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Alin Marin Elena's

Republic of Numbers and Letters
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Charles Simic

alberto giacometti

Louis MacNeice

belle and Sebastian

gagarin

tar

van der graaf generator

daily

romanian

english

legend

camera obscura

supercomputing

top 500

coppola

eliade

film

youth without youth

Human rights act

abuse

migrants

iphone

lousy

4-3-2

oscar

french

le questionnaire de proust

creative sciences

francois mitterrand

sale

farmers

libido

malawi

hello

picture

diet

hazards

dragasani

ebay fraud

dor-de-munca

games

minicity

gorillas

missionary position

cuba

spanish

vista pictures

Marin Sorescu

Roger McGough

Craiova

cotidian

duel

varia

amarok

bbc

kde

flash

opensuse

dilema veche

nokia

yellow smiley face

academia life

Intimate monologues

many shades of blue

dart poetry

fabrizio de andrè

Andrea Parodi

Pablo Neruda

Amalia Rodrigues

Philip Larkin

uk ellections 2010

may day weekend

englush

modern art

despre prietenie

lateral thinking

eurovision 2010

wrong bank

dali

dreams

david lodge

thinks

dear fear

migala

cpu

gpu

intel. dogs

nvidia

ernesto sabato

makine

reading

google calendar

korganizer

philip glass

stupidity

electronic devices

vinicio capossela

amedeo modigliani

vinicio caposella

Mario Benedetti

Peter Porter

Andy Warhol

Femme Fatale

Lou reed

Velvet Underground

andrew motion

hp pavillion dm1 1020sa

opensuse 11.3

eye test

google chat

children in restaurants

kde4

ucd life

gabriel metsu

national gallery dublin

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silence

bugs

software management

haruki mursakami

commonwealth games

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Samuel Beckett

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rome

Michel Houellebecq

student protests

Christopher Hitchens

Tom Wayman

dublin

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multicultural experiences

kent

be free think!!!

julian assange

wikileaks

Brian Patten

Jorge Luis Borges

arcade fire

John Grant

Paul Celan

henry moore

Murray Lachlan Young

crowd wisdom

Pier Paolo Pasolini

if not

Andrei Voznesensky

Marché Aux Puces

Tessimond

Camillo Sbarbero

Giuseppe Ungaretti


By: Alin Marin | April 12, 2013

by Giuseppe Ungaretti

To die like thirsty larks
upon the mirage

Or as the quail
the sea once past
having no more
will to fly
dies in the first thickets

But not to live on lamentation
like a blinded goldfinch

translated by Patrick Creagh, in The Faber Book of 20th Century Italian Poems @ faber and faber, 2004

Agonia

Morire come le allodole assetate
sul miraggio

O come la quaglia
passato il mare
nei primi cespugli
perché di volare
non ha più voglia

Ma non vivere di lamento
come un cardellino accecato


Category: daily 

Tags: Giuseppe Ungaretti 

By: Alin Marin | April 11, 2013

by Camillo Sbarbaro

Hush, soul. These are the abject
days when one mush live without will,
the days of hopeless waiting.
Like a bare tree in the middle of winter,
sorry for itself in the empty courtyard,
I don't believe I shall leaf again
and doubt if I have ever done so.
Walking the streets, alone like this,
jostled and invisible,
I feel absent even to myself.
I am drawn always to the noise of the crowd,
stop, stunned, in front of shop windows
and swivel at the rustle of every skirt.
At the singing of some blind street-musician,
at the unexpected flash of neck,
idiotic tears drop from my eyes,
my eyes are kindled with desire.
Because my whole life is in my eyes:
everything that passes stirs it
as a listless wind stirs stagnant water.
I am like a mirror, perfec...

Category: daily 

Tags: Camillo Sbarbero 

By: Alin Marin | January 22, 2013

by ASJ Tessimond

This shape without space,
This pattern without stuff,
This stream without dimension
Surrounds us, flows through us,
But leaves no mark.

This message without meaning,
These tears without eyes,
This laughter without lips
Speaks to us but does not
Disclose its clue.

These waves without sea
Surge over us, smooth us.
These hands without fingers
Close-hold us, caress us.
These wings without birds
Strong-lift us, would carry us
If only the one thread broke.

ASJ Tessimond Collected Poems with Translations from Jacques Prevert at Bloodaxe Books, 2010

Category: daily 

Tags: Tessimond 

By: Alin Marin | November 03, 2012

by Andrei Voznesensky

1

Sell me, Fleamarket,
I dote on your triste keepsakes.
It's a cross between old blues and a barcarolle
Your candelabra, samovars--
Menagerie of dusty things!
Their pent-up centuries cry in you
Like elephants who trumpet for
Their rainy forests -- freedom, youth--
In aging zoos.

Rings, rusty bagatelles,
What breasts gleamed in you?

Here's armor, like a cast-off shell,
And whose was this cartouche?
Broken horseheads! Mustangs! Pinchbeck skulls!
If things had souls you'd be their fingerprints!
Temple of junk, Fleamarket!
Your clutter makes a small lost tune
My Muse waltzes to.

Loveseat, your springs gushed out,
Where are your lolling girls?

Can an hourglass measure centuries?
This fine suede, worn at the fingertips,...

By: Alin Marin | March 31, 2012

by H. A. C. Evans

Kipling's "If" rewritten to conform with the spirit of the times

If you can't trim your sails to suit the weather,
If you can't take your chance to pass the buck,
If you can't offer cardboard goods as leather
And then persuade the mugs to buy the muck;
If you can't work a profitable fiddle
Or cheat the Customs when you've been abroad,
If you can't wangle your returns, and diddle
The Income Tax, yet not be charged with fraud;

If you can't learn the craft of social climbing
And damn the eyes of those who're underneath;
If you can't kid your friend you're not two-timing,
Then, when it suits you, kick him in the teeth;
If you can't run a car on public money,
Or have your lunch each day at the Savoy,
You're going to find that life's not at all...

Category: daily 

Tags: if not