Someone Like You

May 17, National Day of Norway!

Pictures of my home town from where I live taken today. Happy birthday, fellow Norwegians!

Come what may

If I should die this very moment, I wouldn't fear

For I've never known comleteness, like being here

Wrapped in the arms of you, loving every breath of you

Why live life from dream to dream, and dread the day

Teardrop

Love, love is a verb
Love is a doing word
Fearless on my breath
Gentle impulsions
Shakes me makes me lighter
Fearless on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Fearless on my breath

Nine, night of matter
Black flowers blossom
Fearless on my breath
Black flowers blossom
Fearless on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Fearless on my...

Water is my eye
Most faithful mirror
Fearless on my breath
Teardrop on the fire of a confession
Fearless on my breath
Most faithful mirror
Fearless on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Fearless on my breath

You're stumbling in the dark
You're stumbling in the dark

Ode on a Grecian Urn

625. Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape	5
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?	10
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave	15
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!	20
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!	25
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.	30
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,	35
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.	40
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!	45
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'	50

Pavarotti; E lucevan le stelle from Tosca

Jane Eyre 2006

The BBC production of Jane Eyre from 2006 is the best adaption of the book I've ever seen, so, since I'm still waiting for the new movie to come out in Norway, here's a montage from Jane Eyre 2006:

Our souls know it leads nowhere

Catching Up
 
We sit on a rock
to allow our souls
to catch up with us.

We have been traveling
a long time.

Behind us are forests of books
with pages green as leaves.
A blood sun stares
over the horizon.

Our souls are slow.
They walk miles behind
our long shadows.

They do not dance.
They need all their strength
merely to follow us.

Sometimes we run too fast
or trip climbing
the rotten rungs
in fame's ladder.

Our souls know
it leads nowhere.

They are not afraid
of losing us.

© Erica Mann Jong

A Song Of Sorrow

Leave, O leave me to my sorrow
Here I'll sit and fade away
Till I'm northing but a spirit,
And i love this form of clay.
Then if chance along this forest
Any walk in pathless ways,
Through the bloom he'll see my shadow,
Hear my voice upon the breeze.

William Blake