Power outage

A 30-minute power outage made me do this.

It’s a tiny zine (click on the image) titled:
“Your tears taste like the sea💧”

PS: to stay in the zone while doodling and cutting the foam sheets, I’ve been listening to “Change” (1983) by Tears For Fears.
It’s such a pretty audio poem:
“Where does the end of me / Become the start of you”.
Give it a listen.

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Gioconda și semințele

 

Cercetând situația consumului de semințe de pe la noi ca temă pentru unul dintre cursurile de la Master, am dat peste câteva bucurii notabile. O să las și aici 7 dintre ele:

1. Un concurs organizat pe pagina oficială de Facebook a celui mai cunoscut brand local de semințe. Dintr-un lan digital de emoji cu floarea-soarelui a răsărit o Gioconda desenată din semințe. Concursul îi îmbie pe consumatorii fideli să creeze și ei opere de artă din semințe și să posteze fotografii cu rezultatele, pentru a câștiga cele trei premii în valoare de 113,4 lei.
Lupta e aprigă, unii încearcă să trișeze cu fotografii furate de pe net, dar majoritatea își dau silința să răspundă conștiincios acestui challenge artistic, trimițând câteva zeci de fotografii cu portrete feminine, case, sori, buchete de flori, pisici, iepuri, fluturi, inimi sau cai – opere făcute din semințe.
Preferatele mele:

© Participanții la concurs


2
. Favoritele consumatorilor mai experimentați rămân, totuși, semințele Djili Soy. Prezența Djili pe web e modestă: există doar un site de prezentare, cu o estetică similară site-urilor de la facerea lumii online. Chiar și așa, concursul „Caută în pungă! Sămânța de Aur Djili Soy” a ajuns în toamna anului 2017 la ediția cu numărul 8, având sute de participanți din toată țara și zeci de premii constând în lănțișoare de aur, coliere de argint și tricouri. Regulamentul promoției este disponibil, cu nenumărate greșeli de exprimare, pe site. În final, ascunsă într-unul dintre cotloanele acestui mic Babilon vizual, poate fi vizionată și o reclamă video cu buget redus.

Filmul de 35 de secunde debutează cu introducerea Tarafului Lăutarii din Teleorman (în urma unor investigații succinte, taraful nu pare să fie fictiv), de către un prezentator surprins de absența artiștilor, pe care-i găsește ulterior în backstage ronțăind semințe Djili (împrăștiate pe masă) și care se scuză instant pe trei voci:
„Mâncăm Djili! Semințe de bun gust, frate! Bune rău!”.
Prezentatorul revine pe scenă mărturisind publicului motivul irezistibil al întârzierii artiștilor, începe spectacolul și, la final, în locul aplauzelor, auzim sunetul satisfăcut al semințelor sparte între dinți: spectatorii mănâncă semințe Djili din pungi individuale.


3
. Denumirea de „bomboane agricole” a apărut, probabil, din aceeași sursă de umor negru autoironic necesar supraviețuirii în regimul dictatorial, de unde s-au născut și celebrități precum „Frații Petreuș” (perechile de pui mici și vineți pentru care membrii familiilor stăteau cu orele la coadă prin rotație) sau „Adidașii de Porc” (părțile inferioare ale piciorului de porc vândute în magazinele alimentare). Cultul personalității lui Nicolae Ceaușescu, numit, în beția apelativelor folosite de vocile elogioase din presă, „soare” (Alexandru Andrițoiu), s-a extins și asupra soției acestuia, Elena – o adevărată „floarea-soarelui” despre care legendele urbane spun că „mânca semințe și scuipa cojile elegant în pumn”.

“Nulla dies sine linea.” (Nici o zi fără o liniuță, că nu degeaba am făcut 5 ani de latină.) Sursă foto dubioasă, dar funny, scuzați.


4
. În 2015, Utopia Balcanică a remixat cea mai cunoscută memă tematică din cultura urbană cu citate atribuite celor mai mari gânditori din toate timpurile. În Scurtă istorie a filosofiei în seminţe de floarea soarelui, marii gânditori explică pe limba lor relația dintre gustul semințelor și examenul de Bacalaureat.

Karl Marx (1818-1883)


5
. În vara anului 2016, în Piața Revoluției din București răsare o coajă de sămânță monumentală: lucrarea realizată de Ana Petrovici-Popescu pentru expoziția DADA 100 by Kulturama este denumită „Monumentul cojii de sămânță de la daci până în prezentˮ.
Sculptura – coajă de sămânță „întruchipează tocarea și consumarea oricărui subiect personal, care ne afectează sau nu, lipsa de solidaritate și „aflarea în treabăˮ în privința oricărei probleme”.

