Posts Tagged ‘ lost ’

Love Dog: Lacan used to say, ‘To love is to give what you…

YES. My dad was saying the same thing to me in Berlin last month. That love–unlike sex–is not a meta-language. It’s singular. You build it, make it, give it, from scratch. It’s wthout jargon or formula. Give what is missing in you. What you wish you were. What the other needs and doesn’t have. What has been lost.

Jacques-Alain Miller on love (viasinthematica)

(via karaj)

Love Dog: Lacan used to say, ‘To love is to give what you….

Jane Ira Bloom – Lost In The Stars (w/ Fred Hersch, Charlie Haden & Ed Blackwell)

LOST | Muttscomics


*: a poem I wrote four years ago, forgot, then found…

a poem I wrote four years ago, forgot, then found tonight: 

you can listen to an mp3 of that 37 second recording of walt whitman at the same time your lover listens to a midi mix of here comes the sun, this the full politics

of the ear’s occupation.  Hazel says, as I brush her hair, “you are only allowed to think of an event as a tragedy once you are already dead”

in this america which lasts exactly 37 seconds and is difficult to interpret

these were the best intentions, and also, the voice’s congenial classless intoning, and knowing also that there are around us these spectres of the once vastly perceived

and ample: law and love still, willed

to us, an anachronistic inheritance, or, ruined broad forethought, or national art / these commons kept in a mattress like a currency of a confederacy never formed.

I will say it straight that I am this morning vacillating  between the routine of shipwrecked despair and the storm itself  wrecking, undecided about the durability of either

I walked aboard that ship, long ago shattered. Things were different.  I once was at sail robust and undiminished, probably a boy

and then most scars and also holidays and every unformed infant impossible, my very form — a boy’s and sailor’s — allergic to despair

and how unplagued by tragedy’s impossible definition I was the one dreaming in each bed into which I fell

and me, Anne Boyer,  falling,  also, in the sunlight, into a reverie against alien architectures and simultaneously into a boyish engineering

(from which I have forged)

of those remnants by which I now form, at least, a substance,  imagine an unalien end.

*: a poem I wrote four years ago, forgot, then found….

from “3 Bewildered Landscapes” by Joanna Klink |

from “3 Bewildered Landscapes”

Joanna Klink
STARS, SCATTERSTILL. Constellations of people and quiet.

Those nights when nothing catches, nothing also is artless.

I walked for hours in those forests, my legs a canvas of scratches,

trading on the old hopes—we were meant to be lost. But being lost

means not knowing what it means. Inside the meadow is the grass,

rich with darkness. Inside the grass is the wish to be rooted, inside the rain

the wish to dissolve. What you think you live for you may not live for.

One star goes out. One breath lifts inside a crow inside a field.



Copyright © 2014 by Joanna Klink. Used with permission of the author.

from “3 Bewildered Landscapes” Joanna Klink |

JOHN HAINES “LOST” ~ A Longhouse Birdhouse:

A Longhouse Birdhouse: JOHN HAINES “LOST” ~.

Coda, by Ezra Pound


O my songs,

Why do you look so eagerly and so curiously into people’s faces,

Will you find your lost dead among them?

Ezra Pound


On Getting Lost : : Awoodlandrose’s Blog

On Getting Lost | Awoodlandrose’s Blog.

lost in its bloom the goldenrod alters my perspective

Andrea Grillo