Ben Heine's music composition/production "Warsaw" is a tribute to the Polish capital, an important place for Ben. It is featuring Belgian saxophonist Stephane Pigeon. Ben recorded Stephane playing the saxophone in his studio, Ben played the other instruments and mixed them to obtain this electro jazzy touch. The clip was filmed in Warsaw by Fryderyk Sikorski. Watch the clip here above on YouTube and listen to the track here below on Soundcloud. Music Composition, production, recording, mastering and mixing: © Ben Heine 2016.
Showing posts with label Poland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poland. Show all posts
A picture I took near Warsaw in Poland some weeks ago.
(The above photo has been shot with the Samsung NX10,
provided by Samsung Electronics. Co., Ltd)
(The above photo has been shot with the Samsung NX10,
provided by Samsung Electronics. Co., Ltd)
.
A photo I took yesterday in Poland (I also made the rough sketch). Yes I know, there are no koalas in Poland but there is one in my mind, struggling against extinction...
Koalas are in serious decline suffering from the effects of habitat destruction, domestic dog attacks, bushfires and road accidents. The Australian Koala Foundation estimates that there are less than 80,000 koalas left in the wild, possibly as few as 43,000... Read more on www.savethekoala.com
----------------
Koalas are in serious decline suffering from the effects of habitat destruction, domestic dog attacks, bushfires and road accidents. The Australian Koala Foundation estimates that there are less than 80,000 koalas left in the wild, possibly as few as 43,000... Read more on www.savethekoala.com
Random Man in a
Random World
Random World
.
.Random Man
By Peter S. Quinn
He is “just a random man”,
Doing whatever he always can,... See More
Making his random steps to somewhere.
Meaning what he always does,
Making a reason for his cause,
Everything in the world is his affair.
Random man please dance on,
Days are turning and years are gone,
Random man you are me and I'm you.
He has a dream that must come true,
It’s for the world to be all new,
Step by step in a noble peace.
Random man come and give,
Everything that you can live,
In your ideal world of love
That tomorrow must be full of.
Meaning what he always does,
Making a reason for his cause,
Everything in the world is his affair.
Random man please dance on,
Days are turning and years are gone,
Random man you are me and I'm you.
He “is just a random man”,
Doing whatever he always can,
Making his random steps to somewhere.
(Parody to the Beatles song, “Nowhere Man”)
By Peter S. Quinn
He is “just a random man”,
Doing whatever he always can,... See More
Making his random steps to somewhere.
Meaning what he always does,
Making a reason for his cause,
Everything in the world is his affair.
Random man please dance on,
Days are turning and years are gone,
Random man you are me and I'm you.
He has a dream that must come true,
It’s for the world to be all new,
Step by step in a noble peace.
Random man come and give,
Everything that you can live,
In your ideal world of love
That tomorrow must be full of.
Meaning what he always does,
Making a reason for his cause,
Everything in the world is his affair.
Random man please dance on,
Days are turning and years are gone,
Random man you are me and I'm you.
He “is just a random man”,
Doing whatever he always can,
Making his random steps to somewhere.
(Parody to the Beatles song, “Nowhere Man”)
Marcin Bondarowicz
- i d e a m a n -
- i d e a m a n -
.
© 2009 - Ben Heine
.
Marcin is a professional Polish painter and illustrator. He lives in Poland as a freelance artist. He regularly publishes his highly elaborated cartoons on several websites and collaborates with a wide range of renowned magazines and newspapers.
Please visit his website for more info: www.bondarowiczart.republika.pl
.
Please visit his website for more info: www.bondarowiczart.republika.pl
.
Roman Pietrzak,
Polish Sculptor
Polish Sculptor
.
© 2009 - Ben Heine .
I met Roman Pietrzak some time ago
in his studio near Warsaw, Poland.
This photo shows him next to one
of his most recent self portraits.
.
