Smooth sounding rain

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves.

Silence within the great symphony of rain.

 

    Silence whilst listening to a thousand voices of cold tropical drops smashing into leaves and edges.

Silence that is grey;
      
profoundly incomprehensible.

And a voice that wraps things full of wonder with words full of emptiness. 

 

   A sight that dwells endlessly on a dream planet, a dream life.

 

A layer of skin that pierces darkness and absorbs the world into a

       nugget of perception.

To breathe in awe of all surrounding perplexing forms, a close connection with improbability.

 

Then it stops, the ever-changing new turns old and rigid. Common, ordinary minutes.

Then again and again there is a plan, a prospect.  The vertigo of wonder disappears

routine conquers anew.

 

Echoing thunder is heard far beyond the touchable. 

             

 

                    To be one with what has been,

    

what is

 

what will be

¿Cuál es la prisa?

Me encuentro sentado

      esperando un café
afuera, la guerra continua

     en las alturas lejanas las galaxias se trituran unas a otras

sabes, como cuando una tragedia se aproxima

 y no hay acción, sola una lenta espera

       hasta que el momento anticipado llega-

estoy mirando – esto tan eterno

           y la lucha sigue afuera, la gente corre

la gente se tropieza y se arrastra hasta un árbol

        míralos
pienso en silencio.

Que difícil ser hombre,
       como lucha contra sí mismo  
resiste, tembloroso a mirar el vacío que rellena tanto terreno.

    El café llega y mi vecino corre espantado del silencio de mis ojos
¿tan difícil es: detenerse?  Dejar que las cosas sucedan por sí solas…

        Anduve ayer por la llanura,
un llano quieto, un cambio despacio – la niebla pronuncia sílabas
                                                                           en décadas
el monte crece como mi barba, quién los detiene;
            ayer era como el agua transparente
un rocío sin destino previsto: evaporarse solo si calienta el día

Espérenme, ya terminé mi café
      ya me sacudo mi camisa
salgo por la puerta        
        y me pondré a correr con ustedes

Pero nadie todavía me ha respondido: ¿Cuál es la prisa?

Poemas Nihilistas

Breathe

Breathe, quite slowly…

as you caress the dim surface

follow the curves, the missing parts

again, were we incomplete

unfinished as anything in time

are you still living this minute?

I cannot blame you,

let’s wait a while… the rain may pass

it’s fine to be weak – fear is homely

that hour may come, later tonight

after so many things have torn us apart

let’s wait, cocoon life

we may soar imperfectly, rottenly

there is no choice;

live this fate

frailly fly soon

when the rain has stopped,

when the soil is dry

so we can take off … again

Innumerables silencios

Estrellas son innumerables silencios,

     tan mudas,

historias distantes envueltas en silencio

         una grandeza inhumana

sin propósito…

      llegamos hasta este instante en el flujo

a  través de milenios

       murieron los hombres por una causa mayor

una fe intratable

           como si su misión se cumpliera en el futuro

un momento culminante para el que todos vivimos
pero anoche me senté a mirar las estrellas 

     tantas de ellas, tantas como los deseos inacabables del humano

y el mundo sigue persiguiendo ese apogeo histórico

      el momento donde todo el sufrimiento, la agonía, la locura

se justifica con un orgasmo divino

            nuestras oscuras vidas iluminadas con ilusión de un propósito

¿Dónde?

             ¿Por qué proyectar al futuro ese infantil capricho?

Queremos gozar de una trascendencia, un sentido

        un porvenir decisivo

             pero no existe ninguno, nada: excepto el vasto vacío del espacio

           nada, excepto el proceso interminable de este mismo instante,

nada, pero esas lucecitas voraces denominadas: estrellas.

   

Poemas Nihilistas

Famous and rare modern art paintings at Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen-Denmark

The National Gallery of Art in Copenhagen (Denmark) has a very special collection of famous painters, such as Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Andre Derain, Georges Braque and many others. Some of these works are classics of modern art while others are rare, seemingly paint sketches, of these great artists.

The museum itself is free, and has mostly European artists with an emphasis on Scandinavian painters. Modern art paintings are on the top floors of this Danish museum.


Edvard Munch, Death Struggle 1915
Norwegian Painter


Vilhelm Hammershoi, Seated Female Nude, 1889
Danish Painter


Peder Severin Kroyer, Boys Bathing at Skagen. Summer Evening, 1899
Danish Painter (Badende drenge en sommeraften ved Skagens strand)


Carl Bloch, Samson and the Philistine, 1863
Danish Painter (Samson hos filistrene)


Henri Matisse, Landscape near Collioure. Study for “The Joy of Life”, 1905
French Painter


Henri Matisse, Portrait of Madame Matisse. The Green Line, 1905
French Artist


Henri Matisse, Nude with a White Scarf, 1909
French Painter


Henri Matisse, Goldfish, 1912
French


Henri Matisse, Still Life with Nutcracker, Ca 1916
French


Henri Matisse, Young Woman Looking at the Sea, 1923
French


Henri Matisse, Pink Onions, 1906-1907
French


Henri Matisse, Odalisque with a Screen 1923
French


Henri Matisse, Odalisque, 1923
French


André Derain, Woman in a Chemise, 1906
French Painter and illustrator
Co-founder of Fauvism with Matisse


André Derain, The Church near Carrieres-sur-Seine, 1909
French


Georges Braque, The Harbour at l’Estaque
French Painter, renown for his work in Cubism along Picasso.


