Posted by Ravenous Butterflies

Christian Skredsvi- Idyll, 1888
Posted by Ravenous Butterflies

Christian Skredsvi- Idyll, 1888
White fijo de dust and scare
buried alive under five floors,
Closed in a concrete mountain,
What a desperate dig co ‘ hands.
Fijo without a body anymore, touching,
quartered by the shrapnel de ‘ na bomb,
No more nose and lips, no eyes,
in the evaporated air, with no grave.
Fijo light like a butterfly
That from my empty breast you seek milk.
You and me with no more strength in this stable
While holes he kills himself and if he fights.
Fijo drowned inside the black sea
or choked inside a hold.
Three years that I feel you, and now I don’t hope,
that you have come save on the shore.
Fijo you left for the guera
And you never came back home,
You are the last thought of every night,
you are first when I wake up every day.
Fijo cor tight lace still ar arm
Barely covered by ‘ n sheet.
I want off, but I can’t do it,
I don’t want you to stay here alone.
Fijo who falls asleep inside a bed
In this dark hospital room,
The more you don’t cry, the more nun complains,
I don’t want to fight anymore and it’s bad.
Fijo you disappeared that night
Inside a night that has no end anymore.
Another spring is back,
but bring flowers that only have thorns.
Fijo beaten to death tortured,
For days and days inside a room.
Who knows how many times you called me
When hope gave up on you.
Mother. Mother.
Mother you know the pain in my heart,
You who know what pain is,
I will accept my destiny in silence.
But take my baby in your arms.
(Marazico)

William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Mercy (partial), c. 1876, private collection.
From the Existentialist Corner, and our dear old father Nietzsche, posted by Poetic Outlaws
— Nietzsche


Diane Petrilli
In the columns we create in our minds as we live this life, there is one we unconsciously call “This is so True.” Take for example this posting from Ravenous Butterflies.

Sir John Lavery – Anna Pavlova as a Bacchante, 1911
“Freeing yourself was one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another.”
Toni Morrison
Ah, ha! I say to myself. And it goes into that column, all without my involvement. My awareness, my consciousness. It is only in observing my own reaction that I say not only true, but something I want to note. What does that mean, ownership? Am I free? Do I act free? Freely? Do I claim myself in this world, in this life?
Or have I made that break, chosen a life, and then contented myself with that action alone? What thoughts do I then pull in to ask if there’s more, there’s more for the taking? And asking, and being?
So then maybe there’s another column, a sub-column, an endnote. Something that says “Better think about this some more.”