Space4dAn2blog

Once upon a time

there was a tall boy on the southern side of the Alps who heard an American song he could not get enough of: November rain by Guns’n’Roses.

Nowadays November rain is no fun to him while riding his bike through a city in the flat lands north of the Alps. But he found November fog to be quite charming. Dark Romantic in more than one way.

[For bigger versions of these images please visit my gallery.]

This is no entry on Hemingway’s novel with the same title. A book you could read if you have time at hand and want to read yourself into a white hunter’s perspective on the African Savannah. I liked it a lot, some twenty years ago.

But this is a text-photography combination on an early September morning in central Europe.

It is all about a flower on a balcony shortly before sunrise.

I woke up to the most beautiful light
and for some reason I was not tired enough
to just enjoy it
had to grab the camera change the lens
and frame it
for you to enjoy it
too

So here I am
naked inside and outside
slightly trembling
and trying to focus

while rags of past masques
are undulating in the morning
breeze above my head
shreds among shreds
of dreams

communicating with the rising
sun
slowly changing
the face of this part of our
earth
until she comes
in full force
red
and redder than red
bringing her love
light and
heat
that
energy
we need

true at first light
you bloom into my night
mare of mellow colors
up for the bright that now follows
swiftly

Daniel Graziadei 03 September 2019

Walking streets I read
not approaching that cemetery yet
that is now and was yesterday and will be
in 2666 even if the human world will not

Walking by faces known
Walking by signs and slogans that show
that all the fights between different positions
and visions is happening right now right here
and with the fervor of Buenos Aires

Daniel Graziadei 220219 Buenos Aires

For more pictures: https://artwork.danielgraziadei.de/#collection/143

I observed these ornamental branches
bought from one of those shops
that sell rapidly decaying
beauty reaped from
nature

but this time it was
different
no
petals
were falling
no heads slowly
curving towards the top
of an ornamental table towards
the bottom of an ornamental vase or even
towards the surface of the floor we scuttle upon

this time
the vase sported branches
from dragon’s claw willows
and those dragons’s claws
don’t faint
when they are cut from their roots
instead they sprout
into hope

light green like foresight
fresh green like spring
these leaves are sprouting
against the greyish white
of those snow-colored walls

Daniel Graziadei 2018

on another exasperating busride from Italy to Germany

I dream of a world

where bus drivers

do not play border

control and police

their velocity instead

of people desperate

to leave a mess

or just happy

to travel the continent

they reached

I dream of that

while the fences rise

and the far right

has entered the center

against the votes

of the population

I dream of change

against the direction

the tabloids proclaim

and propagate against

reason and hope

I deam of waking

up and finding my

dream to be life

(all pictures (c) Daniel Graziadei, apart from this last one: (c) Martin Geier)

An acclaimed poet twittered

a memo not to himself

but to poets

and that

memo

had a

number

it was #14

and fourteen read

“Difficult” does not necessarily mean “Deep”.

That tweet somehow spoke to me

even though I had

never asked

for it

That’s

why I’ve

got to answer it

with a sort of question

Yes, professor

I have to agree with your fourteen

‘cause I myself found it a little difficult

to take your order and your lore

did not feel deep

at first sight

But even though I cannot capitalize

difficult

deep

inside

I do agree

that difficult

is no necessity

for the whisper or rumble

to cross all protective plating

around our adaptations to insanity

and resonate where

simple sincerity

glows

on

Wondering about deep in there out there and somewhat somewhere

between blown up emotions quartered thoughts and pressing silence

I find my guts long enough to foretell a connection

and the birds circling above press for a question

That is why I have to ask you about opacity

and where denseness lies

in your charting

of the deep

Daniel Graziadei 2017

“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.” (T. S. Eliot „The Hollow Men“ 1925)

Times are dire she said

Times always now especially here are totally dire her opposite exclaimed

Times what are times in the eye of destruction the fraction opposed

Time runs out for us but it does not run out for it

self laughed an old man every one should have listened to

before the time of Period!

Indeed that fullstop sounded hysterically historical

and all press smiled in recognition

they had it in HD and everything

They repeated and repeated

they repeated fumed and giggled

from hesitant to hypocritical to pressed

unsure if they could ever share

a measurement as bending and expanding as time

will tell if they could ever ever share

anything again

damn

Not now not right

now because right now every one has to admit

across the politrickal split

that not even one denomination

not one single designation

not even a name

shares the same ring

between bling-bling

and clang

between

truth and

disinformation

Even a hug has a hard time and a foul breath

when the hearts turn fuming cores of deadly planets

entrenched against anything but the self-fulfilling wetness

of that sad old dream of total

domination and salvation upheaval sanctification

benediction conviction and heroic death

We are not supposed to be alarmed

This is how the new world ends

not with a good bang

but with a lying whimper

And one day

those apes with their ties

those apes in their cocktail dresses

who call themselves humans

and think themselves better

than animals and plants and stones and earth and even water

something vague and possibly even nonexistent

something they dream of and call

humanity

they forgot that they had just jumped

from the tree the other night

and covered the earth with their footprints at dawn

and moved on and on and on through midday

because the grass

on the other side of the river

on the other side of the mountains

on the other side of the desert

just seemed a little bit greener and wider

than where they stood

But wherever some of them settled

down all turned night

and they instantly forgot

about all that movement

and all the hardship

and pissed into all corners and margins

raised some flags and some borders

and in the process started to feel

proud of themselves

better than others

their brothers

and sisters

in the eternal

movement

of migration