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I had a night mare nothing could be putbacktogether
Sebastian Blanck, Shower, 2006 on Paddle8
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Malcolm Liepke (American, b.1953)
Repose
Leave it where it lies
sometimes that night is all there is
and those secret smiles, soft hungry eyes
which lifted me up against
the garden gate
with such a perfect urgency
Turn, and consummate
an intimate disaster;
listing on a black sea
and I come to, hyper-real
strange flesh flung into
the stark truth that
sometimes there is no tenderness
in the silence of a different room
just the inexplicable
withdrawal of a hand
(even my stars say not to be a sucker)
Blinding blue
stunned and gentle trees
step down
into grateful crush of leaves
heart catches on a ray of sun
sharp and high; pierced
the canopies of the oaks,
now pins me to earth
an exhilarated angel.
This is what it’s like to find
your feet again
to find tenderness enough
in your own voice
against the silence.
The statue is alone
hand behind her head, elbow pointing like a wing
breast exposed, dappled,
a black moko
drawn on pale lips and chin.
To feel, now.
To touch my face and find blood,
tarnished, resilient -
will I slowly reassemble?
Find the artery,
and tap it like a maple?
If I stop to think
the void gasps wide
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.
Rainer Maria Rilke
The moment you came to, I swore I would change Though neither one of us will leave unscathed At least we'll both go on living...
Strange Encounter, Father John Misty
My mother in Mexico, 1991
Elm - Sylvia Plath
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root; It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, the big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches?––
Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.
Rafael de Penagos
Ilustración para La Esfera.1918
VIA
Absent Minded, 2012-13 by Joe Webb
“Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.”
Bertha Lum (USA 1869-1954) Wind Sprite (1920)
You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must”, then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty. Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sound - wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attention to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of , this turning within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it. So, dear Sir, I can’t give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to, the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.
Rainer Maria Rilke
We are never completely in accord with ourselves for we cannot follow one of our two natures (individual and social) without causing the other to suffer. Our joys can never be pure; there is always some pain mixed with them…It is this disagreement…that produces both our grandeur and our misery.
Emile Durkheim, The Dualism of Human Nature