New Blood VIII
These New Blood posts have became a tradition. A simple post to share the latest creations.
February 1, 2019
November 4, 2018
Petroglyphs III
Heiðrún, the goat on the hall that stands,
eateth off Læráth’s limbs;
the crocks she fills
with clearest mead,
will that drink not e’er be drained.
– Grímnismál 25 –
August 28, 2018
Petroglyphs II
On the Ash Tree Yggdrasil […]
Harts there are also four,
Which from its summit,
Arch-necked, gnaw.
Dâin and Dvalin,
Duneyr and Durathrôr.
– Grímnismál 33 –
July 11, 2018
Fleur de Poussière
The threshold to the seance parlour has not been crossed for many moons. The air is intoxicating, filled with the scent of a myriad of fainted roses, rich draperies staggered by the dust of time and the resinous memory of incense long gone. Reminding you of times that you could not possibly have known and, yet, awakening the feeling of home.
Another time, another place. But home.
June 21, 2018
Pulvis et umbra sumus
Pulvis et umbra sumus (We are but dust and shadow)
– Horace – Book IV, ode VI, v. 16 –
June 11, 2018
Your ever true
Dearest, deeply loved Victoria,
According to your wish, and by the urging of my heart to talk to you and open my heart to you, I send these lines […] I need not tell you that since we left, all my thoughts have been with you at Windsor, and that your image fills my whole soul. Even in my dreams I never imagined that I should find so much love on earth. How that moment shines for me when I was close to you, but with your hand in mine! […]
With promises of unchanging love and devotion, your ever true Albert.
– Letter from Prince Albert to Queen Victoria (translated from German) – 15 November 1839 –
May 27, 2018
She recited curses and spoke magic words
Circe, daughter of the Sun, recited curses and spoke magic words,
worshipping unknown gods, with unknown incantations,
by which she used to dim the face of the bright moon,
and veil her father’s orb, with moisture-loving cloud.
– Ovid (translation A.S. Kline) – Metamorphoses –
May 25, 2018
Préludes
This Chopin is an angel. His goodness, his tenderness and his patience sometimes make me anxious; I feel that he is too fine, too exquisite, too perfect to live long in this crude and heavy earthly world. He wrote in Majorca, being sick to death, a music that smelled strongly of heaven but I am so used to see him in the sky that I don’t feel like his life or death would prove anything.
– George Sand – letter to Contessa Marliani –
May 16, 2018
La couronne effeuillée II
J’irai, j’irai porter ma couronne effeuillée
Au jardin de mon père où revit toute fleur ;
J’y répandrai longtemps mon âme agenouillée :
Mon père a des secrets pour vaincre la douleur.
J’irai, j’irai lui dire, au moins avec mes larmes :
“Regardez, j’ai souffert … ” il me regardera,
Et sous mes jours changés,
Sous mes pâleurs sans charmes,
Parce qu’il est mon père il me reconnaîtra.
– Marceline Desbordes-Valmore – La couronne effeuillée –
May 13, 2018
La couronne effeuillée I
J’irai, j’irai porter ma couronne effeuillée
Au jardin de mon père où revit toute fleur ;
J’y répandrai longtemps mon âme agenouillée :
Mon père a des secrets pour vaincre la douleur.
J’irai, j’irai lui dire, au moins avec mes larmes :
“Regardez, j’ai souffert … ” il me regardera,
Et sous mes jours changés,
Sous mes pâleurs sans charmes,
Parce qu’il est mon père il me reconnaîtra.
– Marceline Desbordes-Valmore – La couronne effeuillée –
