That’s what I do…


That’s what I do:

I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry – poetry is still first.    Cigarettes and alcohol follow.

~ Anne Sexton

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The purpose of full attention…

girl“This is the ongoing purpose of full attention: to find a thousand ways to be pierced into wholeness.” ~Mark Nepo

image: girl by xomsaa

Renvoyer L’ascenseur…

I decide to move to Paris because of its cafes, its writers, and its cultural life. I discover that none of this exists anymore:  the cafes are full of tourists and photographs of the people who made those places famous. Most of the writers there are more concerned with style than content; they strive to be original, but succeed only in being dull. They are locked in their own little world, and I learn an interesting French expression:  renvoyer l’ascenseur, meaning literally “to send the elevator back,” but used metaphorically to mean “to return a favor.”  In practice, this means that I say nice things about your book, you say nice things about mine, and thus we create a whole new cultural life, a revolution, an apparently new philosophy; we suffer because no one understands us, but then that’s what happened with all the geniuses of the past: being misunderstood by one’s contemporaries is surely just part and parcel of being a great artist.

They “send the elevator back,” and, at first, such writers have some success: people don’t want to run the risk of openly criticizing something they don’t understand, but they soon realize they are being conned and stop believing what the critics say.

The Internet and its simple language are all that it takes to change the world. A parallel world emerges in Paris: new writers struggle to make their words and their souls understood. I join these new writers in cafes that no one has heard of, because neither the writers nor the cafes are as yet famous. I develop my style alone and I learn from a publisher all I need to know about mutual support.

~from The Zahir, A Novel of Obsession by Paulo Coelho

Pink-ish

A pink summer dress…

A perfectly pink scent…

Perfect breasts…

…and a perfectly pink poem…

Pink is My Colour
by Sylvia Chidi

Pink pants and rosy plants
Pink blouses, never failing to arouse spouses

Pink hot feverish lips
Passionate pants of pink
Love letters dipped in pink ink

You see! You see!

Pink is my colour
Pink is the sweet side of wild
Quite mild
Like a little lost baby child
Of all the colours compiled
Pink is romantic and disarming
All pink roses are ever so charming

Pink is my colour
The fruit juices I drink
Are always colour pink
With favourable odours
Igniting my fire making me desire more and more
Think! Think! Pink always links
With erotic pleasant stinks
Those flirty winks
Combining with pink
Creating an effect of kink, kink, kinky!

Pink is my colour
Refined or raw
Pink is my colour
And the colour of my door
Pink is my colour
And the only colour I adore

…a pink room and pink champagne filled macarons…

…a pink cafe to relax out the day…

Let’s meet for some coffee…

Click images for links to these talented photographer’s profiles and galleries.