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One Nice Bug Per Day
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Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
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AnasAbdin
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@mvaljean525
Hold on to what is good, Even if it’s a handful of earth. Hold on to what you believe, Even if it’s a tree that stands by itself. Hold on to what you must do, Even if it’s a long way from here. Hold on to your life, Even if it’s easier to let go. Hold on to my hand, Even if someday I’ll be gone away from you.
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Chief Crowfoot (Isapo-Muxika) (c.1830–1890) Blackfoot
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Graphic - Thomas Blackshear II (B.1955)
I scissor the stem of the red carnation and set it in a bowl of water. It floats the way your head would, if I cut it off. But what if I tore you apart for those afternoons when I was fifteen and so like a bird of paradise slaughtered for its feathers. Even my name suggested wings, wicker cages, flight. Come, sit on my lap, you said. I felt as if I had flown there; I was weightless. You were forty and married. That she was my mother never mattered. She was a door that opened onto me. The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness. That dried plum and licorice taste always back of my tongue and your tongue against my teeth, then touching mine. How many times?— I counted, but could never remember. And when I thought we’d go on forever, that nothing could stop us as we fell endlessly from consciousness, orders came: War in the north. Your sword, the gold epaulets, the uniform so brightly colored, so unlike war, I thought. And your horse; how you rode out the gate. No, how that horse danced beneath you toward the sound of cannon fire. I could hear it, so many leagues away. I could see you fall, your face scarlet, the horse dancing on without you. And at the same moment, Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock, the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass spilled into the grass, and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood, my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut that when I walked to the house I could hear music tumbling like a waterfall of China silk behind me. I took your letter from my bodice. Salome, I heard your voice, little bird, fly. But I did not. I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts and lay down on your bed. After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps, watched her walk to the window. I closed my eyes and when I opened them the shadow of a sword passed through my throat and Mother, dressed like a grenadier, bent and kissed me on the lips.
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Salomé
Ai 1947–2010
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Graphic - Graphic - 潘曦 Xi Pan (B.1971)
When night becomes heavy, I break a hole in the bag of the universe and climb out. I tell you I struggle to keep the wind from disturbing Jupiter’s moons, lacquered and hung carefully to dry, else night would fill with dissonant chimes.
Who knew the universe would end up as tangled planets, how the strings that hold us would wrap around our wrists. You ask where I am headed in such a hurry? To find the scissors to cut the knots. All morning the otter has been tying the kelp strands into bows.
The sea becomes the gift we open tenderly where orcas stitch and patch, making room for their young, blessing the moon as they swim through her light. Because the sky tells us we must hurry, I knit my worries into a chain of grasshoppers, a lifeline in this diorama of ours to save us from unmooring.
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When We Make Lifelines, the Universe Breathes a Little Easier
Kelli Russell Agodon (B.1969)
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Graphic - Reian Williams
Heralds cascade, the Seraphim are weeping Argent tears as life's nautilus unwinds. Time retreats while all the children sleeping, Fain the watchmaker's nouveau gyre reminds Masses sojourn, dancing comas hocking. Sacred angel's eternity unlocking.
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Graphic - Gail Potocki (B.1961)
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Video:
Josh Groban - To Where You Are (Official Video) [4K Remaster]
Heaven walks on dreams couched in hidden tongues Golden eternity harks for everyone. Loving eyes with tender smiles thunder loud Along the sojourns of destinies proud. Faith an Angel betwixt our mortal coil And hosannas upon infinity's soil. Shut your aching eyes, gaze deeply inside, Veritas, forever shall there reside.
