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PostPosted: 09 Nov 2014, 13:46 
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More from Stenbock..

CRADLE SONG
Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Why must thou wake again?
Thou are but born into a world of woe,
Of agony, unending, deep,
Of long-protracted pain.

A faint light is thrown on thine eyes,
Alas! thy right to joy is plain:
I see thou dream'st of Paradise,
And thou wilt only wake to pain.
Why must thou wake again?

Wert thou not born with tears and travail?
Thy first cry was a wail;
Life is a mystery, strange and sad,
A wondrous riddle to unravel,
But who shall lift the vail?

Sleep on, my poor child, sleep,
naught is so sweet as sleep;
Not all the joys of love,
The tears that lovers weep;
Amber and coral from the deep,
Are not so sweet as sleep.

"Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Sleep on," the mother said,
"I will sit here and weep."
She looked on her child, asleep,
And saw the child was dead:
"'Tis well," the mother said.



A DREAM

The rain fell fast, the wind was wild,
I saw the image of my child
As in a vision of the night,
At the first grey streak of the morning light.

"Thy face is somewhat pale," I said,
"And thine hair is tangled about thine head;"
"The wind i wild; no wonder then
My hair is tangled," he said again.

"But from thine head upon thy feet
Thy form is wrapped in a long white sheet;"
"My clothes were wet through with the rain,
I put on this sheet till they dry again."

"Come hither, darling, and I will fold
Thee to mine heart, for thy hands are cold;"
"No wonder my hands are cold," he said,
"For very cold are the hands of the dead."



THE LUNATIC LOVER (sang here by Marc Almong: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVHGvcPg8ho)

Ah love, I dreamed of thee last night,
Of strange lips kissing me,
With subtle penetrating pain --
A moon veil shrouded tree
(I shudder, when I think of this,
That a moon veil shrouded thee);
Thine eyes had in them all the light
Of the moonlight of the sea.

Thine eyes are beautiful and soft,
As the eyes of Seraphim, --
Ah, limpid liquid lustrous eyes,
Sad eyes, half bright, half dim,
Half without light, half brighter bright,
Than the eyes of Seraphim.

That strange magnetic glance, that gleams
FRom those mystic eyes of vair,
That face so brilliantly pale,
And yet withal so fair, --
Love-pale and passion-pale, and yet,
So marvellously fair,--
That countenance corpse-ike refined,
And subtle coulored hair.

Thy slender limbs that seem to burn
Thy vesture through with fire,
That serpentine electric form
Half quivering with desire,
Thy movements full of grace divine
As the music of the lyre --
(Alas! for whoso looks on thee
Feels new and strange desire,
The serpent winds around his heart,
His soul is turned to fire,
As though within his veins there ran
A current of Hell fire.)

I know, I know that long ago
The moon with silver feet
Crept to thy bed, close to thine head,
And kissed thy forehead, sweet,
Giving thy lips strange wine to drink,
And alien flesh to eat,
And apples culled from the Dead Sea,
Which are the serpent's meat,
Fruit from the tree by the Dead Sea
Whose fruit is death to eat.

(note: we have deemed it more judicious to represent the rest of t his poem by ******* -- S.E.S.)


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PostPosted: 30 Dec 2014, 13:33 
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One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

—Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979


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PostPosted: 04 Jan 2015, 10:53 
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Image

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PostPosted: 04 Jan 2015, 23:59 
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poetry is just as dead as punk is dead (and it's always been that way)

it puts me in mind:

Poetry is dead. -Nietzsche

Nietzsche is dead. -Poetry

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PostPosted: 14 Nov 2015, 15:05 
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I believe art is utterly important. It is one of the things that could save us. We don't have to rely totally on experience if we can do things in our imagination.... It's the only way in which you can live more lives than your own. You can escape your own time, your own sensibility, your own narrowness of vision. - Mary Oliver


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PostPosted: 15 Nov 2015, 04:07 
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Welcome! This thread could use some action, so cheers. Questions:

  • save us from what?
  • isn't experience part of imagination? or imagination part of experience? What distinguishes the two? This looks like the dog chasing its own tail.
  • desiring to 'escape' your own time could itself be seen as narrowness of vision. What makes it not?
  • similarly, the desire to escape your time is one of the identifying features of... our own time! If anything, wouldn't resisting that impulse make for a better path of escape, accepting hypothetically that escape is in any way desirable?
  • again with the definitions: what distinguishes imagination from sensibility? Can you really use your own imagination to somehow bootstrap yourself out of your own sensibilities? If so, use a concrete example.

I hope you think of this less as my grilling a new member, and more as an invitation to participate, dog :D Do you have a favourite poem of hers?

[edited, added a question]

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PostPosted: 15 Nov 2015, 04:44 
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MJRH wrote:
[*]desiring to 'escape' your own time could itself be seen as narrowness of vision. What makes it not?


Hmmm. I think escape purely would be a form of narrowness (trading one world for another). But escaping as in the idea of the cave, escaping from one part of the world to embrace a larger world, would only be narrowness if it were accompanied by a more shallow view of that world as the view gets wider (as though our awareness were a liquid, growing thinner the wider it is poured). Which clearly does happen in some cases--to keep to the theme of poetry, I'm reminded of my favourite Horace quote, "they change the sky but not their souls, who run [I might translate "flee"] across seas". One could say the same of fleeing one's time for the image of another.