Rhino Downtown
The Time Is Going
Somewhere
A poem by Peter S. Quinn
The time is going somewhere
But nowhere I'm still
The city lights from here to there
In every light bulb still
The hours are going by
One by one there're past
Heavy like clouds in sky
Or the roads with its dust
Everywhere you're going
Farther just than you were
Like the city lights flowing
Somewhere around or near
Letting go of dreams between
That nobody ever knows
So much is still there to be seen
In the sideways glows
Every time is going through
We are still just walking
So much there for to renew
After the stirring and talking
Ways to fill and be around
Where the days are down
Elsewhere a bit unlike found
In a different kind of a town
Somewhere
A poem by Peter S. Quinn
The time is going somewhere
But nowhere I'm still
The city lights from here to there
In every light bulb still
The hours are going by
One by one there're past
Heavy like clouds in sky
Or the roads with its dust
Everywhere you're going
Farther just than you were
Like the city lights flowing
Somewhere around or near
Letting go of dreams between
That nobody ever knows
So much is still there to be seen
In the sideways glows
Every time is going through
We are still just walking
So much there for to renew
After the stirring and talking
Ways to fill and be around
Where the days are down
Elsewhere a bit unlike found
In a different kind of a town
.
Wow !
.
.
New portrait of me by
Marcin Bondarowicz (*)
.
The technique is incredible.
I'm looking better than in real life!
Marcin Bondarowicz (*)
.
The technique is incredible.
I'm looking better than in real life!
.
Thank you, Marcin.
That's another unique
birthday present!
.
That's another unique
birthday present!
.
(*) Marcin Bondarowicz is a professional Polish cartoonist and illustrator. He is also a specialized painter and photographer. He was born in 1976 in Starachowice, Poland. He lives now in Poland as a freelance artist. He regularly publishes his cartoons on several Websites and collaborates with a wide range of magazines and newspapers. Read his full bio
.
.
Eyes of the First Light
A poem by Peter S. Quinn
Strings of care for in summer's night
Beautiful days of its glowing shades
On to early cock-crow coming bright
Every glistening start to muted fades
Days and looks of the drifting clouds
With flowers to touch and hours to feel
Summer in misty and woody shrouds
So much of reason and so much unreal
Sky of the night here is glistening on
Through going lights of the Milky Way
Carrying old dreams till they're gone
In the rousing of a freshly instinctive day
Eyes of the first light brightening high
Through every rising opening new glow
Every of life's footfall again will try
To experience its existence and then go
Day is so easy at dawn's early gleam
When the daylight hour begins to show
When veracity is nothing but a dream
A torch of a morning increasing in slow
Eyes of the First Light
A poem by Peter S. Quinn
Strings of care for in summer's night
Beautiful days of its glowing shades
On to early cock-crow coming bright
Every glistening start to muted fades
Days and looks of the drifting clouds
With flowers to touch and hours to feel
Summer in misty and woody shrouds
So much of reason and so much unreal
Sky of the night here is glistening on
Through going lights of the Milky Way
Carrying old dreams till they're gone
In the rousing of a freshly instinctive day
Eyes of the first light brightening high
Through every rising opening new glow
Every of life's footfall again will try
To experience its existence and then go
Day is so easy at dawn's early gleam
When the daylight hour begins to show
When veracity is nothing but a dream
A torch of a morning increasing in slow
.
B. Heine by
Marcin Bondarowicz
Marcin Bondarowicz
.
© 2008 - Marcin Bondarowicz.
This is a new portrait by my dear friend Marcin Bondarowicz.
Visit his great website and see my portrait of him...
.
Visit his great website and see my portrait of him...
.
Looking at Myself
Phenomenal Woman
.
By Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's
(The poem appeared on shadowpoetry.com)
.
By Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's
(The poem appeared on shadowpoetry.com)
The Eden of that Dim Lake
.
.
.
The Lake
By Edgar Allan Poe
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
(Poem's source : pagesperso-orange.fr)
--------------
.
The poem and photo appeared on hubzay.deviantart.com
.
.
The Lake
By Edgar Allan Poe
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
(Poem's source : pagesperso-orange.fr)
--------------
.
The poem and photo appeared on hubzay.deviantart.com
.
Below is an interview I had several months ago
with the Polish artist Marcin Bondarowicz.
I just noticed I didn't publish it here yet!
with the Polish artist Marcin Bondarowicz.
I just noticed I didn't publish it here yet!
“Close to the People,
Far Away From the Government”
Far Away From the Government”
By Ben Heine
Marcin Bondarowicz is a Polish satire drawer and journalist, born in 1976 in Starachowice. He is also a painter, photographer and poet. He works today as a freelance. Marcin Bondarowicz uses traditional and digital techniques. Since a while back, he specialises in newspaper-illustrations. He works for a number of Polish and international magazines and papers. A permanent exhibition of his artworks and projects of posters can be viewed on his website : [link] and his online portfolio : [link]
BH : How did you come to draw professionally?
