Posts Tagged ‘ Orpheus ’

Two Texts by Clayton Eshleman: (2) Orphic Ontologies II – Nomadics

Orphic Ontologies II

The essence of human power:
access to the cosmos from the heavens down to
earth & into the Cro-Magnon underworld

Charles Olson on Wallace Stevens. to Creeley, May 5, 1952: “For the lie in Stevens, however much
the pleasure in the play of words, is his language, that, it is without rhythm because it is without passion
which is person (not personae, that further divide against mass).”

To Creeley, May 6, 1952: “We both had a sudden excitement, just now talking, when it turns out (it was
that fucking Stevens who had provoked it by some line about poetry to undo dirt) O that dirty Crispin of
his—dirtier than Prufrock): those who keep themselves away from life (again protecting a—the
—pudenda) that Con said
I don’t feel any dirt
And Christ I loved her, for, there ain’t none, and those who have it, who have this thing of original sin hung around their cocks like a  dead albatross, are of another tribe, a tribe of sin not at all of the  tribe of men
And it struck us both just then what what makes communication with you so open is, that you have none of this shit in you: you are free of that.”

In the beginning was drawing, line on stone or bone,
consciousness united with its own perceptions: womb of the creative!
A totally metaphoric world, no difference between subject & object.
Dream holes: anywhere but nowhere in particular.

James Hillman: “The most distressing images in dreams and fantasies, those we shy from for their disgusting distortion and perversion, are precisely the ones that break the allegorical frame of what we think we know about this person or that, this trait of ourselves or that. The ‘worst’ images are thus the best, for these are the ones that restore a figure to its pristine power as a numinous person at work in the soul.”

Think of this page as a phare on night’s alabaster dives & cornucopian emptiness, cross-wired to the
ochre of farraginous dreams.

One’s place is an expanding lesion in ancestral fog. Ultimately I am, sitting here, a ghost figure crouched
before a cave wall 20,000 years ago.

Pregnant abyss of the enigma of male birthing. Non-existent gestation—egg fertile only with the maggot
of self.

Is our war on animals a planetary cannibalization brought about by self eating self to reach non-
existence in a masque put on by hydrogen mountains & sulfur assassins?

The salmagundi of “now” & “forever” is the crucible that contains the frailty of eternity.

James Hillman: “Images are the compelling source of morality and religion as well as the
conscientiousness of art.”  Show this to Gary Snyder [See the Winter 1996 Paris Review Snyder Interview].

The writhing of precision as it meets time.

Perception is the handmaiden of imagination.

Cornucopia of the sunshine forest with its anteater molecules,
a Reich bion lurking in each word
whose apogee is cratered with emptied hives.

Sun as a circumference concentrate.

It is not enough to represent, to re-
present, the present as leftovers.
Warmed up past is forever at our heels.

The analphabetic, orthochromatic, anti-nature of the mind when freed of cauliflower containment.

Alive to the dead end in every observational move.

At the corner of Bukowski & Ashbery a groin helmeted with bridal choirs.

Fingering the pluck of plumeless existence ripe with skinned heads.

A Mayan anaconda coils below Arcadia’s latent still.

A stratigraphic sequence reveals its ember-work, its furnace forum always underway. It rests in a floral
nest, a leaden, still hissing egg.

James Hillman: “We have to tie terrorism to its roots in our religious consciousness. A terrorist
is the product of our education that says that fantasy is not real, that says aesthetics is just for artists, that says
soul is only for priests, imagination is trivial or dangerous and for crazies, and that reality, what we must
adapt to, is the external world and that world is dead. A terrorist is a result of this whole long process of
wiping out the psyche.”

Charred girders call out to us. Screeens of a stirring.
Parasites in sponge-like textures. Afterlife of the gone.

Yet Poussin’s satyr-scape is no more.
The anointing of the dead Adonis. No more.
Pan’s shadow as leafy quilts. Psychic clouds boiling westward. No more.
Blind Orion searching for the risen sun. No more.

Source: Two Texts by Clayton Eshleman: (2) Orphic Ontologies II – Nomadics

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“Orpheus at the Movies” by Donna Fleischer

Orpheus at the Movies

Too late to be seated so we stand at a door that just closed off the dark. Turning back,

toward this other side of the film — you and me, Swiss chocolate labels, imported beer

bottles — all staring into space. And suddenly, air. It rolls by; from a door that hurls a

funnel of light across a threshold, for a moment, and closes again. Almost imperceptibly,

someone else’s shadow materializes across the emulsion of the lobby. We watch,

indifferently, David, race from seat to men’s room and back again as the movie

relentlessly pursues some predetermined end without him. Doors open and close. He

reappears, sees us for an embrace, and crosses over. You and I blend into the strange

night air

a flower —

the time it took, to open

you were gone

 

– Donna Fleischer
from indra’s net 

Muriel Rukeyser Reads | The 1977 Caedmon Records recording via Silliman’s Blog

Rukeyser

Muriel Rukeyser

Muriel Rukeyser’s reading at the following link includes the poems Looking at Each Other, Breaking Open, Orpheus, Despisals, Ballad of Orange and Grape, and St. Roach, among others —

Muriel Rukeyser The 1977 Caedmon Records recording produced in association with the 92nd Street Y

A NEW POETICS OF DASEIN Jennifer Anna Gosetti-Ferencei | Hyperion on the future of aesthetics

franz-von-stuck-orpheus

Orpheus by Franz von Stuck, 1891

A NEW POETICS OF DASEIN Jennifer Anna Gosetti-Ferencei

The Story of Orpheus

Orpheus by Muriel Rukeyser

Orpheus

 

When I wrote of the women in their dances and

wildness, it was a mask,

on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,

it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,

fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone

down with song,

it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from

myself.

 

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is memory

of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued

child

beside me among the doctors, and a word

of rescue from the great eyes.

 

No more masks! No more mythologies!

 

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,

the fragments join in me with their own music.

 

Muriel Rukeyser