And I suppose the other time will usually be just an image, since to truly join another time might be said to be impossible (I am hesitant of declaring things impossible).


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PostPosted: 15 Nov 2015, 05:39 
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If developing a healthy, historically intelligent perspective is what was meant, then I'll agree. On the other hand, developing a healthy, historically intelligent perspective does nothing more than ground one all the more solidly in one's own time, making escape a slightly odd turn of phrase.

That's a nice Horace quote, thanks for sharing. You need to go post more equally excellent ones in the appropriate thread, now :twisted:

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PostPosted: 15 Nov 2015, 16:51 
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MJRH wrote:
Welcome! This thread could use some action, so cheers. Questions:

  • save us from what?
  • isn't experience part of imagination? or imagination part of experience? What distinguishes the two? This looks like the dog chasing its own tail.
  • desiring to 'escape' your own time could itself be seen as narrowness of vision. What makes it not?
  • similarly, the desire to escape your time is one of the identifying features of... our own time! If anything, wouldn't resisting that impulse make for a better path of escape, accepting hypothetically that escape is in any way desirable?
  • again with the definitions: what distinguishes imagination from sensibility? Can you really use your own imagination to somehow bootstrap yourself out of your own sensibilities? If so, use a concrete example.

I hope you think of this less as my grilling a new member, and more as an invitation to participate, dog :D Do you have a favourite poem of hers?

[edited, added a question]


In terms of favourite poem, that's a tricky one... I'd more recommend a short book called Thirst which is a collection of chronological poems from a period of her life. The whole book is excellent, takes about 20 minutes to get through, shows a transition of style through dealing with something. Typically Mary Oliver is a nature poet similar to Walt Whitman, generally in love with and in awe of the world around her.

I highly recommend it.


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PostPosted: 01 Apr 2016, 08:54 
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L’Espace ?
— Mon cœur
Y meurt
Sans traces.....

En vérité, du haut des terrasses,
Tout est bien sans cœur.

La Femme ?
— J’en sors,
La mort
Dans l’âme....

En vérité, mieux ensemble on pâme
Moins on est d’accord.

Le Rêve ?
— C’est bon
Quand on
L’achève....

En vérité, la Vie est bien brève,
Le Rêve bien long.

Que faire
Alors
Du corps
Qu’on gère ?

En vérité, ô mes ans, que faire
De ce riche corps ?

Ceci,
Cela,
Par-ci
Par-là....

En vérité, en vérité, voilà,
Et pour le reste, que Tout m’ait en sa merci.



laforgue


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PostPosted: 16 May 2016, 05:39 
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Revisiting Octavio Paz, relearning the discipline of reading.

Riprap

1. Flower
Cry, barb, tooth, howls,
carnivorous nothingness, its turbulence,
all disappear before this simple flower.

2. She
Every night she goes down to the well
next morning reappearing
with a new reptile in her arms.

3. Biography
Not what he might have been:
but what he was.
And what he was is dead.

4. Bells in the Night
Waves of shadows, waves of blindness
on a forehead in flames:
water for my thought, drown it out!

5. At the Door
People, words, people.
I hesitated:
up there the moon, alone.

6. Vision
I saw myself when I shut my eyes:
space, space
where I am and am not.

7. Landscape
Insects endlessly busy,
horses the color of sun
donkeys the color of cloud,
clouds, huge rocks that weigh nothing,
mountains like tilted skies,
a flock of trees drinking at the stream,
they are all there, delighted in being there,
and here we are not who are not,
eaten by fury, by hatred,
by love eaten, by death.

8. Illiterate
I raised my face to the sky,
that huge stone of worn-out letters,
but the stars told me nothing.


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PostPosted: 21 Jun 2016, 19:37 
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the inimitable lydia davis (also translator of flaubert, proust, blanchot...)

Image

(off-topic: whenever i see mcsweeney's)

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PostPosted: 31 Aug 2016, 15:12 
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More Paz, poorly cropped.

Image
Image
Image


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PostPosted: 28 Oct 2016, 08:20 
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O Narrenspiel der bunten Wirklichkeiten,
Was menschlich ist, versinkt in deinen Schoß,
Die hellen und die düstern Bilder gleiten
Vorüber, und das Kleine scheint euch groß ..

those human things all sink into your lap, ...
and the small seems to you so large.

franziska zu reventlow (to simplicissimus)


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PostPosted: 17 Jun 2017, 05:52 
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BLUE DRAGONFLY / hakushu kitahara

Blue dragonfly, with emerald eye
Silver and green;
Blue dragonfly, the delicate wing
Glinting on a reed in flower.

Blue dragonfly aloft,
Perhaps by sleight of hand;
Blue dragonfly caught,
Crinkled skin of a diva.

Blue dragonfly beauty
Fearful even to touch;
Blue dragonfly composure
Grates on the jealous eye.

A grinding leather sandal
Crinkles the blue dragonfly.



青いとんぼ

青いとんぼの眼をみれば
緑の、銀の、エメロード。
青いとんぼの薄き翅
燈心草の穂に光る。

青いとんぼの飛びゆくは
魔法つかひの手練かな。
青いとんぼを捕ふれば
女役者の肌ざはり。

青いとんぼの綺麗さは
手に触るすら恐ろしく、
青いとんぼの落つきは
眼にねたきまで憎々し。

青いとんぼをきりきりと
夏の雪駄で踏みつぶす。


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