Apr 8
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Saturday, 3/14 — John 1:1-9
En el principio era el Verbo, y el Verbo era con Dios, y el Verbo era Dios. - v. 1
One of my favorite translations of this passage is in Spanish. Actually, most Spanish translations translate the word logos the same way: logos, in these translations, is not Word, but Verb. “In the beginning was the Verb, and the Verb was with God, and the Verb was God.” Every time I think of this way of interpreting logos, I think that God is not static. God is action, ever-moving, ever-becoming. We follow the Living God, and all living beings have one thing in common: they move. In their very name, God is calling us to action. May we hear the call. - Claudia Aguilar Rubalcava
My wife was on the radio!
Ian McMillan talks poetry with Lindsey Hilsum, Richard Skinner, Kym Deyn and Cara Thompson
She talks about folklore and poetry and how they intersect in her new collection, Folkish
Surprise! I simply couldn’t resist looking for prompt lists. I’ve decided to participate in @weadtly‘s Topictober! It’s got prompts for every other day, so it’ll be more relaxing on my end, and each prompt has a color attached to it, and I got a bunch of fancy new paint markers recently, so it’ll be fun to try those out!
The prompt for the first two days was WERE, with the color golden!
Peter Blegvad: I remember it as if it were yesterday... the 14th of February-- Valentine’s Day...
Peter Blegvad: That WAS yesterday.
Peter Blegvad: How time flies when your time has come! When you’re having so much FUN!
Peter Blegvad: Things are pretty grim for the rest of us, how come you--?
Peter Blegvad: I thought you’d never ask...
Where did Jae flash his abs? Asking for a friend 👀
during the regular and wakey wakey performance at smtown in tokyo 🤩
Listening to the podcast of the BBC radio programme The Verb with Ian McMillan, this poem took my breath away:
SOMEDAY I’LL LOVE OCEAN VUONG By Ocean Vuong
Ocean, don’t be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. Don’t worry. Your father is only your father until one of you forgets. Like how the spine won’t remember its wings no matter how many times our knees kiss the pavement. Ocean, are you listening? The most beautiful part of your body is wherever your mother’s shadow falls. Here’s the house with childhood whittled down to a single red tripwire. Don’t worry. Just call it horizon & you’ll never reach it. Here’s today. Jump. I promise it’s not a lifeboat. Here’s the man whose arms are wide enough to gather your leaving. & here the moment, just after the lights go out, when you can still see the faint torch between his legs. How you use it again & again to find your own hands. You asked for a second chance & are given a mouth to empty into. Don’t be afraid, the gunfire is only the sound of people trying to live a little longer. Ocean. Ocean, get up. The most beautiful part of your body is where it’s headed. & remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world. Here’s the room with everyone in it. Your dead friends passing through you like wind through a wind chime. Here’s a desk with the gimp leg & a brick to make it last. Yes, here’s a room so warm & blood-close, I swear, you will wake— & mistake these walls for skin.
It can be found at the New Yorker
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/05/04/someday-ill-love-ocean-vuong
Hovering
I have to say that my work has moved into concepts or ideas (maybe it’s been there all along) and out of the world of representation. It hovers there, but most of my impulses/reactions end up in layers based on histories. I am fighting against it, but nothing else comes, so I’m sitting with that scroll that is my life. What choice do we have?
