Archive for August, 2018
passing through
everybody
missed him
the play of light
across the walls
I put up
ingressions
i see you in my veins river tide on heavy lids from night’s
bowels a faint slurping
the pearl in his skull a porous sheen in a night bridge the last
star safe on the dark side
somewhat bruised the crescent’s womb a shallow breathing
in the heat a pulse in the maple’s breast
a labyrinth thickening in my hand an eel stuck in blue air
the tail vanishing eternally
on whale clouds hanging on to me for breath a swollen sun
sliding airless on sharpened knives
a monkey dangles from the orange crane musing on the position
of the rose vs allegation of lasciviousness
from Six Words
Snow
Most words that begin with the letters st convey a sense of the stationary, of being
stuck or still. One might say that story is an exception, as stories change, though
people seem to prefer to stick to them as they are.
Interestingly, many words that begin with str seem to break out into some kind of movement: stream, stray, strike.
Words beginning with sn often convey of sense of sneering. In his book on poetry
John Frederick Nims includes a photograph of a woman, her nose lifted in disgust.
Think snicker, snake, snide.
Why does the word snow behave differently? Is it just that snow— what falls and
fills the branches of tall pines— may be considered beautiful where a snake (for
many, reflexively) is not? I cannot quickly come up with another word that com-
bines the sn sound with a long o. The vowel seems to carry the word beyond its
origins.
All yesterday it rained. This morning when I woke and looked out my window,
yes: swirling snow. Strange that in January, in Vermont, that was a surprise.
I may not have said it out loud, but I did think: oh.
snow so now is known
bocciolo ingiallito …
un amore impossibile
mai sbocciato
yellowed tight bud …
an impossible love
never blooming
stelle infinite
un pescatore disegna i confini
tra il mare e il cielo
endless stars
a fisherman draws the borders
between the sea and sky
pioggia al crepuscolo
i colori mutevoli
dei cachi maturi
twilight rain
the shifting colours
of the ripe persimmons
SOPHIA: Do you want to speak about the violence and unnaturalness of romantic love under capitalism?
ANNE: One of the things that happens in a world in which we are so alienated and atomized is that romantic love can seem like it might be a little communism of two. It’s feels the place where you might have this opening into the possibilities of an unalienated healing, of true feeling. But this thing that feels so good also becomes the thing that causes women to spend thirty years doing the dishes after work instead of writing a great symphony, and this thing that feels so good can also lead to the deaths of women at the hands of their partners, or a deadening of life in general.
The decision to reissue an exiled or forgotten—a dead—text usually comes down to Money and Time. If the text is undergoing its first-time rejuvenation it must be considered timely enough in order to possess enough potential to make money and therefore make the money spent by whatever publisher worthwhile. It must respond to or provide…
Marcos Rodríguez Pantoja in the 2010 film Entrelobos. Photograph: Antonio Heredia
The long read: Abandoned as a child, Marcos Rodríguez Pantoja survived alone in the wild for 15 years. But living with people proved to be even more difficult
Source: How to be human: the man who was raised by wolves | News | The Guardian