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Graphic - Heather Theurer
I scissor the stem of the red carnation and set it in a bowl of water. It floats the way your head would, if I cut it off. But what if I tore you apart for those afternoons when I was fifteen and so like a bird of paradise slaughtered for its feathers. Even my name suggested wings, wicker cages, flight. Come, sit on my lap, you said. I felt as if I had flown there; I was weightless. You were forty and married. That she was my mother never mattered. She was a door that opened onto me. The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness. That dried plum and licorice taste always back of my tongue and your tongue against my teeth, then touching mine. How many times?— I counted, but could never remember. And when I thought we’d go on forever, that nothing could stop us as we fell endlessly from consciousness, orders came: War in the north. Your sword, the gold epaulets, the uniform so brightly colored, so unlike war, I thought. And your horse; how you rode out the gate. No, how that horse danced beneath you toward the sound of cannon fire. I could hear it, so many leagues away. I could see you fall, your face scarlet, the horse dancing on without you. And at the same moment, Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock, the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass spilled into the grass, and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood, my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut that when I walked to the house I could hear music tumbling like a waterfall of China silk behind me. I took your letter from my bodice. Salome, I heard your voice, little bird, fly. But I did not. I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts and lay down on your bed. After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps, watched her walk to the window. I closed my eyes and when I opened them the shadow of a sword passed through my throat and Mother, dressed like a grenadier, bent and kissed me on the lips.
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Salomé
Ai 1947—2010
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Graphic - 彌月風太朗 Futaro Mitsuki (B.1970)
The world rolls wet with blood, and the skinny hand of Death gropes at the beating heart. The salt tears well and flood with strife the choking breath, and nations sway and part. The scythe of Time runs red,
red with the bleeding year. Sound is but a knell, and Sleep has a scarlet bed. Dreams are wet with Fear, and Honour sits in Hell.
---- Armageddon Leon Gellert 1892-1977 ----
Graphic - Tim Vigil (B.1958)
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Video:
Guns N' Roses - Welcome To The Jungle
FAIR wert thou in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, Where, as they pass'd, bright hours Left no vain sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!
Fair wert thou with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains! — but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Æolian sound went by, From fountain-voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer's breezy sigh, And young leaves trembling to the winds light breath, Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain, And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewild'ring music of the earth.
And who, with silent tread, Moved o'er the plains of asphodel? Call'd from the dim procession of the dead, Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?
They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, And in all regions found Their echoes 'midst the mountains! — and become In man's deep heart as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought The soul's fair birth-place — but without a guide! Sages and seers, who died, And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams.
But the most loved are they Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, In regal halls! — the shades o'erhang their way, The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.
And these — of whose abode, 'Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace, Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A dim and vacant place In some sweet home; — thou hast no wreaths for these, Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant at his door Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, And songs on every wind! From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head — Thou wert for nobler dead! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, As embers in a burial-urn compress'd; He might not be thy guest! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"
Calm, on its leaf strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before the mother lay, E'en so to pass away, With its bright smile! — Elysium! what wert thou To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow?
Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown Which, in its clear eye, shone Like spring's first wakening! but that light was past — Where went the dew drop swept before the blast?
Not where thy soft winds play'd, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep! Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade! From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love.
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Elysium
Felicia Dorothea Hemans 1793–1835
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Graphic - Janice Sung (B.1994)
O Fortuna velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis; vita detestabilis nunc obdurat et tunc curat ludo mentis aciem, egestatem, potestatem dissolvit ut glaciem.
Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus, vana salus semper dissolubilis, obumbrata et velata michi quoque niteris; nunc per ludum dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris.
Sors salutis et virtutis michi nunc contraria, est affectus et defectus semper in angaria. Hac in hora sine mora corde pulsum tangite; quod per sortem sternit fortem, mecum omnes plangite!
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O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable, ever waxing ever waning; hateful life first oppresses and then soothes playing with mental clarity; poverty and power it melts them like ice.
Fate – monstrous and empty, you whirling wheel, you are malevolent, devoid of security and ever fading to nothing, shadowed and veiled you plague me too; now through the game I bring my bare back to your villainy.
Fate, in health and virtue is against me, driven on and weighted down, always enslaved. So at this hour without delay pluck the vibrating strings; since Fate strikes down the strong, everyone weep with me!