MB : I can’t give an exact date. It was a long process of observing, finding the right form of expression and a pictorial language of my own.
The more serious you try to be, the more you run the risk of criticism. In that situation you’re a target. Nothing occurs in the abstract.
With his penetrating gaze, the skilful drawer always finds interesting issues and portrays them in the most suited way to provoke a number of feelings. My goal is not to provoke laughter but to raise the level of awareness.
In my work humour is not an end in itself but rather a way of drawing attention to the issue in an enticing way.
An important element in my drawing is that they are autobiographical. I account for someone’s life, someone I know well.
BH : Which papers, magazines and Internet sites do you work for?
MB : I work with the following publications:
Harvard Business Review Polska, Poland Monthly, Manager Magazin, BusinessWeek Polska, Przeglàd Podatkowy, Puls Biznesu, Gazeta Bankowa, Dziennik Zachodni, Integracja, Europejska, Tygodnik NIE, Nowy Robotnik, Najwyýszy CZAS, Regiony, NIE, Gazeta, Samorzàdu i Administracji, Le MONDE Diplomatique, INPRECOR Correspondance de presse internationale.
I’ve taken part in the following projects:
DV DatevSymfonia, Nestle Waters DAR NATURY, Wydawnictwa INFOR S.A., Wydawnictwa MELAS
I’ve worked with the following companies:
APOLLO, BABYONE, Only One, Hard Rock Cafe
I have also worked with the drawer’s leagues J&J [Poland] and Okcomic.net [China]. Several of my products are also to be found in private collections in Poland and abroad.
BH : What is it in the political language that inspires you the most?
MB : I have always been shocked at human misery and social injustice. As soon as I hear the word " problem "; I am always prepared to rush over there. Most important to me are the truth-tellers.
In spite of the geographical distances separating people of the world, I wish to try to bring them closer to each other and give as much of myself as possible.
BH : Should there be any limitation to freedom of speech whatsoever? If yes, then what boundaries is one not allowed to transgress?
MB : Much depends on the drawer’s distinctiveness, character, conduct towards others and the principles they have in life.
But there’s always a red line, a boundary you should never transgress.
The power of the word can stir up and be life-giving. The word owns the power to cut like knives. They are destructive and can even bring death. The drawing, in my view, possesses a similar power. It is a real weapon in the hands of a drawer who knows how to use it.
BH : Is there, according to you, one single form of freedom of speech or are there several? (Depending on diverse cultures and different countries.)
MB : The word freedom is an abstract term. Political, cultural and religious differences divide the world. We don’t have enough time or strength for bringing them together.
The belief that we have the ability to create new rules of the game in this world is a utopia. The only thing we can do is to try to get a better understanding and be more tolerable towards our neighbour. We have to move forward without hurting others.
BH : What do you think of the Holocaust cartoon contest arranged by the Iranian daily Hamshari in response to the caricatures of Mohammed published in various European dailies?
MB : I feel a lot of grief and bitterness with regard to this contest. I think the cartoons speak for themselves.
If they are to be condemned, then let them be condemned. The readers can tell the difference between big and small on their own. I have myself made drawings with the Holocaust as the motive but am immune since I never attack anyone.
BH : Have any of your drawings been censured? If yes, then why and under what circumstances?
MB : Yes, I’ve found myself in such situations. It’s always been about drawings depicting politicians in my country. I cannot reveal the names of these individuals because if I talk about them, they’ll receive attention they don’t deserve.
BH : Are you practicing self-censorship? Which are the most difficult topics to depict?
MB : My only self-censorship is deliberate. If touching certain of my topics hurt, I abandon them, I don’t go any further. I like to experiment but try to avoid repeating the same mistake.
BH : Do you think the drawing is a political power able to change people’s behaviour?
MB : Yes, the satirical drawing possesses great power. One mustn’t forget that it has the power of a weapon. In a lunatic’s hands it can cause a lot of damage. I sometimes ask myself if the drawing-diploma isn’t comparable to a firearms permit.
To answer the second part of the question: can the drawing change people’s behaviour? I believe the drawing can intimidate.
