#SeaSparkle: Why the magnificent blue glow of #Hongkong seas is as dangerous as it is gorgeous: photo by Kin Cheung/AP; image via Times of India @timesofindia, 22 January 2015
Je suis le Ténébreux, – le Veuf, – l’Inconsolé,
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la Tour abolie:
Ma seule Etoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m’as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d’Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s’allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ? … Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine;
J’ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène …
Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron:
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d’Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855): El Desdichado, 1853, from the sonnet sequence Les Chimères, in Les Filles de Feu, 1854
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la Tour abolie:
Ma seule Etoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m’as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d’Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s’allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ? … Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine;
J’ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène …
Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron:
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d’Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855): El Desdichado, 1853, from the sonnet sequence Les Chimères, in Les Filles de Feu, 1854
J’ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène …
It looks cool, but learn the problem with Hong Kong's waters glowing blue #SeaSparkle #algae: photo by Kin Cheung/AP; image via The Terra Mar Project @TerraMarProject, 23 January 2015
I am the dark one, - the widower; - the unconsoled,
The prince of Aquitaine at his stricken tower:
My sole star is dead, - and my constellated lute
Bears the black Sun of the Melencolia.
In the night of the tomb, you who consoled me,
Give me back Mount Posilipo and the Italian sea,
The flower which pleased so my desolate heart,
And the trellis where the grape vine unites with the rose.
Am I Amor or Phoebus? . . . Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead is still red from the kiss of the queen;
I have dreamd in the grotto where the mermaid swims . . .
And two times victorious I have crosst the Acheron:
Modulating turn by turn on the lyre of Orpheus
The sighs of the saint and the cries of the Fay.
Nerval's sonnet translated by Robert Duncan as El Desdichado (The Disinherited) in Bending the Bow, 1968
Les Chimères
Fluorescent Algal Bloom in #HongKong may be beautiful, but is likely #toxic #SeaSparkle: photo by Kin Cheung/AP; image via Green Atom @greenatmnet, 23 January 2015
#SeaSparkle is quite beautiful but so sad. Rare instance of pollution looking anything but horrible: photo by Kin Cheung/AP; image via Jason Miller @Good_Food_Dude, 23 January 2015
The glow from a Noctiluca scintillans algae bloom along the seashore in Hong Kong. The luminescence, also called Sea Sparkle, is triggered by farm pollution that can be devastating to marine life and local fisheries, according to University of Georgia oceanographer Samantha Joye: photo by Kin Cheung/AP via The Guardian, 23 January 2015
Ma seule Etoile est morte
Peruvians ride a motorbike across land affected by extensive gold mining and deforestation, in Huaypetue, Manu province, Madre de Dios region, Peru in July, 2010. This area was pristine rain forest 20 years ago: photo by Ron Haviv/VII Photo/Everydayclimatechange via the Guardian, 20 January 2015
Florida, US. United Launch Alliance Atlas V 551 rocket blasts off from Cape Canaveral Air Force Station: photo by Mike Brown/Reuters via The Guardian, 21 January 2015
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé
A Syrian man carries wood for a fire in the rebel-held city of Douma. Three small girls and an elderly man died in Syria during the week due to bitterly cold temperatures and a week-long storm: photo by Abd Doumany/AFP via The Guardian, 13 December 2014
A forest destroyed by wildfires in the Tete province, central Mozambique. Many hectares of forest are lost each year due to the uncontrolled fires started by local communities with the aim of increasing agricultural fields, poaching and production of charcoal: photo by Carlos Litulo/Redux/Everydayclimatech