Semințenia Pământului via Reddit:

 

6. La câteva zile și câteva sute de kilometri distanță, artista Alina Andrei, organizează una din obișnuitele ei expoziții virtuale cu oameni de hârtie. Ca de obicei, publicul s-a adunat pe pagina evenimentului, fiecare în fața ecranului propriu și cu paharul de vernisaj aproape, bulgărele s-a rostogolit și s-au adunat povești suplimentare.
Iar netalentații în arta decojitului profesionist au fost arătați cu degetul:
Laura Leonte – „Văr-miu din Germania nu știe să spargă semințe și are 30 de ani. Nu poate fără să scoată sâmburele cu mâna. În rest e super ok.
Ionuț Tata – „E ca mersul. Te nasti cu picioare, dar nu stii ca trebuie sa mergi. La fel te nasti si cu maini si gura, dar nu stii ca sunt destinate crontanitului.

Alina Andrei – Mâncătorii de semințe de la mine din cartier (2016)

 

7. În poezia „Provincialii” de Adela Greceanu, un cineva posibil mănâncă semințe:

Dacă m-ar privi cineva din spate,
cum stau acum la fereastră
și mi-ar vedea coama brună
atîrnînd pe spinarea de femeie sau de fetiță,
s-ar putea gîndi:
Iată imaginea singurătății!
Și, într-o oarecare măsură, ar avea dreptate.
Dar numai pînă cînd cuvîntul lui,
singurătate,
s-ar întîlni cu cuvîntul meu,
provincială.
Atunci aș începe să am eu dreptate.
Deși nu întru totul.
Și i-aș putea vorbi despre cum
toți sîntem, mai tot timpul,
niște provinciali.
Față de cele văzute și
față de cele nevăzute,
față de ce se poate spune și
mai ales față de ce nu se poate spune.
Cum se face seară.
Și cum se vede asta de la etajul opt.
Cum a deschis vîntul geamul de la bucătărie și
un bărbat îi spune femeii sale pitulice.
Cum, la Florăria Mariana, Mariana se uită la televizor
și mănîncă semințe.
Mai bine să nu încerci să povestești toate astea cuiva.
Mai bine să privești numai și să asculți.
Și ascultînd, să te trezești
în rînd cu înserarea, cu Mariana și semințele ei,
cu vîntul care a deschis geamul,
cu pitulicea.

 

Acestui obicei comun îi sunt atașate, de regulă, conotații vulgare și comportamente nedezirabile, mulți dintre consumatori ajungând să-și autoimpună astfel o abstinență de la afișarea cu / lângă o pungă de semințe în văzul lumii. Totodată, pe parcursul discuțiilor din cadrul cercetării, am observat că aura fals-inocentă a trecutului pare să învăluie obiceiurile care în prezent ar fi dezaprobate instant. Atunci și acolo, semințele erau întotdeauna ok, acum și aici sunt supuse contestațiilor.
Eat. Spit. Be happy!”, vorba fratelui nostru sămânțar de peste Ocean.

 

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5 poems (Vol. 3)

 

Another round of 5 poems landed in the magic-making hands of 5 local artists:
Ana Bănică, Adelina Butnaru, George Roșu, Ruxandra Șerbănoiu and Yanna Zosmer received the poems via e-mail only a week ago and sent them back to me as heart-warming illustrations.

I love Brâncuși’s words about childhood:
‘When we stop being children, we start being dead.’
So let’s keep our inner child happy and lively for as long as we can. The child who loves playing and laughing and learning and discovering the world. The one who’s curious about anything from tiny navel fluff to huge faraway stars. The one with the never-ending pile of questions. The one who won’t surrender before those rituals of adulthood that strip all life of wonders and magic.

The 5 chosen poems travel back to the much bigger
homes and classrooms and roads in our memories,
to smells and sights and sounds of
casual fears and small-scale lies and jumbo love treats.

Enjoy:

 



THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF CHILDHOOD
by Michael Blumenthal

Perhaps a bird was singing and for it I felt
a tiny affection, the same size as a bird.
Borges

Imagine now, an affection the same size
as the thing it’s felt for: for the seed,
seed-like emoluments of liking and,
for the rain, droplets of tenderness
clustered in puddles at your feet.