If the drawing is suggestive enough to leave an impression on people’s unconsciousness, then that’s an important first step in a transformation process of people’s attitudes (but they will first have to incorporate it). It’s only a matter of time, but according to me man is not perfect, she always goes for the least strenuous.
BH : Do you think that the satirical drawer is an artist or rather a journalist, or even both?
MB : That question means a lot to me as I am at heart a TV-journalist Right now I’m making satirical drawings in cooperation with the editorial office of my paper.
If you’re practicing this profession, the drawing profession, you have to be in accordance with your own conscience and choose to say the truth and not express the political beliefs of the editors or art directors.
You always have to bear in mind the assignment you’ve accepted. Close to the people, far away from the government. The drawing profession has a lot in common with journalism.
But in order to have fun you have to translate the issues you deal with into illustrations and put the emotions of the onlookers in motion. You have to be an artist in order to achieve this. It is this that creates the bond to the shared fantasy of the readers.
BH : According to you, is the role of the drawer to make people laugh or to think?
MB : Thinking means most, because reason is eternal. Laughter is temporarily.
BH : Which situation or person do you think is hardest to draw?
MB : I can never draw a magical formula to make the world a better place because I am myself a part of it.
-------------------------
--> This interview was translated from Swedish to English by Kristoffer Larsson
--> Original Interview and portrait by Ben Heine
--> Marcin Bondarowicz's art can also be seen on the following websites:
BRAZILCARTOON GALLERY: [link]
BONDAROWICZ 2006 Benjamin HEINE CARTOONS: [link]
CARTOONIA MARCIN BONDAROWICZ PROFIL: [link]
:::HOP CARTOON::: CARTOONS by MARCIN BONDAROWICZ: [link]
AGENCJA RYSUNKOWA J&J – MARCIN BONDAROWICZ: [link]
BLOG SATIRA – MARCIN BONDAROWICZ: [link]
PersianCartoon GALLERY Marcin Bondarowicz: [link]
AZERBAIJAN CARTOONISTS UNION: [link]
ARTIJA - LINIJE I BOJE - CARTOON GALLERY: [link]
.
Dreamy Invader
By Dominika Timoszuk
You and You
always in my dreams
Real, so real
only when I sleep
Close, too close
makes me feel afraid
That my whisper
will reveal
will betray
that You were here
--------------------
The 2 persons represented are my dear friends
Dominika Timoszuk and Leszek Boltruczuk.
Dominika graduated in law and got a master degree
in criminology. However, she is rather interested in arts and
literature. She also loves music and sings in her rockband
and sometimes writes about life observations.
Visit Dominika's great blog, "Inner Light"
All the poems posted here are by Dominika Timoszuk.
--------------------
Under my skin
By Dominika Timoszuk
Nothing new under my skin:
Blood perversely rushes through veins
Every move strains my muscles
Every heartbeat closes Death.
----------------
Nirvana of Mine
By Dominika Timoszuk
A thoughtless moment-
joyful nonexistance
With no past behind me-
laugh at ego persistence.
----------------
I'm every woman
By Dominika Timoszuk
I'm every woman
Craving for attention
Sweet lies
not to mention
A walking contradiction
Within just one month
Anything can happen
That is woman's life.
----------------
Against Disabilism
By Dominika Timoszuk
Come in handy Handicapped
Show us how to treasure
What we take for granted
Without having a measure
For we can walk
and march for war
For we can speak
but tell all lies
Handicapped we are
Though having all we need
With no compasion- mentally ill
Looking so fine- rotten underneath
----------------
Sweet Dreaming
By Dominika Timoszuk
Again-the dreaming-
And that sweet, sweet feeling
when the dream slips woken mind.
And moment of truth
You're gone, no more us-two
And again I'm all alone.
A banal cliché
Fatal anyway
I'm killing the dream
Stuck in reality.
----------------
Provoking Myself
By Dominika Timoszuk
I dreamt of hugging that made me shiver
I dreamt of sucking that made me blush
I dreamt of licking that made me give her
the whole small prudish world of mine
And then I woke up and right beside me
There was she lying stark naked, so pleased
And realised it wasn't just dreaming
And here I go- a totally new Me.
----------------
Wind in my Hair
By Dominika Timoszuk
Wind in my hair
Euphemism today
Can't blame the wind
It's blowing like hell
Drops from the sky
Euphemism once more
Can't blame the rain
It wets me to the core.
