Lake and Ojārs Vācietis Poem.

Te nu mēs esam.

Debess no perlamutra,
tā ir tā gliemežnīca,
kas pāri.

Bezvēja nopulēts
ezers.

Un te mums ir jākļūst
par pērlēm.

Ojārs Vācietis

Bethesda Row Arts Festival.

This weekend I am in Bethesda, Maryland at

 Bethesda Row Arts Festival.

October 16 - 17, 2010.

Saturday, October 16th from 11am – 6pm

Sunday, October 17th from 11am – 5pm

My booth is #E-6 On Elm&Woodmont.


Image: Ex libris (etching/drypoint) I made for Wouter Van Gysel in 2001.
The theme for this ex libris was "Invitation to the Voyage"
- poem by Charles Baudelaire.

New Orleans Insectarium.

И вот мне приснилось, что сердце мое не болит,
Оно — колокольчик фарфоровый в желтом Китае
На пагоде пестрой… висит и приветно звенит,
В эмалевом небе дразня журавлиные стаи.

А тихая девушка в платье из красных шелков,
Где золотом вышиты осы, цветы и драконы,
С поджатыми ножками смотрит без мыслей и снов,
Внимательно слушая легкие, легкие звоны.

My very favorite poem by Nikolay Gumilyov came across my mind in NO Insectarium. I did not find any traslation in English (I'm sorry, my English readers) - it is about sorrowing heart transformed into a porcelain bell in China where a girl in embroidered silks listens to it's soft sound.

This Week Inspirations.

The poem by Emily Dickinson:

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.



...and redbreasted Nuthatch...




Milkweed...

Apples...

...and beautiful autumn colors around my home. Here is my old small apple tree (the model for my etching) on the right.

I feel like I can hear Una Furtiva Lagrima (from Donizetti's "L'Elisir D'Amore") when I look around. So much beauty.

Bethesda Art Festival.

12th Annual Bethesda Row Arts Festival, Maryland
Saturday, October 17th from 11am – 6pm
Sunday, October 18th from 11am – 5pm

My booth is # E6 (on Elm Street)

Each October, the streets of Bethesda Row are transformed into an outdoor art gallery of spectacular fine arts and crafts. More than 200,000 people have enjoyed the Bethesda Row Arts Festival in the heart of Bethesda’s designated Arts & Entertainment District since it began in 1997. This year many of the world's finest arts and crafts will be presented.

The Festival, underwritten by Federal Realty Investment Trust, features the work of 180 leading artists and crafters from the Mid-Atlantic and around the country. On display will be the finest in: ceramics, drawings, fabrics, glass, graphics, jewelry, metalwork, paintings, pastels, photography, printmaking, sculpture, wood and mixed media.

The outdoor event is held rain or shine on Bethesda Row located on Woodmont and Bethesda Avenues, and Elm Street, east of Arlington Road. The festival is in easy walking distance from the Bethesda Metro station and 15 minutes from downtown Metrorail stops.

Image: Ex libris (etching/aquatint) I made for Ilona Gargajina in 1996. This bookplate was a part of exhibit dedicated to Paul Verlaine, French Poet.

Here is very interesting page about translating Verlaine.

ОСЕННЯЯ ПЕСНЯ

Долгие песни

Скрипки осенней
Зов неотвязный,
Сердце мне ранят,
Думы туманят,
Однообразно.

Сплю, холодею,
Вздрогнув, бледнею
С боем полночи.
Вспомнится что-то.
Все без отчета
Выплачут очи.

Выйду я в поле.
Ветер на воле
Мечется, смелый.
Схватит он, бросит,
Словно уносит
Лист пожелтелый.

(Перевод В. Брюсов)

Autumn Song, By Paul Verlaine                   Translation by Eli Siegel

The long sighs  Of the violins  Of autumn  Hurt my heart  With a languor  Of sameness. All stifling  And pale, when  The hour sounds,  I remember  Days of once  And I weep. And I let myself go  With the evil wind  Which carries me  Here, beyond,  Like the leaf  Which has died. Paul-Marie Verlaine Chanson d’Automne Les sanglots longs Des violons De l’automne Blessent mon cœur D’une langueur Monotone. Tout suffocant Et blême, quand Sonne l’heure, Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure; Et je m’en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m’emporte Deçà, delà, Pareil à la Feuille morte.