Posts Tagged ‘ absence ’

Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Hsu Yun (1840-1959)

Hsu Yun (1840-1959)

Passing the Winter at Yunhua but not meeting up with my friend
I came to this place where the trees are confusingly thick.
Suddenly in the arched vault of the forest I found a path.
I passed that stone… the one below the green pavilion.
There was frost on the leaves and the branch tips were bare and red.
Who was it who carved those emotional words in the rock?
I waited. Ah… All feelings,
Are they not just emptiness of “me”?
The Chan gates both rest quietly now
With the plum trees and the grasses
Awaiting the winds of Spring.

Source: Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Hsu Yun (1840-1959)

A Longhouse Birdhouse: JOHN BERGER ~

Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: JOHN BERGER ~

Joseph Kosuth – Freud, Beckett and the Uncanny – Some thoughts on art as installation

The talk proper after all introductions,  begins around the 13′ point.

ECOLOGY WITHOUT NATURE: Art without You (video)

ECOLOGY WITHOUT NATURE: Art without You (video).

Things that Quicken the Heart: Animals in Art – Adam Fuss

The Louise Bourgeois I knew, by her assistant Jerry Gorovoy / The Observer

Louise Bourgeois

DUMMY

True, she didn’t want the thing
at first, so I titillated her, tickling
her cheek with                   the fat fake nipple,
running the                    dry teat across
her top lip till                    she opened up,
took a suck, gagged —

and sucked again, pacifier plugged
in her face like a dam shutting
off a river of cries, while a lake
of longing pooled up in her eyes
as she looked at my breasts
and sucked hard and fast
and into sleep, and I admit relief.

But later, when she came undone, all red-faced squall, I lifted my shirt, unclasped the bra, brought her close, breasts leaking lullabies to soothe in our shared dialect of milk, and she nibbled a bit, took my flesh in — then, spat me out, fly in the soup, spot of bad fruit, the pits. She screamed as I’d never seen her scream, wanted the new friend, that plastic fiend, which I brought her quickly, and she fell asleep.

How easily she gave me up, how emphatically
she prefers that contraption, their sound
rhythmic, incessant
like typing, not at all
unlike some queen
sucking seeds, or
the ticking of the
clock beside
the mother
wild with
what or
who
where
has she
gone?

Heidi Lynn Staples
esque issue1   oetry 2010

The Nature of Light / Max Richter