Jazz

Cole Porter

Miles Davis

Stan Getz

Bill Evans

…………..

Sarah Vaughan

What Work Is…by Philip Levine; Ce-i munca…de Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is–if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

In sir indian stam in ploaie/ la Ford Highland Park asteptam. Sa muncim./ Stii ce-i munca – daca esti/ destul de batran incat sa citesti asta, stii ce e/ munca, desi e posibil sa nu muncesti./ Acum vei fi ignorat. E vorba de asteptare,/ de felul cum te sprijini cand pe un picior, cand pe celalalt./ Despre cum se simte ploaia plapanda cazand ca ceata/ in parul tau, intunecandu-ti privirea/ pana cand crezi ca-l vezi pe fratele tau/ in fata ta, cu vreo zece pasi mai incolo./ Iti cureti ochelarii cu degetele/ si e fratele altcuiva acolo, fireste,/ mai putin lat in umeri decat/ al tau, dar la fel de cocosat, cu grimasa/ care nu-i ascunde incapatanarea,/ tristul refuz de a se lasa pe mainile/ ploii, ale orelor pierdute asteptand,/ certitudinii ca undeva in fata/ asteapta un om, care va spune:”Nu,/ astazi nu angajam pe nimeni”, din motive/ pe care el le vrea. Iti iubesti fratele,/ acum dintr-o data de-abia suporti/ dragostea pentru fratele tau, care te napadeste,/ pentru fratele tau, care nu-i nici langa, nici in spatele,/ nici in fata ta, pentru ca-i acasa incercand sa/ doarma, sa scape de un schimb de noapte mizerabil/ la volanul unui Cadillac, sa se poata trezi inainte de pranz pentru a studia limba germana./ Munceste opt ore pe noapte ca sa poata canta/ Wagner, opera pe care-o urasti cel mai mult, / cea mai proasta muzica vreodata compusa./ Cat timp a trecut de cand i-ai spus/ ca-l iubesti, de cand i-ai prins umerii lati,/ ti-ai deschis larg ochii si-ai spus acele cuvinte,/ poate ca i-ai sarutat si obrajii? Tu n-ai facut niciodata/ ceva atat de simplu, atat de evident,/ nu pentru ca ai fi prea tanar sau prost,/ prea gelos sau grobian,/ incapabil sa plangi in/ prezenta unui alt om, nu,/ ci doar pentru ca nu stii ce-i aia munca.

Louis Blok

-the fetal conditions of monkeys become permanent features of men:)

Poem

fragments of heart

sounds

leather

one step forward.

Amor fati

…to love your fate…to discover the beauty hidden inside the necessity of things (Nietzsche). But how? The fact is…you don’t need any recepy! The recepy lies somewhere inside you!

Contradiction

God knows my passion for contradiction, though not even God knows it.

Sure…futility…pragmatism? No…too boring sometimes.

Why does true is different from True? If true were the same as True, than we didn’t know whether true is true or true is True. True may be true, but it may also be True. A capital letter, a capital difference. You should also note that True can mean also true. This is not a mere tautology.

The Definition of Poetry

I think that people who try to define poetry are obsessed with the shape of their poems. They don’t know what poetry is, hence they seek to circumscribe a form in which there’s a place for their conception. I don’t like them!

Woody Attacks

Hannah and Her Sisters-love and meaning: Hannah’s sisters replace her inabilities to love-she was the one that tried to fix their shortcomings, but didn’t succeed-she is the one (Mia Farrow plays Hannah) that is not able to love-Mickey (W.Allen) was hypochondriac because of her “coldness”, her second husband is not satisfied with her fake feelings-Lee plays the role of the spontaneous beauty, gullible female easy-to-get-Holly suffers so much, for she doesn’t trust herself, her talent. Hannah is the ordinary girl, almost banal. She trusts herself!!!

Sweet and Lowdown-Oh, Emmet Ray! Take your strings and allocate some soul to the humanity, for you have so much to offer! The nasty character of Emmet(shooting rats and watching the trains, psychanalysed by the sophisticated woman-Uma Thurman-who wants to become a writer) , played by Sean Penn, has a full option personality-he doesn’t want to fall in love. He wants to be free, and thinks that freedom means not to fall in love. In the chains of love, you’re a slave. The final scene, in which he destroys his guitar by angrily smashing it, trying to play train spotting with a superficial girl, gives you the key to his personality: he’s just a child, a gifted one. Hattie, the girl he fell in love and broke up with, was married and happy..without him. This is the bad news for him: though he’s gifted, love doesn’t require geniuses. Love is something different, something that Emmet Ray wouldn’t find out in the movie.

Love and Death-what is love? what is death? the answer is…in the end…when Death, the white person (scene inspired from Ingmar Bergman) takes Boris (W. Allen) and dance with him…mockery upon Tolstoy’s and Dostoievsky’s novels…female infidelity…stupid philosophy (sophistic expressions)…mocking intelligent but coward people…and also the biography of the two authors…intertextualism…surrealistic juxtapositions.

The Weather (my poem)

How’s the weather?

I’m here smiling my toes vanquished. Sunset. Cities and dust, frame of the rust.

Then I climb out my body. I feel you staring at me through an apparently widened glass. I’m obscure.

We were not supposed to see each other. That’s what my grandma told me when she had cancer. She passed away few years ago. I cried for you.

It’s my heart that makes me so pink. Pink-the favorite color of your cow. Taming of the shrew…said a poet and I tamed you. You’ve never believed in my mediocrity. Always asked for more of me.

I am what I wasn’t supposed to be. You have to understand the logic of your perception. That’s philosophy and I am poor.

Give me your hand, would you? I am your pair of lungs. I am your shoes. I am anything but you.

Each and Every C (my poem)

In your eyes, C, I’ve hidden my pigeon of emotions

and my wings of despair. You shiver and the rain also

sits frowned on my fingers. I’ve decided

to leave for a second your sight. I ran into your shoulder as a meaningless thought

and my heart doesn’t stop throbbing. It’s you. Near the window of thine slim flat

our love would dance, Cristine. You’re here, I don’t know where. Where did you put my

cup of tea, C? Where’s that steam that comes from your bosomy fish-tanked cheek ocean?

If you read that to me, C, I promise I won’t borrow you my pillow. Instead of this

I’ll cut your hair in front of a rose. Then I’ll kiss you

wearing thine T-shirt as a red lily. I cover yourself into me. I love you.