Georges Braque, The Metronome, 1909
French


Georges Braque, Trees at l’Estaque, 1908
French


Georges Braque, Melon, Fruits and Cup, 1925
French


Jean Metzinger, Woman with horse, 1912
French Painter, inspired by Fauvism and Impressionism but known for his Cubism.


Fernand Léger, Woman with Vase, 1924
French painter, sculptor, filmmaker


Asger Oluf Jorn, The wheel of life -January Picture from the Suite of Seasons, 1953
Danish Painter


Michael Kvium, The power of thought, 1991
Danish Painter


Pablo Picasso, Glass with Lemon Slice, 1913
Spanish Artist

Hope you enjoy all these modern art paintings, I will keep posting the best works of art from best museums around the world.

Return to Art and Poetry

An undesirable confession

An undesirable confession

                (or lack of conformity)

 

 

There are no guidelines. Understand this sentence, remember it daily – it is essential to the journey of life. There have never been any guidelines. If ever a semblance of direction has been portrayed by some ideology or religion, it is only an attempt at a guideline. It is not certain, not even provable. Every faith in a transcendental code by which we can live our lives is today being un-made, perhaps only because it was originally man-made. We are lost, forsaken in the remote chaos of a lonely planet, with no guiding hand that would lead us to any certainty – to any firm truth.

I set these words forth not in the spirit to challenge those that are able to find comfort in this oppressive world; on the contrary, I report only the widespread experience of constriction and confusion that is rooted in the mind of 21st century Homo sapiens. I am wholly willing to commit to the idea and passion of a benevolent god or cosmic purpose, something which will deliver the long-sought peace that most of us have been searching for. Yet, the more intense the search, the horizon of faith turns darker and frailer. How can I believe in something I don’t feel? – this is the question that exiles us into metaphysical orphanage. No matter how fervently we search for that ultimate reality, the journey is always daunting, constantly haunted by self-doubt, fear and irrational panic of that impenetrable unknown which is the substratum of our everyday lives. So the desire of guidance, the search for something greater than one’s self, is suspended and there remains only a perception of enclosure – a trap in which we all belong.

So, once the awareness of the impossibility of escape is made clear, should we assume our defeat? Should we not analyze the environment of our perplexity and express the conditions of our despair?

What exactly is our trap, what constrains us to impotence? I am only one more man lost in the maze, able only to postulate wild theories of decay. But here are my thoughts:

Insecurity shapes our early life. We depend extensively on the care of our parents until we become sufficiently independent to take care of ourselves. From the very start we look for something beyond ourselves to help us deal with our hostile environment and to give us the comfort of control; control over the unpredictability of the world. By the time we reach the age of reason we are accustomed to depend on other sources, whether it’s our parents, god or social institutions. Naturally these fall short from achieving this and we return to our capsule of solitude. Even the most passionate advocates of religion shudder in fear – didn’t Jesus himself before his death utter words of irrevocable loneliness? (My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?)

Now, what I’m about to expose may seem far-fetched, perhaps there are a few arguments I have skipped to reach the end. The emptiness felt from this lost of trust in the original sources of comfort (parents, religion, social/political establishments) needs to be fulfilled. That’s when a new monument is erected; an indestructible idol substitutes our previous dependence and consolidates itself as the last resort. What is this new idol?

Very simply: a rôle. We fashion a rôle for our lives, an identity of what we should be that is safely kept within and no longer outside. A phantom so powerful it literally controls the direction of our lives. But how did we substitute external comfort for internal obligation? Weren’t we already terrified of our loneliness that we begged for a new sense of communal belonging? We coil within ourselves because we feel disappointed about the outside world, finding it untrustworthy. We need to believe in something and the only thing that came to fill this part was our artificial identity. We created a set of standards, goals and principles by which we guide our lives, something that could not be shaken up very easily and could stand the erosion of change.

Our subconscious harbors this identity which is so elusive we suddenly lose track of its agenda – our original choices are forgotten but they mark the remaining course of our lives. We become slaves to our rôle which was initially fashioned to give us comfort but now only oppresses us with the urgency of its fulfillment. It is a double-bind, we are trapped by our desire to feel valuable, significant or united to something greater than us but we have not found this in our modern lives. We then submit shamelessly to the commands of a career which mortifies us with achieving more and more; exhausted by the end of the night our lives feel empty, confused, lost in innumerable desires.

This sense of urgency comes about from the competition we experience every day. Competition for a better role, a more reputable identity. Deep down we are all celebrities to our own egos and because of this we yearn to become as celebrities to others. Frankly, however, we wish others to see us as we want to be, but not as we truly are. We compete blindly with each other to create the “better” person, whatever this is. There are no universal standards by which we can judge who is a better person, it is relative to the values of each human being. 


This competitiveness is best seen in large cities. Cities are breeders of competition, urging its inhabitants to outrun each other. The conveniences that a city provides to its dwellers are irrelevant compared to the pressures and hostilities it creates. A decisive change of perspective is urgently needed: that of de-urbanization. How long can human beings last in a state of high tension, when large concentrations of men and women fight daily, physically and psychologically, to be on top? The greatest concern is, do they even know why they are bustling about?

What if this is true? We regard ourselves too highly during the day but then return unsatisfied to bed; panicky with the feeling that we have no control and even our goals in life are to be doubted. The idol of the ego must inevitably fall too, leaving us naked in despair, gagging with the question: who am I?