Posts Tagged ‘ nothing ’

Nōin (988 – c. 1050) – to a mountain village | First Known When Lost

To a mountain village
at nightfall on a spring day
I came and saw this:
blossoms scattering on echoes
from the vespers bell.

Nōin (988 – c. 1050) (translated by Steven Carter), in Steven Carter, Traditional Japanese Poetry: An Anthology (Stanford University Press 1991), page 134.

Source: First Known When Lost

Roland Barthes: Things not words? | Times Literary Supplement

Roland Barthes
© Louis Monier/Rue des Archives/Writer Pictures

Towards the end of Mythologies (1957), Roland Barthes’s study of contemporary myths, he claimed: “I have tried to define things, not words” – surprising perhaps, given the philosopher’s popular association with language, communication and meaning. It is not that words are not also things; but the comment suggests an important corrective to the understanding of his work. Barthes was not (simply) an aesthete interested in forms, but a theorist who tried to understand how these forms constructed our imagination.…

Source: Footnotes to Plato | Roland Barthes: Things not words?

Nada Gordon – zinc reading 10. 26.14 – YouTube

April New Poems by Scott Watson | Scrib’d.

YANG WAN-LI

To realize death

through a poem

get rid of words

get rid of meaning.

Life is all there is.

Poetry asks nothing, needs

nothing. it’s all here as we are

at depths too quiet to believe.

If we listen closely

life will strip naked

Garden of Eden.

– Scott Watson
Scrib’d.

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens | aus unruhigen Träumen

Caspar David Friedrich, Winterlandschaft Mit Kirche [Winter Landscape with Church], 1811 (National Gallery, London).

aus unruhigen Träumen.

Nothing is Not Something by Greg Wallace

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Nothing is Not Something by Greg Wallace

I Wanna Take You Haibun by Scott Watson

 

I WANNA TAKE YOU HAIBUN

 

Is it that we envision a godhead liar? A god we’re indebted to for our living a lie?

 

There is nothing in the world left to believe. It’s a shock. No more lies. They’re all believed up.

 

Still we wait in line at a lie station. Creatures of habit. Even then it’s self service. Used to be “fill’er up, buddy,” now we’re the father of our own lies and must lie to ourselves (such a burden): “I’m really happy!” “This is the greatest country in the world.” “We are a free people.”

 

Tell ourselves “our boys” are not “over there” killing and dying for lies, our durable linoleum lies.

 

Because we’re pumped up now. We have full tanks of prehistoric death. Death from the land before time when there must have been real life.

 

When all lies are gone there’s no more world. Nothing to identify. Where are we? Then our lie-life lines are broken. We are lost. Then we are living on empty. Emptiness like nothing in our pockets, with only life in our lives, to die freely.

 

Old pond
lives for
nothing
sound

 

SW