Interwar Bucharest is a strange land of colours, scents, noises and rhythms, of people and signboards.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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When one has the feeling that one is day after day in interwar Bucharest and makes efforts to adjust to these circumstances, on returning "home", one cannot help but feel a bit lonely and alienated.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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In interwar Bucharest, people experienced both the ideal and the grotesque stupidity; they saw both extreme refinement and unthinking crudity; among them were generous givers and reprobates, the balanced and the fanatical, lucid thinkers and fantasists, heroes and villains, good and evil.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
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Interwar Bucharest is the place where everything happened.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
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Things were at their best for the people of Bucharest from 1925, when the effects and memories of the First World War had faded, till around 1935, despite the intervening crisis, which they bore reasonably well.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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The best interwar journalists are those aware of the surface differences and deeper similarities between a book and a newspaper.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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When you lay the cultural map of old Bucharest over that of the present day, starting with the kiosks selling cultural magazines and ending with, for example, theatres and cinemas, you find that, contrary to expectations, it is in today's map that the gaps appear.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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In the rivalry between books and newspapers, the newspaper was the indisputable winner between the wars.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
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In 1920, the memory of war was stronger than the memory of literature.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
Submitted by Andreea Banciu
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Between the wars, censorship took the shape of the vessel in which is was put, changing according to who was in power. But the press defended its cause through the press itself, and when one paper fell silent or published lies, another would speak up and publish the truth.
Ioana Parvulescu in Return to the Interwar Bucharest (2003)
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Noises
(ian hunter/tommy morrongiello)
Noises are taking away my freedom.
Noises seem to rob me of myself.
Noises are the sound of mediocrity.
Noises ... to take that ... from out of myself.
Noises are taking away my casualness.
Noises are making me scared.
Big noises are made by big shots.
Some noises should never be heard.
Noises,
Noises,
Noises,
Noises,
Give me noises!
Noises are looking over my shoulder.
Noises are the sound of the herd.
Noises make the planet colder.
Noises are noises that should never be heard.
Noises,
Noises,
Noises,
Noises will destroy me.
Noises ...
Why not join some junky jewels, who wreck the clines on canvas fools
Who take the vapours from the mind. neo nothing. shallow kind.
A ritzy nazi owns the game, he plays at God but that was fame
And music masturbates his mind, and stones get rolled up in the slime
A new york butch becomes a blond, while changing gears while from beyond
Agree to consecrate the music makers have gotta take
Owls with trowels as big as spades, dig down among those sequined graves.
Work out their ages, turn the pages, caught in cages, locked in ages
Media momenta, who can prevent her.
Noises, noises, noises, noises
Did you find a certain street, theyre looking for thoughtless thoughts to preach
The street, the street, theyre not your drain, while waiting in the pouring rain
For your old lady out of work, brought the baby, bet your shirt
Waiting for godot did it, then whats happening the other end - rewards
And gallant knights with blunted swords
Locked away in isolation, trying to figure out why they wanna die
And thats the state of the nation.
Noises,
Noises,
Noises,
Noises, oh, oh, oh.
I love noises!
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paintings
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents, and the time
we thought is lost
forever in time
Second Version
--
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
your painting, it brings
brings me back all the years
still i can sit in that chair of
that long lost cafe and
have the privilege of a
tete a tete with friends,
imagined and real
of things we all cherish
the love of art and all the things
that it brings - scenes,
scents and geniuses
overheated talents
that drove them lunatics,
madmen manoevring
with the coldness
of the arctics
volcanoes that explode
splotches, dashes
splashes, onto the
canvas of their dreams
colours, they bring back
scenes and scents
paintings, they bring back
all the years nature plods on
against adversities to help
the artist pour out its best onto canvas
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Papa
Papa, this is your son writing to you from a very strange land;
There is air on this land but with the floating minds that muses,
And of the power of love and the power of the muse that it brings.
I have been able to live here for many years and,
I have taken your words and i am now myself over here.
This is a very strange land with no air,
But your words had taken me in that far;
For up and close and personal is the muse that the land shares.
I am living on this strange land with my lover,
But my heart will grow on to fulfil my dreams;
Papa, it is all coming back to you now!
For your words are my weapons over here to muse up with others.