à la Tour abolie
Smoke rises following a reported airstrike by govt forces on the
besieged rebel-held town of #Douma: image via Han Solo @thandojo, 24
December 2014
Girl #douma have With blood bombing flight Assad! From page: Ahmed Abul Khair #Aleppo, Syria today: image via SYRIAREVOLUTION2011 @samirkaji, 25 December 2014
In the pic,The rest of human body Actually its a rest of a child body Go Complete sleeping world #Douma #Damascus: image via Mnawakh, 27 December 2014
Merry christmas from #BigPrison #Ghouta extermination camp #Syria #assadwarcrimes: image via Syrian Reporter @ReporterSyrien, 26 December 2014
From #Douma Christmas in the Big prison of Ghouta #BigPrison: image via Raqqa_SI, 29 December 2014
La neige sur les villages libanais #Douma #photo #Liban #Xena: image via NT Info @NTinfoMonde, 7 January 2014
From a daily life of a Syrian man in #Douma - #Syria #photo #Liban #Xena: image via Ziad S Homsi @ZiadHomsi, 8 January 2015
Berjuang hidup.#Douma #Damascus #Syria, 7-1-15. #MusimDinginGarisDepan #KeluargaKitadiSuriah @DoumaRevolution: image via Sahabat Suriah #sahabatsuriah, 9 January 2015
#Damascus, a tragedy of epic proportions, civilians leaving #Douma after 2 year siege by Assad's forces: image via Syrianora @syrianora, 18 January 2015
Thousands flee rebel area east of Damascus #Douma #Syria: image via habibti @ha_bibti, 19 January 2015
Douma, Syria. Men carry injured victims following a reported air strike on the besieged rebel-held town, which faces frequent aerial and tank bombardment and the siege means food is scarce and medical facilities are ill-equipped to handle either illness or injury: photo by Sameer Al-doumy/AFP via The Guardian, 21 January 2015
Douma, Syria. Residents of the besieged rebel town eight miles north-east of Damascus, ride through the street at night during a blackout: photo by Abd Doumany/AFP via The Guardian, 20 January 2015
Smoke rises from the Syrian border town of Kobani (Ayn al-Arab) following the US-led coalition air strikes against the Islamic State targets near Mursitpinar border crossing on Friday in Suruc, Turkey: photo by The Asahi Shimbun via The Guardian, 24 January 2015
The black Suns of Melencolia strangely resemble alien spores -- our earliest ancestors?
#schwarze-sonnen... de la mélancolie #ElDesdichado: image via lucileee* @questcequelart, 7 November 2014
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie...
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie... #Nerval (poète) Louise Joséphine Sarazin de Belmont (peintre): image via plinous @plinous, 7 December 2015
A wild Bengal tiger walks in a lake during a hot summer day in Ranthambore National Park, India: photo by Aditya Singh via the Guardian, 23 January 2015
Je suis le Ténébreux, – le Veuf, – l’Inconsolé,
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la Tour abolie:
Ma seule Etoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la Tour abolie:
Ma seule Etoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m’as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d’Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s’allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ? … Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine;
J’ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène …
Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron:
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d’Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
"@leoleihuan:
Gérard de #Nerval, ouverture des Chimères. #poésie" Superbe et sombre
comme un poème de ... #de Nerval: image via Hervé #hervelille, 23
November 2015
I am the dark one, - the widower; - the unconsoled,
The prince of Aquitaine at his stricken tower:
My sole star is dead, - and my constellated lute
Bears the black Sun of the Melencolia.
In the night of the tomb, you who consoled me,
Give me back Mount Posilipo and the Italian sea,
The flower which pleased so my desolate heart,
And the trellis where the grape vine unites with the rose.
Am I Amor or Phoebus? . . . Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead is still red from the kiss of the queen;
I have dreamd in the grotto where the mermaid swims . . .
And two times victorious I have crosst the Acheron:
Modulating turn by turn on the lyre of Orpheus
The sighs of the saint and the cries of the Fay.