And now remember how, as a child,
someone is telling you they love you.
How much does daddy love you? they
ask and you, childlike, spread
your arms as wide as a child can.

Little do you know it then, but the rest
of your life will be spent measuring
the distance between “that much”
and what love, in fact, is capable of –
the narrow width of a man or a woman,
their terrible thinness,
their small bones
growing constantly inward
from your spreading arms.

***
Published in Poetry Magazine (April 1984)
Copyright © Michael Blumenthal.

Illustration by Ana Bănică
instagram.com/ana_ban_ana_illustration
www.facebook.com/anabananabanica
www.caiverzipepereti.com

 



SNOW
by David Berman

Walking through a field with my little brother Seth

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.

He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.

Then we were on the roof of the lake.
The ice looked like a photograph of water.

Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.

I didn’t know where I was going with this.

They were on his property, I said.

When it’s snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.

Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.
Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.

We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.

But why were they on his property, he asked.

***
From “Actual Air”, 1999
Grove Press, Open City Books
Copyright © David Berman

 


Illustration by Adelina Butnaru
instagram.com/adelina.butnaru
facebook.com/adelina.butnaru

 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY

by Louis MacNeice

In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.

Come back early or never come.

My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.

Come back early or never come.

My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gently, gently, gentleness.

Come back early or never come.

When I was five the black dreams came;
Nothing after was quite the same.

Come back early or never come.

The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.

Come back early or never come.

When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.

Come back early or never come.

When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.

Come back early or never come.

I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.

Come back early or never come.

***
© Louis MacNeice, Collected Poems (2013)

Illustration by George Roșu
cargocollective.com/georgerosu
instagram.com/theunavailablegeorgerosu
facebook.com/george.rosu

 



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL

by Roger McGough

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don’t let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don’t take sweets from?
Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

***
© McGough, Roger. “First Day at School.”
All the Best: The Selected Poems of Roger McGough.
Illus. Lydia Monks. London: Puffin, 2004.


Illustration by Ruxandra Șerbănoiu
ruxandra-serbanoiu.tumblr.com

 



FIRST LESSON
by Phyllis McGinley

The first thing to remember about fathers is, they’re men.
A girl has to keep it in mind.
They are dragon-seekers, bent on impossible rescues.
Scratch any father, you find
Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors,
Believing change is a threat –
Like your first shoes with heel on, like your first bicycle
It took months to get.
Walk in strange woods, they warn you about the snakes there.
Climb and they fear you’ll fall.
Books, angular looks, swimming in deep water –
Fathers mistrust them all.
Men are the worriers. It is difficult for them
To learn what they must learn:
How you have a journey to take and very likely,
For a while, will not return.

***
Copyright © Phyllis McGinley (1905 – 1978)

Illustration by Yanna Zosmer
instagram.com/yannazosmer
facebook.com/yannazosmer
yannazosmer.com

 


I am most grateful to these wonderful creatures for jumping in so fast (they only had 1 week to squeeze the task in their schedules and send me the illustrations) and I’d be really happy around my belly button if you showed off your love by following their work and sharing this piece with a friend.

 

About 5poems:

I decided to choose 5 poems every month (there is a list, and it’s growing bigger and bigger) and share them with the world. A world that might just come to love them as much as I do. And with a little help from my friends, there will also be yummy custom-made illustrations.
Around each month’s end, the poems and their fresh illustrations will be revealed on a dedicated Instagram account – @5poems (yes, please, do follow us). All goodies will also be printed and exhibited in our pocket bookshop+gallery (Receptor / Cărturești & Friends). And when it’s time for another round, the previous small prints will settle into the family album – a permanent collection gathering all illustrations and poems featured monthly.
Check out: Volume 1 here. Volume 2 here.

 

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Pisicile lui Siné. Pisicile lui Steinberg.

 

Pentru un pic de echilibru măcar pe lumea cealaltă, azi o să defileze pe catwalk (ha!)
pisicile unui antisemit lângă pisicile unui evreu genial.
Așa cum le-a așezat în pagini și Iordan Chimet, pentru că da, sunt tot din Antologia Inocenței, bear with me.

Maurice Sinet (Siné)

 

Saul Steinberg ♥

 

Și, ca reminder, o întrebare care rămâne:
Ce facem cu arta creată de oameni mai mult sau mai puțin maligni?

 

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Piticii lui Jerzy Flisak

 

Un pitic atât de mic
Făcea baie în ibric
Pe săpun alunecă
Și pe loc se înecă.