----------------
Long ago
By Dominika Timoszuk
When the past comes back
And gets sitted right beside You
Then you realise
That it is all behind You
And the words he says don't hurt
Though they still make melody
Though the looks can't deceive
No they can't, indeed!
And though moment gets me stuck
In- between realities
There's no place for regrets
Only pleasure memories
----------------
The Verses from the Bus
By Dominika Timoszuk
The fragility of Fate!
Though Fate seems so grave
That's just an illusion
The mix, the fusion
Of impossibility
Of ridiculous
The mingle of you and me
Sweet, sour, loving, mean
Exaggeration, duration
Of our small nation
----------------
While drunk...
By Dominika Timoszuk
Drunk in my mind
Physically sober
That is my way
to survive October
Soon to come winter
Freezes my cheer
Leaves cover my bed
Need You to warm me Dear
I deeply hope
Like nature blooms
That in the spring
I'll also do
----------------
The Handicapped
By Dominika Timoszuk
Come in handy Handicapped
Show us how to treasure
What we take for granted
Without having a measure
For we can walk
and march for war
For we can speak
but tell all lies
Handicapped we are
Though having all we need
With no compasion- mentally ill
Looking so fine- rotten underneath
----------------
Sad Conclusion
By Dominika Timoszuk
Don't worry, be happy
Friday the Thirteenth
Nothing bad can happen
Except for this:
You spill the milk all over
You crush Your shiny Rover
You really deadly miss her
You stain your favourite T-shirt
Don't worry, be happy
Saturday- Fourteenth
Nothing bad will happen
Except for this:
You...
On and on all over
Like on the carousel
Life chases destiny
Through triviality...
----------------
The Greed
By Dominika Timoszuk
Oh, God's little malice
Forbiding the greed
When it's all people's nature
The craving for life
To grab it and taste it
With their mouths full
They mumble sinning
always yearn for more
Insatiable desire
Never to be fullfilled
But that urge lasts forever
But that is all in vain.
.
Dreamy Invader
By Dominika Timoszuk
You and You
always in my dreams
Real, so real
only when I sleep
Close, too close
makes me feel afraid
That my whisper
will reveal
will betray
that You were here
--------------------
The 2 persons represented are my dear friends
Dominika Timoszuk and Leszek Boltruczuk.
Dominika graduated in law and got a master degree
in criminology. However, she is rather interested in arts and
literature. She also loves music and sings in her rockband
and sometimes writes about life observations.
Visit Dominika's great blog, "Inner Light"
All the poems posted here are by Dominika Timoszuk.
--------------------
Under my skin
By Dominika Timoszuk
Nothing new under my skin:
Blood perversely rushes through veins
Every move strains my muscles
Every heartbeat closes Death.
----------------
Nirvana of Mine
By Dominika Timoszuk
A thoughtless moment-
joyful nonexistance
With no past behind me-
laugh at ego persistence.
----------------
I'm every woman
By Dominika Timoszuk
I'm every woman
Craving for attention
Sweet lies
not to mention
A walking contradiction
Within just one month
Anything can happen
That is woman's life.
----------------
Against Disabilism
By Dominika Timoszuk
Come in handy Handicapped
Show us how to treasure
What we take for granted
Without having a measure
For we can walk
and march for war
For we can speak
but tell all lies
Handicapped we are
Though having all we need
With no compasion- mentally ill
Looking so fine- rotten underneath
----------------
Sweet Dreaming
By Dominika Timoszuk
Again-the dreaming-
And that sweet, sweet feeling
when the dream slips woken mind.
And moment of truth
You're gone, no more us-two
And again I'm all alone.
A banal cliché
Fatal anyway
I'm killing the dream
Stuck in reality.
----------------
Provoking Myself
By Dominika Timoszuk
I dreamt of hugging that made me shiver
I dreamt of sucking that made me blush
I dreamt of licking that made me give her
the whole small prudish world of mine
And then I woke up and right beside me
There was she lying stark naked, so pleased
And realised it wasn't just dreaming
And here I go- a totally new Me.
----------------
Wind in my Hair
By Dominika Timoszuk
Wind in my hair
Euphemism today
Can't blame the wind
It's blowing like hell
Drops from the sky
Euphemism once more
Can't blame the rain
It wets me to the core.
