Tuesday 31 July 2012
Thursday 26 July 2012
Wednesday 25 July 2012
Food chain: Keystone species Vs Apex predator
"The basis of all animal rights should be the Golden Rule: we should treat them as we would wish them to treat us, were any other species in our dominant position."
Christine Stevens, activist (1918-2002)
Monday 23 July 2012
Hunger
"A hungry man is not a free man."
Adlai Stevenson, Governor of Illinois, U.S. presidential candidate, U.N. Ambassador (1900-1965)
Sunday 22 July 2012
22.07.12 Bords de Loire
Un bon coin de pêche
Héron cendré
Difficile de prendre une sterne à l'instant de pêche
Aigrette
J'ai déjà de la chance de l'avoir vu, mais ce martin-pêcheur était quand même un peu loin
Vol du héron cendré. Notez l'aile droite qui effleure à peine la surface de l'eau
Fontaine entre le pont Wilson et la bibliothèque municipale de Tours
Saturday 21 July 2012
Sonnet caudé sur le plafond de la Sixtine
« I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento,
Come fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia
O ver d’altro paese che si sia,
C’a forza ’l ventro appiccasotto ’l mento.
La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento
In sullo scrigno, e ’l petto fo d’arpia,
E ’l pennel sopra ’l viso tuttavia
Mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento.
E’ lombi entrati mi son nella peccia,
E fo del cul per contrapeso groppa,
E’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano.
Dinanzi mi s’allunga la corteccia,
E per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa,
E tendomi com’arco sorïano.
Però fallace e strano
Surge il iudizio che la mente porta,
Ché mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta.
La mia pittura morta
Difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ’l mio onore,
Non sendo in loco bon, né io pittore. »
"À travailler tordu j'ai attrapé un goitre
comme l'eau en procure aux chats de Lombardie
(à moins que ce ne soit de quelque autre pays)
et j'ai le ventre, à force, collé au menton.
Ma barbe pointe vers le ciel, je sens ma nuque
sur mon dos, j'ai une poitrine de harpie,
et la peinture qui dégouline sans cesse
sur mon visage en fait un riche pavement.
Mes lombes sont allées se fourrer dans ma panse.
faisant par contrepoids de mon cul une croupe
chevaline et je déambule à l'aveuglette.
J'ai par-devant l'écorce qui va s'allongeant
alors que par-derrière elle se ratatine
et je suis recourbé comme un arc de Syrie.
Enfin les jugements que porte mon esprit
me viennent fallacieux et gauchis : quand on use
d'une sarbacane tordue, on tire mal.
Cette charogne de peinture,
défends-là, Giovanni*, et défends mon honneur :
suis-je en bonne posture ici et suis-je peintre ?"
Michel-Ange, ibid, circa 1509-10
* destiné à Giovanni da Pistoïa
_-_Dante_And_Virgil_In_Hell_(1850).jpg)
Friday 20 July 2012
Quatrain
"Je reste seul à me consumer dans le noir
quand le soleil dérobe au monde sa lumière.
D'autres, c'est par plaisir qu'ils s'étendent à terre,
moi, c'est dans mon malheur pour gémir et pleurer."
Michel-Ange (1475-1564), Poèmes (circa 1507).
Wednesday 18 July 2012
Quantum of shadow
How will my friends remember me when I'm gone?
Shall they say that I was a good man?
Shall they spurn me and spit on my
grave?
What will people say of me when I am
gone?
Those whom I knew and those whom I
didn't?
I wish I could leave something.
A trace, something worthy of
remembrance.
Something that no one could laugh at.
I hope people will bow their hat
When they will see my hearse.
I know I won't make it to the news.
I know I will not make history,
Or get my entry in the History books.
No building shall be named after me.
I am a simple man. I don't matter.
Perhaps the fool in me will be best
remembered
Or the fits of daredevilry make a
lasting impression.
My acts of kindness. My bursts of
passion.
My blindness in affairs of love.
My smile. My eyes. My scars. My
silhouette.
What remains of the man when he is
gone?
Which of his deeds passes the test of
time?
The things he wrote? The jokes he made?
The sermons he gave his erring friends?
The shoulder he lent? The house he
built?
Is it those he loved, those he
fathered?
Or is it the hat he forgot on the coat
stand?
Surely not his footsteps on the sand.
I was given my great-grandfather's
pocket-watch.
Yet I have never met him. Does it mean
he isn't remembered?
We are deserts.
Eventually our shadows fade
And we turn to dust and sand.
Yet traces of walking can be seen.
I wonder if someone will follow my
footsteps,
Or retrace them.
I just wish I won't be forgotten.
Not before the next moon is up.
Solace or hope:
Time can't level everything
On a human scale.
Femto-reality
"Some stories are true that never happened."
Elie Wiesel, writer, Nobel laureate (b. 1928)
Tuesday 17 July 2012
Monday 16 July 2012
Blinker
"We do not err because truth is difficult to see. It is visible at a glance. We err because this is more comfortable."
Alexander Solzhenitsyn, novelist, Nobel laureate (1918-2008)
Friday 13 July 2012
In the kingdom of the fools, the sane sounds mad indeed
"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."
Ray Bradbury, writer (1920-2012)
Thursday 12 July 2012
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