^^Una dintre cele mai sinistre rime copilărești, care-mi vine-n cap de fiecare dată când aud sau citesc unul dintre cele două cuvinte declanșatoare: pitic sau ibric.

Zilele trecute, ca să-mi amintesc că sunt, totuși, un om destul de norocos pe această planetă, am primit cu împrumut cea mai frumoasă carte care s-a tipărit vreodată în România. Știu că de obicei exagerez cu entuziasmul și complimentele, dar de data asta nu. E o raritate, scoasă de comuniști în 1972, cu o selecție impresionantă de desene, poezii și povești fără de copyright. Copyrightul e un mulțumesc la final pentru toți artiștii și scriitorii citați. Reeditarea ei ar fi o misiune aproape imposibilă în zilele noastre din această cauză, poate doar dacă mai așteptăm o viață sau două până intră în domeniul public toate. O să povestesc mai multe despre carte și conținutul ei în curând, deocamdată vreau doar să share-uiesc cu lumea niște desene care nu se găsesc în nici un colț de internet (și-am scormonit cât am putut de bine), descoperite între paginile ei.

Piticii lui Jerzy Flisak, care suflă-ntr-un tort cu cel puțin 50 de lumânări:

 

 

Fotografiați în Antologia Inocenței – Cele douăsprezece lumi ale visului, de Iordan Chimet (Editura Ion Creangă, 1972).

*Mulțumiri lui Vlad, cel mai cel, care mi-a împrumutat-o 🙂

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So what?

 

I guess freedom is pretty much about doing stuff we don’t know anything about and being surprised at the results, any results. Because when you do something you’re not supposed to be good at, there are no expectations, there is no shame around the corner.
Knowing can be a prison – doing the stuff you know always requires the best of you, unlocking new levels, performing better than before, in order not to disappoint others or yourself. I try to convince myself every day that what I do doesn’t save the world, and what I don’t do doesn’t end it either. And that’s ok.
So every time I forget that, I draw a silly face telling me “So what?”. I’ve been doing it for weeks now and it feels nice. You should try it too if you’re a hypercritic, a worrier, an overachiever. A human being.

 

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The secret to never getting bored:

 

never ever get bored:
be more Marc.
When there aren’t enough stories around (because grown-ups get tired and he doesn’t know how to read yet), he makes them up.
Yesterday we travelled by train from London to New York and back a hundred times, wandered around parks, befriended random policemen, fed the ducks on Thames, read about friendly city ghosts, found out all male giraffes are named James and all female giraffes are named Margaret at the Bronx zoo, and got a little altitude sickness at the top of the Empire State Building, but then treated it with some ice cream on a crowded street.

Also, saw a royal wedding happening at Buckingham Palace and apparently we needed to crash it:

Marc: Whom do you want to marry?
Me: Umm. You! Do you?
Marc: Oh, ugh, ok.

Then we got married at the palace and went on a trip to Italy (he didn’t really want to take me with him…). 1h later, after learning all the secret corners of the two pop-up books:
Marc: I have an idea!
Me: ?
Marc: Let’s get married one more time!
And so we did, for one more party at the palace.

 

 

One more thing. Very important thing:

This is Code Green.

Marc revealed the meaning of color codes yesterday, after showing us his Thunder moves (a song by Imagine Dragons).
So here they are for everybody to know and for us to remember:
1. Code Green – all is well, all is perfect.
2. Code Yellow – most is well, some is bad.
3. Code Orange – some is well, most is bad.
4. Code Red – all is bad, all is dreadful.

 

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Home sleep home


For at least 1 year I’ve been having trouble sleeping.

Some
missed deadlines
+ broken promises
+ postponed dreams
+ deceived expectations
seem to affect me more than all the other things I happily manage to cross off my relentless to-do list.
Because of this heavy + perpetual tiredness, most of the time I feel like I never want to leave home. But I’m lucky to have some friends that lure me outside the cave every now and then.
I rewarded myself recently with yet another sleep-related piece: the prettiest bedclothes I’ve ever seen.
No, I still don’t sleep well, but at least I love putting my head on this pillowcase.

 

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Pauză, poză, poezie, poeseu

 

Ieri am publicat ilustrațiile pentru poeziile lunii, azi trimit newsletterul pe care-l termin imediat, dar imediat după ce mai citesc o dată cel mai frumos poeseu peste care-am dat în ultima vreme.
M-am uitat la autor și am găsit-o pe Patricia Lockwood și doar ce-mi pusesem la cap Priestdaddy-ul ei, ce serendipity (încă citesc memoirs only, nu prea pot ficțiune de ceva timp).

