावना मानव समाज के शैशव-काल से न्याय का प्रश्न मानव जाति की आत्म-पहचान और उसके आत्म-संगठन का केन्द्रीय प्रश्न रहा है और बदलते स्वरूप में आज तक बना हुआ है । प्रकृति को जानने और उसे बदलने के जरिये जीवनयापन करने वाले मानव-जनों को न सिर्फ अपने और प्रकृति के बीच के सम्बन्धों को, बल्कि मानव-जनों के बीच के सम्बन्धों को भी परिभाषित करना पड़ा…

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Menilmontant, 1926, Dimitri Kirsanoff

The tide at night, murmur of bare feet on the sand.

The tide, at dawn, opens the eyelids of the day.

The tide breathes in the deep night and, sleeping, speaks in dreams.

The tide that licks the corpses that the coast throws at it.

The tide rises, races, howls, knocks down the door, breaks the furniture, and     then, on the shore, softly weeps.

The tide, madwoman writing indecipherable signs on the rocks, signs of death.

The sand guards the secrets of the tide.

Who is the tide talking to, all night long?

—Octavio Paz, from “Target Practice” Art Credit Richard Diebenkorn.

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra & William Shakespeare

Did you know? Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra fought at the Battle of Lepanto (1571), was wounded, captured, imprisoned; he escaped, was enslaved and finally ransomed. Returning to Spain, he worked as an army quartermaster but spent several spells in jail on financial charges. Then, at the age of 58, he wrote the world’s best selling novel, Don Quixote.

In his modest house in Madrid’s Calle de León, Cervantes died on April 23, 1616, perhaps the saddest day in literary history ― for on the same day, the world also lost William Shakespeare.

On View: Imran Qureshi’s Rooftop Installation at the Metropolitan Museum

Pakistani artist Imran Qureshi’s installation And How Many Rains Must Fall Before the Stains are Washed Clean in The Metropolitan Museum of Art‘s Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Rooftop Garden is as arresting as it is unconventional. Delicate floral designs sprawl out across the museum’s rooftop, painted like a mural on the floor. The painstakingly-rendered flowers are drowned in crimson paint. The work’s delicate beauty becomes bittersweet, tainted by the violence of the red stains. Qureshi created the installation as an expression of sorrow for violence across the world; the floral patterns amid the blood-like splatters speak to a hope for regeneration. Take a look at some photos of Qureshi completing the work as well as the finished installation courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Hyla Skopitz. The installation is on view at the Metropolitan Museum through November 3, weather permitting.

MORE: http://hifructose.com/2013/07/11/on-view-imran-qureshis-rooftop-installation-at-the-metropolitan-museum/