silent stories of war, of love, of fear

VII

silent stories, of war of love of fear… (unnamed puppetry line 7)

Unnamed  puppetry – lines leading into lines

she does not thrive here, freely, passionately

hanging by threads of stories

roaming quietly, ghost-like,

passing through silent corridors,

dressed in bowing torsos of repetition

– headless – nameless –

silent stories of love, of war of fear.

‘We photograph things in order to drive them out of our minds. My stories are a way of shutting my eyes.

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3 thoughts on “silent stories of war, of love, of fear

  1. Poetry, whose material is language, is perhaps the most human and least worldly of the arts, the one in which the end product remains closest to the thought that inspired it. The durability of a poem is produced through condensation, so that it is as though language spoken in utmost density and concentration were poetic in itself. Here, remembrance, Mnemosyne, the mother of the muses, is directly transformed into memory, and the poet’s means to achieve the transformation is rhythm, through which the poem becomes fixed in the recollection almost by itself…. Of all things of thought, poetry is closest to thought, and a poem is less a thing than any other work of art; yet even a poem, no matter how long it existed as a living spoken word in the recollection of the bard and those who listened to him, will eventually be “made,” that is, written down and transformed into a tangible thing among things, because remembrance and the gift of recollection, from which all desire for imperishability springs, need tangible things to remind them, lest they perish themselves. H. Arendt

    should never stop you writing poetry, because your words bring meaning, thoughts. should never stop you take a photo, because your images.. through my mind born new sense. you are good artist, my Dear LadyWhitelilies (sorry for bad english)

    Big smile for you!

    • My words beg for structure and my images lack training but your kindness and belief in my tying up of thoughts and loose threads of emotion encourage me to keep sharing – even the obscurities. Somewhere there is a voice, a beating pulse and an endless love of words; a soulful observation, sincere appreciation and sensitivity that has been tightly woven. I am ever grateful and always humbled by the echo of shared spaces of creativity.

      • I think that you carry it in themselves independently of the others, probably born with such sensitivity.
        Sometimes it is a gift, sometimes a curse.
        But I get the impression, that you can take from it, what is beautiful.

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