Mic pasaj din comoară:


How Do We Write Now?

“The alternate title of this, of course, is how the fuck do we write now.

Just as the customary greeting of hello has been replaced with what the fuck is going on, and you grab your friend’s arm almost against your will and shake her a little bit and say no seriously, what the fuck is happening.

Just as your face has been replaced by a question mark immediately followed by an exclamation mark immediately followed by another question mark.

Just as your heart has been replaced by what happens to a bunch of seagulls when a dog comes running down the beach.

Just as your blood now carries in its current the Jaws theme.

Just as some days I put my bra on inside-out and it seems too hard to fix so I just sit there staring at the news in an inside-out bra.

Just as whenever you read one of those super-positive Lin-Manuel Miranda tweets that’s like

G’MORNING.
YOU’RE A GORGEOUS RAY OF BABY LIGHT THAT SHINES ON ALL HUMANITY

you picture the president reading it and nodding and thinking, he’s talking about me.

That your attention is in one sense the most precious part of you, it is your soul spending yourself, to teach you that there’s always more.”

 

Cadou ceramic de la Alexandra Mîrzac <3

 

 

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5poems (Vol. 2)

 

5 poems I love recently landed in the magic-making hands of 5 local illustrators.
Wanda, Dragoș, Anna, Andreea and Daia hosted the poems in their hearts for a week and now we’re sending them into the world as delightful illustrations.

Enjoy reading the chosen poems and zooming in on their amazing visual alter egos:

 



ONE ART
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

(Published in The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983.
Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel.)

Illustration by Wanda Hutira
instagram.com/que_nais
www.behance.net/ceNais
www.facebook.com/wanda.hutira
facebook.com/Ostra-Berdo

 



AS PLANNED
by Frank O’Hara

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

(Published in The Paris Review, Issue 49, Summer 1970)

Illustration by Dragoș Boțcău
instagram.com/imagine_dragos
behance.net/dragosbotcau

 



THE PARADOX

by Sarah Kay

When I am inside writing,
all I can think about is how I should be outside living.

When I am outside living,
all I can do is notice all there is to write about.

When I read about love, I think I should be out loving.
When I love, I think I need to read more.

I am stumbling in pursuit of grace,
I hunt patience with a vengeance.

On the mornings when my brother’s tired muscles
held to the pillow, my father used to tell him,

For every moment you aren’t playing basketball,
someone else is on the court practicing.

I spend most of my time wondering
if I should be somewhere else.

So I have learned to shape the words thank you
with my first breath each morning, my last breath every night.

When the last breath comes, at least I will know I was thankful
for all the places I was so sure I was not supposed to be.

All those places I made it to,
all the loves I held, all the words I wrote.

And even if it is just for one moment,
I will be exactly where I am supposed to be.

(From No Matter the Wreckage, published in 2014 by Write Bloody Publishing)

Illustration by Anna Florea
1/2 of rivulet.studio
instagram.com/annaflorea
annaflorea.tumblr.com

 



POSSIBILITIES

by Wisława Szymborska

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

(From Nothing Twice, 1997. Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.
Copyright © Wislawa Szymborska, S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh)


Illustration by Andreea Moise
instagram.com/theycallmelebski
behance.net/lebski

 



KEEPING QUIET
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

(From Extravagaria, 1974. Translated by Alastair Reid)

Illustration by Daia Grigore
instagram.com/daia_dianagrigore
www.behance.net/drag198b8f

 


I am most grateful to these wonderful creatures for jumping in so fast (they only had 1 week to squeeze the task in their schedules and send me the illustrations) and I’d be really happy around my belly button if you showed off your love by following their work and sharing this piece with a friend.

 

About 5poems:

I decided to choose 5 poems every month (there is a list, and it’s growing bigger and bigger) and share them with the world. A world that might just come to love them as much as I do. And with a little help from my friends, there will also be yummy custom-made illustrations.
Around each month’s end, the poems and their fresh illustrations will be revealed on a dedicated Instagram account – @5poems (yes, please, do follow us). All goodies will also be printed and exhibited in our pocket bookshop+gallery (Receptor / Cărturești & Friends). And when it’s time for another round, the previous small prints will settle into the family album – a permanent collection gathering all illustrations and poems featured monthly.
Check out Volume 1 here.

 

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