#poetryx

[mystics-and-metaxy]

— George Oppen

[mystics-and-metaxy]

…or am I what I/ can’t believe in?

Marianne Moore, In Distrust of Merits

[mystics-and-metaxy]

— Louis Zukofsy, “A”

[mystics-and-metaxy]

— TS Eliot, Ash-Wednesday  

[mystics-and-metaxy]

A nothing we were, are now, and ever shall be, blooming:  the Nothing-, the No One’s-Rose.

— Paul Celan, Psalm [trans. J Feistiner]

[mystics-and-metaxy]

Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.

T.S. Eliot, East Coker

[mystics-and-metaxy]

— Poetry as event Event = truth (“unhiddenness,” worked, fought for unhiddenness) Poetry as risk    Creation = / power-activity / Gewalt-tätigkeit (Heidegger) Truth ≠ accuracy (-i-: consistency)

— Paul Celan, notes from Microliths [trans. Pierre Jorris.]

[mystics-and-metaxy]

True poetry is antibiographical. The poet’s homeland is his poem and changes from one poem to the next. The distances are the old, eternal ones: infinite like the cosmos, in which each poem attempts to assert itself as a — minuscule — star. Infinite also like the distance between one’s I and one’s You:..

From above: invisible and uncertain. From below: from the abyss of hope for the distant, the future-distant kin.

— Paul Celan, notes from Microliths [trans. Pierre Jorris.]