I am the dark one
Loco y genio #nerval: image via Francisco Ramirez @panchoramyrez, 29 January 2014
Acheron están trabajando en nuevos temas
#Acheron están trabajando en nuevos temas #DeathMetal #BlackMetal: image via Friedhof Magazine @Friedhgma, 14 December 2014
Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron
Coal is the primary energy source fueling China’s economic rise but this seemingly endless stream of heavy dump trucks filled with coal on a Gobi Desert highway in Inner Mongolia is far from the big urban electricity consumers on the east coast. China now consumes more coal than the rest of the planet combined and emits more carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas, than any other country on the planet: photo by James Whitlow Delano/Everydayclimatechange via the Guardian, 20 January 2015
Coal miners ride a
hopper out of a coal mine in Meghalaya, northeast India. India has yet
to set a cap on its still-growing emissions. Coal accounted for
44% of India’s energy consumption in 2012 while renewable sources like
nuclear and hydroelectric plants made up 5%. India’s priority to bring
electricity to the 300 million Indians who currently live without it
will be cheaply met with coal-fired power plants. India’s attitude
toward emissions reduction illustrates the conflict developing nations
face in the battle against climate change as they endeavour to climb to
developed nation status: photo by Suzanne Lee/Everydayclimatechange via the Guardian, 20 January 2015
The Damned Being Plunged into Hell (detail): Luca Signorelli, 1499-1502, Fresco, Chapel of San Brizio, Duomo, Orvieto
The Damned Being Plunged into Hell (detail): Luca Signorelli, 1499-1502, Fresco, Chapel of San Brizio, Duomo, Orvieto
I dont know why I like his work, it depresses me a little, but I do (All These Black Suns Are Ours)
Melencolia I: Albrecht Dürer, 1514, engraving, 239 x 189 mm (Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Kunsthalle, Karlsruhe)
After melancholy comes catharsis and enlightenment #Richard Burton #Durer #All Soul's Night: image via mogg morgan @ombos, 1 November 2013
Melencolia I: Albrecht Dürer, 1514
Melencolia I: Albrecht Dürer, 1514, engraving, 239 x 189 mm (Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Kunsthalle, Karlsruhe)
Melancholia I #Engraving by #Durer: image via Argent Arts @ArgentArts, 12 March 2014
...et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie
1st tweet deserves #masterpiece #Melencolia I, 1514, engraving. A. #Durer img via @britishmuseum: image via Scratched Images, 1 June 2013
8 comments:
Jean Vilar reads Nerval's El Desdichado
The black sun is also a sun.
Aye, and there may be conscious life on Earth as well, as indicated by the assiduous efforts of Google to efface all notice of this post, and of every other recent post here that has included images related to either climate change or Syria... curiously erased from blog feeds... topics which evidently cause our putatively disinterested Techno Masters to break out in uncomfortable spots?
On the other hand, Billoo, and especially in light of the above, if you have the time and inclination, do please tell us more.
(And here I'd thought the black sun was just another chimera -- that is, another human invention... fabricated back in the day when it was not yet understood that the more knowledge humans think they have acquired, the more miserable they become...)
Anyhow... if nothing else, the sonorities, as brought out in the Jean Vilar recitation.
Nerval was doubtless a nut. OK, he liked lobsters, and took his pet lobster out for little walks. Well, promenades. In the public gardens. So it was said.
Its name, if I recall, was Thibault.
I don't believe lobsters can be taken out for little walks. They'd hate the cold, the heat, the having to walk on hard pavement on appendages suitable only for wriggling.
Poetry doesn't have to bother about those anymore.
The sonorities I mean.
Now the poets of note have cute little sweaters for their imaginary pet crustaceans.
Grants make anything possible.
Tom, I think it's wrong to think that in the face of terrible disasters or despair or personal suffering there is any light in 'the above'. But if the sun isn't *too* black then sadness and longing-which will probably always be with us-can be a part of our life, so to speak, so to speak. No? (Augustine: yearning makes the heart grow deeper").
Don't get you? Are you asking about climate change specifically? Don't want to bore you, but I could write a lot on that.
Have you read J. Lear's 'Radical Hope'? In it there's this line (I know you don't like ladders but hear me out!) that goes:
God-Ah-badt-dadt-deah -is good. My commitment to the genuine transcendence of God is manifest in my commitment to the goodness of the world transcending our necessarily limited attempt to understand it. My commitment to God's transcendence and goodness is manifested in my commitment to the idea that something good will emerge even if it outstrips my limited understanding of what that good is.
But the black sun is also, for me, Rothko, also the via negativa.
b.
Billoo, thanks for expanding a bit.
In turn let me do the same.
There's a blind man who lives alone in a room just up up the block.
That's about my own extremely limited hobbling range at this stage.
When I encounter that man, my heart always skips a beat, because he's always bravely yet errantly tapping his way, with long stick and carrying-sack, out into the insane river of Death (Acheron) (aka freeway feeder), which separates both him and us from that final requirement, food.
When I say us, I must include the growing ragged army of stray animals we attempt to support.