----------------
Long ago
By Dominika Timoszuk
When the past comes back
And gets sitted right beside You
Then you realise
That it is all behind You
And the words he says don't hurt
Though they still make melody
Though the looks can't deceive
No they can't, indeed!
And though moment gets me stuck
In- between realities
There's no place for regrets
Only pleasure memories
----------------
The Verses from the Bus
By Dominika Timoszuk
The fragility of Fate!
Though Fate seems so grave
That's just an illusion
The mix, the fusion
Of impossibility
Of ridiculous
The mingle of you and me
Sweet, sour, loving, mean
Exaggeration, duration
Of our small nation
----------------
While drunk...
By Dominika Timoszuk
Drunk in my mind
Physically sober
That is my way
to survive October
Soon to come winter
Freezes my cheer
Leaves cover my bed
Need You to warm me Dear
I deeply hope
Like nature blooms
That in the spring
I'll also do
----------------
The Handicapped
By Dominika Timoszuk
Come in handy Handicapped
Show us how to treasure
What we take for granted
Without having a measure
For we can walk
and march for war
For we can speak
but tell all lies
Handicapped we are
Though having all we need
With no compasion- mentally ill
Looking so fine- rotten underneath
----------------
Sad Conclusion
By Dominika Timoszuk
Don't worry, be happy
Friday the Thirteenth
Nothing bad can happen
Except for this:
You spill the milk all over
You crush Your shiny Rover
You really deadly miss her
You stain your favourite T-shirt
Don't worry, be happy
Saturday- Fourteenth
Nothing bad will happen
Except for this:
You...
On and on all over
Like on the carousel
Life chases destiny
Through triviality...
----------------
The Greed
By Dominika Timoszuk
Oh, God's little malice
Forbiding the greed
When it's all people's nature
The craving for life
To grab it and taste it
With their mouths full
They mumble sinning
always yearn for more
Insatiable desire
Never to be fullfilled
But that urge lasts forever
But that is all in vain.
.
Meeting Marcin Bondarowicz
.
While abroad, I had the chance to meet in Krakow (Poland) the fantastic Polish artist Marcin Bondarowicz (Also see a previous interview with him). We virtually met about one and a half year ago and evolved together in the political cartoon spheres. And finally the meeting happened in the reality as well... I must say that his timeless art is a permanent inspiration to me. He is also such a great person. I'll try to post more pictures of this meeting in the coming days/weeks...
.
THE DRUNKEN BOAT
By Arthur Rimbaud
As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
Into the ferocious tide-rips
Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,
I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
Never endured more triumphant clamourings
The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
Which men call eternal rollers of victims,
For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!
Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
The green water penetrated my pinewood hull
And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,
Carring away both rudder and anchor.
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;
Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!
I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!
I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!
I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!
I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles
Under the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds!
I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
And distances cataracting down into abysses!
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
- Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
And I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,
And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!
But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;
Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,
Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,
Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,
When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;
I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distance
The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms
Eternal spinner of blue immobilities
I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets!
I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:
- Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? -
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.
By Arthur Rimbaud
As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
Into the ferocious tide-rips
Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,
I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
Never endured more triumphant clamourings
The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
Which men call eternal rollers of victims,
For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!
Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
The green water penetrated my pinewood hull
And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,
Carring away both rudder and anchor.
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;
Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!
I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!
I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!
I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!
I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles
Under the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds!
I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
And distances cataracting down into abysses!
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
- Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
And I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,
And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!
But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;
Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,
Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,
Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,
When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;
I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distance
The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms
Eternal spinner of blue immobilities
I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets!
I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:
- Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? -
But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.
- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems -
(The poem appeared on mag4.net)
(The poem appeared on mag4.net)
.
THE YOUNG FOOLS
By Paul Verlaine
High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.
By Paul Verlaine
High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.
(The poem appeared on poemhunter.com)
.
In the south of Poland, I also discovered the Tatra mountains (see picture below), which constitute a mountain range which forms a natural border between Slovakia and Poland. They occupy an area of 750km², the major part of which lies in Slovakia. The highest Tatra peak, at 2655m, is Gerlachovský štít, located in Slovakia. Rysy, at 2499m, is the highest Polish peak.
The Tatra Mountains are the highest mountain range in the Carpathian Mountains. Although considerably smaller than the Alps, they are classified as having an alpine landscape. Their high mountain character, combined with great accessibility, makes them popular with visitors and scientists.