The immortality of the mortals seems far from this dream,
And i will always do my best to get you the news from here always;
But if the walls could talk, they could have told you much already.
I will give up on this dream and,
Living in this strange land will be my weapon ahead;
For, i left home to be able to satisfy you people as well.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There are certain people within the new government who have a slightly disturbing tendency toward authoritarianism, but there are so many checks and balances that in that way their noises are just noises.
quote by Jonathan Shapiro
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Colours Of Love
The colours of love,
The colours of unity,
The colours of peace,
The colours of humility,
the colours of care,
The colours of passion,
The colours of romance,
The colours of the mind,
The colours of your works,
The colours of mankind;
But, let true love come out from your heart!
For, in peace and unity we have to live on this earth together:
Than, the bullets of war that divides us always! ! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Who Gave It To You?
I was not using it and,
You were not using it either!
But, who gave it to you?
Hew, dew, few, brew, drew, threw;
But this story started long ago!
And your lips are now red,
So, who gave it to you?
Slew, sew, stew, pew, spew, mew;
Strange food,
Strange meat,
Strange people,
Strange land,
Strange culture,
Strange love,
Crew, grew, new, strew, screw;
But, with your red lips! !
So, who gave it to you?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am elected by the people of Bucharest, not the dogs.
quote by Traian Basescu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Strange Things Happen
She believes in god
And karma too
Paranormal powers
You know some people do
Got scorpio risin
Uh huh
Tell you whats in your stars
She was down in rio
Turn the heads of state
Got em into makin
This planet a better place
On copacabana
Uh huh
Oh yeah she radiate better go meditate
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen
Strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Met a pshycic reader
With a crystal ball
Had a vision
Said we could have it all
I caught her gazin
Uh huh
At our destiny cosmically
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange things happen
Oh ohhh ohhhh
Oh oh strange things happen
Everytime I touch my baby
Strange things happen to me
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange strange
Strange strange strange strange strange
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Afterlife
Flickering lights
sleepless nights
thoughts of another life
come into your mind
Strange noises
strange voices
is that them...
The afterlife
poem by Dave Alan Walker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Second Class wait here
At suburban railway stations--you may see them as you pass--
there are signboards on the platform saying 'Wait here second class,'
And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running-gear
Seem to be forever saying 'Second class wait here--
Wait here second class
Second class wait here.'
Seem to be forever saying, 'Second class wait here.'
Yes, the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,
And the second class are waiting--they've been waiting ever since,
There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear,
Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering 'Second class wait here.'
I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark and damp,
When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the lonely lamp,
Glistened on the brick-faced cutting 'Sellum's Soap' and 'Blower's Beer,'
Glistened on enamelled signboards with their 'Second class wait here.'
And the others seemed like burglars, slouched and muffled to the throats,
Standing round apart and silent in their shoddy overcoats;
And the wind among the poplars, and the wires that thread the air,
Seemed to be forever snarling, snarling 'Second class wait there.'
Out beyond a further suburb, 'neath a chimney-stack alone
Lay the works of Grinder Brothers, with a platform of their own;
And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a day,
Slaved beneath a phantom signboard, telling all my hopes to stay.
Ah! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine.
God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;
And the smell of railway stations, and the roar of running gear,
And the scornful-seeming signboards, saying 'Second class wait here.'
There's a train, with Death for driver, that is ever going past;
There will be no class compartments when it's 'all aboard' at last
For the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear;
And there won't be any signboards, saying 'Second class wait here'
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rhythms Of Life
Everything has a rhythm
that puts music in the air.
The morning with its bird calls
awakening everywhere.
The yawns of the waking
as they greet a new day.
The afternoon rhythm
is smiling faces to be seen,
especially while the sun
is high up in the sky
mingled with laughter
from children as they play.
The evening rhythm
is of the close of day
as the voices of the night
begin to appear.
A gentle breeze cools the air
to end another day of rhythms
before they all begin again.
The seasons have their rhythms too;
the spring with its new life
from the earth begins to grow.
The summer with its warmth
and bright colours, begin to show.
The autumn as the year
begins to die away.
The falling of the leaves nurture the soil.
Then the winter’s rhythm comes in play
with the cold winds that blow
and the bringing of the snow.
It is the rhythm of the closing of the year
and so the rhythms of life
go on everyday.
19 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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