So we here are well aware it's a really big deal to get across that black river of cars.
I won't dare it. I was run over once at that corner, lost a lot of blood, pronounced dead, then not, and the black sun then was with me on the ride to the trauma center at the county hospital, all the way, in and out of life.
Now it's my courageous partner, to whom we here all owe life, who takes her chances with that corner. where seven pedestrians have already died, in our time here.
My sense now, so deep, is that our time here is so very brief, and I/we were always so very wrong.
Two nights ago I had as often helped guide the blind man across the hell stream, me lamer than him, him blinder than me, both with sticks, one seeing the onrushing traffic, one not.
This time, once across, he stopped to talk, and spoke at length of God, whom, after some probing, I had to concede I no longer have much interest in, in the traditional format.
We're the same age, 75.
He's a bit crusty but appears amazingly sound for his age, no discernible bad habits.
He was not at all satisfied with my answer to his charges or rather questions regarding my atheism. Deism, he said it was. Wrong, wrong. Missing the mark.
Adam. He missed the mark.
Do you know what the word is, when you miss the mark, he asked.
Three letter word, he hinted.
In archery, 800 years ago, the word for missing the mark in archery was:
I filled in the blanks.
S.I.N.
Cars were rushing past.
Soon enough, after a host of admonitions regarding Bible reading, he went inside.
Some twenty years ago I stopped being surprised by the odd fact that, after he went into the dark ground-floor apartment, the light never went on.
I don't know whether he ever had sight.
Bible on tape?
(Partner suggests braille).
In any case, there it was --- faith. The Sun Inside. The real thing. A man whose eyes must never be insulted by this world and what the people blest with vision have done with it.
Fortunate he.
But for me, much as Augustine or Rothko, or Nerval with his nutty Alchemy, or any other genius may continue to delight and teach and console us... it's impossible now not to regard them, for all their genius, and us, and for that matter, to be fair, God(!), when viewed from a reasonably objective (remote) "long" perspective, as equally members of the great death army which managed in quite a short evolutionary period to all but efface the astonishing and beautiful miracle of life on this planet that is so soon to return to silence, hopefully, if we manage to make our exit quickly enough, with some nonhuman things still left growing, breathing, foraging all those good things non human life used to do, when things were good.
What I mean to say I guess is that it's not just the ladders, increasingly, black sun, like every other linguistic construct, begins to lose its lustre here.
PS. Vow to self, post Rumi for Billoo.
Well, yes, largely agree with you, Tom. Given all the death, cruelty and barbarism it's hard to make the case for Man (or even God, really..er..not that he needs a case[he says, quickly hedging his bets!]).
That "corner" sounds horrific and I shudder every time you mention it.
I think your blind friend might want to reconsider things if he'd actually lived amongst 'religious' people (or, to be fair, the self-styled religious).
I don't think it's a question of genius just offering solace or consolation-as if they or anyone could balance the books at this late stage in the day. Maybe there is no book? But I do think it is about openings, moments of beauty. And just as much, these come from friends and loved ones. The human hand that has wreaked so much havoc is also, occasionally, one that holds us. So I can't agree with you when you say "equally".
Now how did Rothko stumble into that mire?
He must have been pushed.
It's just the metaphysical nobility of the conceptually minimal, I mean.
Was always the concept separated the wise men off from Nature.
Neither the simplicity nor the complexity of Nature is conceptual.
Conceptual is an operation.
A bit aggressive like, what with the ordering-around of the various bits of pure ideal nonsense.
Augustine's beautiful account of the learning of language in childhood becomes elegiac, in that it's more about the end of something than the beginning of something.
That's a great last thought..reminded me of John Burnside's:
I dream of the silence
the day before Adam came
to name the animals,
The gold skins newly dropped
from God's bright fingers, still
implicit with the light.
A day like this, perhaps:
a winter whiteness
haunting the creation,
as we are sometimes
haunted by the space
we fill, or by the forms
we might have known
before the names,
beyond the gloss of things.
Haven't read Augustine's account but Fergus Kerr suggests that it is part of the problem: seeing the 'I' before the world (and therefore against it), thinking we can capture the world (name it/control it?)-and all that without other people.
Nature and other people are from then on a constraint on the autonomous self, no?
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