The area is a well-known winter sports area, with resorts such as Poprad and the town (Mesto) Vysoké Tatry in Slovakia (in English literally (Town of the) High Tatras; created in 1999 and including the former separate resorts Štrbské Pleso, Starý Smokovec, and Tatranská Lomnica), and Zakopane, the "Winter Capital" of Poland.
The Tatra Mountains (especially the High Tatras) are known to have undergone four glaciations. The most extensive transformations were caused by a glacier 100-230 m thick; the most apparent features of this process are the numerous cirques and mountain lakes. The mountains were shaped by glacial erosion, which formed many alpine cliffs, some up to 1,000 m high.
The Mountains lie in the temperate zone of Central Europe. They are an important barrier to the movements of air masses. Their mountainous topography causes the most diverse climate in that region. The effects of global warming in the Tatra Mountains started to be visible around the 1980s.
Temperatures range from -40 °C in the winter to 33 °C in warmer months. Temperatures also vary depending on altitude and sun exposure of a given slope. Temperatures below 0 °C last for 192 days on the summits. Highest precipitation figures are recorded on northern slopes. In June and July monthly precipitation reaches around 250 mm. Precipitation occurs for 215 to 228 days a year. Thunderstorms occur 36 days a year on average.
The Mountains have a diverse variety of plants. They are home to more than 1,000 vascular plants, about 450 mosses, 200 hepatics, 700 lichens, 900 fungi, and 70 slime moulds. There are five climatic-vegetation belts in Tatras:
The Tatra Mountains are home to a lot of species of animals: 54 tardigrades, 22 turbellarians, 100 rotifers, 22 copepods, 162 spiders, 81 molluscs, 43 mammals, 200 birds, 7 amphibians and 2 reptiles. The most notable mammals are the Tatra chamois, marmot, snow vole, brown bear, wolf, Eurasian lynx, red deer, roe deer, and wild boar. Notable fish include the brook trout and alpine bullhead.
The Tatra Mountains were used in the 18th and 19th centuries for sheep grazing and mining and a lot of trees were cut down to make way for human exploitation. Although these activities were stopped, the impact is still clearly visible. Moreover, there are new problems. Pollution from the industrialized regions of Kraków, Ostrava and Orava and uncontrolled tourism are damaging the mountains.
The Slovak Tatra National Park (Tatranský národný park; TANAP) was founded in 1949, and the contiguous Polish Tatra National Park (Tatrzański Park Narodowy) was founded in 1954. Both areas were added to the UNESCO Biosphere Reserve list in 1993.
On 19 November 2004, large parts of the forests in the southern part of the High Tatras were damaged by a strong wind storm. 3 million cubic metre of trees were uprooted, two people died and several villages were totally cut off. Further damage was done by a subsequent forest fire, and it will take many years until the local ecology is fully recovered.
(Source : Wikipedia)
.
CORRESPONDENCES
By Charles Baudelaire
Nature is a temple in which living pillars
Sometimes give voice to confused words;
Man passes there through forests of symbols
Which look at him with understanding eyes.
Like prolonged echoes mingling in the distance
In a deep and tenebrous unity,
Vast as the dark of night and as the light of day,
Perfumes, sounds, and colors correspond.
There are perfumes as cool as the flesh of children,
Sweet as oboes, green as meadows
— And others are corrupt, and rich, triumphant,
With power to expand into infinity,
Like amber and incense, musk, benzoin,
That sing the ecstasy of the soul and senses.
- As translated by William Aggeler -
(The poem appeared on fleursdumal.org)
By Charles Baudelaire
Nature is a temple in which living pillars
Sometimes give voice to confused words;
Man passes there through forests of symbols
Which look at him with understanding eyes.
Like prolonged echoes mingling in the distance
In a deep and tenebrous unity,
Vast as the dark of night and as the light of day,
Perfumes, sounds, and colors correspond.
There are perfumes as cool as the flesh of children,
Sweet as oboes, green as meadows
— And others are corrupt, and rich, triumphant,
With power to expand into infinity,
Like amber and incense, musk, benzoin,
That sing the ecstasy of the soul and senses.
- As translated by William Aggeler -
(The poem appeared on fleursdumal.org)
.
Mart
.
She Walks In Beauty
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
.
.
.
.
O Mistress Mine
by William Shakespeare
.
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
.
.
Source of the poems : Love Poetry
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