Brunch chez Burlot

Tags

photography, culture, Arts, poems, Poetry, emotions

“International Exposition”

 

along the way

the glass temple welcomes

pictures, stories

 

light and shadow

join together

on a concrete wall

 

four square meters

a single room

to get rid of the blues

 

the air smells good, outside

(getting rid of the blues

is for wishful thinkers)

 

a fistful of steam

comes out of your pocket,

do you hide the remnants of fantasy, yet?

 

a stained petal

breaks the frail harmony

of your flower dress

 

the weight of the words

now falls on your lips,

- try again…

 

the weight of the words

now rests in your throat

- saying goodbye in a whisper…

 

the petal disappeared along with its stain,

there is nothing special

in those who stay

 

still on the platform

(sacred image in the circle of the sun)

watching the tail of the train

 

the empty rails.

Elliott Erwitt exhibition of photography – Arrangement

#4

He was bright, yes.

Tags

art, London, photography, stories, Writing

Yes, he was bright.

He used black to fill in the eyes with irony and yellow to enhance the nature of a face; a shade of red to instill a sense of ambiguous turbulence. Finally, some white to mitigate the strength of the ensemble.

His work was a sort of popular census, something that he did obstinately and shamelessly.

“No, it doesn’t work”. He burst out one day. “What ’m looking for is the spark of a more genuine humanity”.

Then he fell silent, grabbed a knife and began removing the seeds from a big slice of watermelon.

(genuine humanity) London – UK

MicroFICTION #17

Tie them strong

Tags

photography, poems, Travels, Venice

scraps of fabric

carefully sewn to the sky

(look twice, those aren’t clouds)

 

a secure knot,

some thread, the needle

a couple of painful stitches

 

in the tragedy of the names,

a map to cross the desert

of the memory

 

bent, still at work

the hand moves up and down,

commanding the tide

 

a whisper on the lips,

the thread trembles a while

then flutters away – not that far away

 

scraps of fabric, fragments of life,

tie them strong ‘cause time will try to rip them off

(like the rudest passer-by)

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

#3

Aphorism

Tags

Arts, Crafts, culture, Legatoria Koinè

“I do not believe that any peacock envies another peacock his tail, because every peacock is persuaded that his own tail is the finest in the world.

The consequence of this is that peacocks are peaceable birds“.

Bertrand Russel

Rose & Light blue marble papers, peacock tail effect (click on the picture to visit the website, otherwise enjoy the colors of these amazing hand decorated papers)

# 1

Shadowless

Tags

flowers, Italy, photography, poems, Venice

sprout opens

the gathering night

 

the mysterious source uncovered

(inside: pure memory)

waiting, still

 

dark figures murmuring

about the weak nature of things,

- listening

 

travelling light is important

(only a shade of melancholy)

they say

 

shadowless fingers don’t intertwine,

hardly stay on the right side

the stars

 

if they’re just masks with empty eyes

(pointing the finger)

who can explain for all that sky

the reason?

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

# 2

Likeness

Tags

Arts, culture, London, photography, science, stories

It was the first day of summer. Sitting on the garden wall, we were debating about dynamism.

“What makes space real” you asserted “are – undoubtedly – the objects!”. I couldn’t but disagree because, in my opinion, the only way to define space was through the movement. The idea of sequence imposed itself then, but it was strictly related to the inconsistency in the dissimilarity.

I clearly remember that the conversation got worst when we analyzed the concept of likeness, in other words “how different is what, at a first glance, looks similar?”.

In that moment someone took a snapshot. Here it is. Oh my God, we look so serious!

“Now, tell me. Don’t you find here that livid Hyperrealism of the mug shots?”

microFICTION # 16

Flemish interiors

Tags

culture, Italy, photography, stories

I shouldn’t go to sleep after watching movies because when I close my eyes everything turns real, which includes the moon squeaking behind the window pane and the hair becoming needles that prick my fingertips.

So it was that a moon beam entered the room illuminating my soul while observing with a certain curiosity the faded tapestry. The scene – I must admit – was a bit dark and severe, just like those old Flemish interiors and made me feel uncomfortable.

“I like the way you manage the space, it’s effective” she said. “In truth” she added adjusting a crooked frame “I didn’t expect anything so tangible, rather a labyrinth of mirrors, you know..”.

I was on the point of claiming when I woke up. What was she talking about? My usual lack of beliefs concerning the future, perhaps?

microFICTION #15

Four golden coins

Tags

Gold coin, photography, stories, Writing

The tinkling of four golden coins grabbed everyone attention. That was the reward the foreigner threw across the table. Will that gang of idlers be brave enough to face off – that very night – the gods of the storm?

All eyes turned to the man who stood up to count them before bursting into laughter.

He grabbed hold of his hat and flung the door open giving voice to the angry wind of the night. Once on the doorstep, he hesitated and when the door got shut abruptly, he was still in. He came back to the candle light with no more hint of irony on his face. “You can’t even image what it is like in the eye of the storm” he said to the foreigner “how could you understand anything like the resentment of the sky, the eternal agitation of the sea, the aversion the wind has felt to the earth since the very first day? Oh no, you can’t. Go away. It’s not your business, it’s ours”.

“I see” the foreigner replied “but I cannot bear the idea of a place where there’s no room for me”.

The empty space

microFICTION #14

Counter-resurrection

Tags

culture, Paper, Papier-mâché, Writing

It was for that stupid affair that he finally left the place where he once buried himself into.

He blinked at the daylight, then began removing the dust from his clothes, patiently.

When he raised the eyes, we noticed how hard he was trying to unearth his voice and got baffled when he asserted that, all considered no, that wasn’t the right way to live an unforgettable experience.

“So isn’t yours” he added later “What are you clinging to? As far as I can see… to a papier-mâché architrave”.

Art installation

MicroFICTION #13

The scissors

Tags

culture, photography, Scissors, stories, Writing

She used to make things simple and even in troubled times the happy end was foreseeable.

I was there while she approached the scissors to the side edge of a magazine page where a boat with large white veils was entangled in the good weather.

Suddenly, she closed the blades and cut the sky into two.

“So many things happened in my life” she said trying to explain her behavior “only fragments can soothe my rage”.

What could I say? She did it again: she made hard things incredibly simple.

The cut (workers demonstration, Bologna – Italy)

microFICTION #12