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Hervé Guibert

When I suddenly see myself in the depths of the mirror, I take fright. I can scarcely believe that I have limits, that I am outlined and defined. I feel myself to be dispersed in the atmosphere, thinking inside other creatures, living inside things beyond myself. When I suddenly see myself in the mirror, I am not startled because I find myself ugly or beautiful. I discover, in fact, that I possess another quality. When I haven’t looked at myself for some time, I almost forget that I am human, I tend to forget my past, and I find myself with the same deliverance from purpose and conscience as something that is barely alive. I am also surprised to find as I gaze into the pale mirror with open eyes that there is so much in me beyond what is known, so much that remains ever silent.

Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

lolaveda

MISBHV, 2017

riikk-a

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There is a girl inside. She is randy as a wolf. She will not walk away and leave these bones to an old woman. She is a green tree in a forest of kindling. She is a greeen girl in a used poet. She has waited patient as a nun for the second coming, when she can break through gray hairs into blossom and her lovers will harvest honey and thyme and the woods will be wild with the damn wonder of it.

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How many ghosts must I always carry with me? / How much more must I expand to accommodate?

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I’m not going to say anything about bridges. or horses. or sky ripped apart by birds. there are no fires. in this poem. no lips trailing smoke. no rearview mirror eyes. I’m not going to compare her eyelashes to flags waved from departing ships. or her eyes themselves to rain through dusty winter windowpanes. her lips to wine stains. her fingers to Japanese paper napkins. that’s not my image anyway. you won’t find any scarecrows between these rows of words. no train whistles in the vowel sounds. no silent movies reflected in her sunglasses I’m not going to say that her syllables are arpeggios of surrender. or anything like that. in fact. my poem girl’s breath is nothing like the sweet of night’s earth. her ribcage isn’t rattled by the angry bird I call her heart.

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You know who’s gonna give you everything? Yourself.

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There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one's idea for thirty-five years; there's something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas.

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