Le Lac

Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges,
Jeter l'ancre un seul jour?

Always pushed towards new shores like this,
Swept away into an eternal night, without return,
Can we never, on this ocean of days,
Throw down an anchor, for a single day?

Lamartine

apples

It is ridiculous, at this very moment, how much I want an apple.

Crunchy - preferably cold.

I think that apples, for me, at this particular time, are the epitimisation of matarialism. I truly believe that a material object (in this case, an apple) could improve my life immeasurably.

Oh Wikipedia, tell me something esoteric about materialism...

"The term is often associated with criticisms of consumption starting with Thorstein Veblen."



This guy.

Thorstein Bunde Veblen was a Norwegian-American sociologist and founder of the institutional economics movement. This movement focuses on understanding the role of human-made institutions have on economic behaviour, the purposive decisions of individuals, what affects these decisions, and how they shape the economy.

Good on you, Thorstein.

umbrella obsession

我高

"He who has known the contentment that comes simply through being content, will never again be otherwise than contented." - Tao Tê Ching

I have never felt
like just being
as much as I do right now.

Capitalism

Russian Dolls

They sit quietly within one another,
As though the steppe were not wide enough
For them all to stand alone.

With that hollowness inside of them,
I suppose it is natural
That they sought company in smaller versions of themselves.

Or perhaps
They did not want companionship,
But an anchor
So the wind would not sweep them away.

One day
They might grow tired of one another
And seperate a while, only to find themselves
Spreading
Like the seeds of a silverberry tree.












Note:

It is incredibly difficult to find the name of a tree that lives around the Eurasian Steppe that has syllables that are: Stressed unstreesed unstressed (unstressed) whose seeds are spread by the wind. In the end, I settled for silverberry.

"And seperate a while,
Only to find themselves
Spreading like the seeds of a silverberry tree."

or what I used above?

I had a "Russia" phase a little while back - Russka, by Edward Rutherford, and Russian Empires, by Philip Longworth, are two books I remember enjoying.

I'm not sure if I'd ever like to visit Russia, but I love the idea of Russia.

I'm quite interested, now, in finding some Russian poetry. And reading a bit more Tolstoy.

I am

A drop of water

In the sea.

A grain of sand

In the desert.

A needle in the haystack?

Not nearly sharp enough.

I think, therefore I am.

And yet

To many, I am not.

Does it matter?

I may be invisible

But at least I can see.

a poem

This is a poem I wrote when I was about eleven, with a friend at One Day School - a school I went to one day each week that was for gifted and talented children.

As you can tell, I had a cheese fetish.

What a strange child I was.

Cheese
Bread's ever-faithful friend.
Never named,
As staple food or wholesome snack
But always there,
In slices or blocks or cubes.


But
What if cheese
Did away with mild reputation,
Displeased with second place.
No longer would he sit upon
Ciabata, baguette, or plain white loaf.
Demanded he, that noble cheese,
His own place on the plate.

How would such news be taken,
By cheese's glutenous chum?
Abandoned by the only one,
With the creamy capability,
To turn his blandness to pure bliss?


Deserted by a culinary world.
Yellow, now, is in vogue -
So different from bread's bland
White and grey and brown.


Cheese, now in the spotlight,
Recognized as staple food, as wholesome snack,
His creamy capabilities,
Looked upon with awe,
As he sits, content,
On his own place on the plate.

Rain

I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain

Hone Tuwhare



Some books by Hone Tuwhare:

'No Ordinary Sun'

'Something Nothing'

'Sapwood & Milk'

'Piggy Back Moon'