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O Fortuna
Carmina Burana
Circa 13th Century
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Graphic - Salvator Rosa 1615-1673
Allegory of Fortune
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Video:
ASCO - Fortuna (LIVE at Symphony of CAOS 2024)
Now we, returning from the vaulted domes Of our colossal sleep, come home to find A tall metropolis of catacombs Erected down the gangways of our mind.
Green alleys where we reveled have become The infernal haunt of demon dangers; Both seraph song and violins are dumb; Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers
Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.
Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut In which the riddle of our race is shut.
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Sylvia Plath 1932-1963
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Graphic - Danny Malboeuf aka Kolaboy (B.1960)
Solace is not meant to be an answer, but an invitation, through the door of pain and difficulty, to the depth of suffering and simultaneous beauty in the world that the strategic mind by itself cannot grasp nor make sense of.
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David Whyte, Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words
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Graphic - Stephen Cefalo (B.1976)
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Video:
Clip: Gao Is Deeply Grieved For Losing His Mom | LUOYANG EP14 | 风起洛阳 | iQiyi
Adrift the children of the world weeping, Seeking solace in solitary tears. Celestial beauty silently keeping Watch upon their heartbroken fears.
Elders marching, wanton wraiths consuming Venerable innocence, breaking Morning Stars. How can the heavens stand alone so far From sparkling diamonds repletely dooming?
There is another way, another day My child, when the world be filled with glee For you, for all of you in endless play. Loving arms of safety shall embrace thee.
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Graphic - Edith Lebeau
天上飘着些微云，
地上吹着些微风。
啊！
微风吹动了我的头发，
教我如何不想她？
月光恋爱着海洋，
海洋恋爱着月光。
啊！
这般蜜也似的银夜。
教我如何不想她？
水面落花慢慢流，
水底鱼儿慢慢游。
啊！
燕子你说些什么话？
教我如何不想她？
枯树在冷风里摇，
野火在暮色中烧。
啊！
西天还有些儿残霞，
教我如何不想她？
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There are some clouds floating in the sky, There was a slight breeze on the ground. Yes! The breeze blew through my hair, Teach me how to miss her?
The moonlight is in love with the ocean, The ocean is in love with the moonlight. Yes! Such a honey-like silver night. Teach me how to miss her?
The flowers on the water slowly flow, The fish swim slowly under the water. Yes! Yanzi, what do you say? Teach me how to miss her?
The dead tree sways in the cold wind, Wildfires burn in the twilight. Yes! There are still some sunsets in the western sky, Teach me how to miss her?
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教我如何不想她
刘半农 1891-1934
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Graphic - 赵开 Zhao Kailin 1961-2023
Shadows in the sky Footsteps in night Behind me
Targets in their sight Running out of light To save me
Red moon on the rise You say your last good night While I keep getting by
Wolves hiding nearby Whispering do or die Around me
Not one single cry Can save this soul of mine From drowning
Dripping from my eyes Seeing red tonight As I wait to say my last goodbye
Gripping at my skin The walls of night close in Around me
One last sleepless night Until the other side Can save me
Dripping from my eyes Seeing red tonight As I wait to say my last goodbye
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Last Goodbye
Eric Kinny / Danica Dora
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Graphic - Denis Sarazhin (B.1982)
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Video:
Last goodbye feat. Danica Dora ••• Eric Kinny⭐️WMH
On broken butterfly wing, your crippled mind fluttered into my schoolroom. Failed. And died. I couldn’t do a thing to stir its organs of poor maimed sense to life again.
Only sensation. Reflex twitch of feelers. And for me sentiment. Occasional small rapture at your velvet softness and smoothness. Soon the ants of time carry you away from chalk and Chaucer into oblivion.
Farewell, lovely. The heavy footed State, which made a mess of your fragility, called this progress, should pin you down on cardboard behind glass specimen of the educated class.
——
Lepidoptera
இரிச்சர்ட் டி சோய்சா; Richard de Zoysa 1958-1990
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Graphic - Shyama Golden (B.1983)
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned
——
Dirge Without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950
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Graphic - William Bouguereau. 1825-1905
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
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Ozymandias
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792–1822
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Graphic - Digital Art Gallery of Halloween and Horror