Séverine in Summer School

January 5, 2019

Naked for twenty-four of our last thirty-six
Hours together, and I mean museum-quality, sex-
Shop, God-riddling naked, sapping gold
Light from the windows of her hundred-year-old
Baltimore dorm, we were hungry for selling
Points, like a couple in a showroom. Compelling
Arguments were made to close the deal
And children were discussed. I kissed her from heel
To head in a shower without water;
Then with. Nude, she read me a letter as a waiter
Would his specials, and I couldn’t keep
My eyes off: smooth shoulders, belly, pelvis,
Deep olive skin all a balm against sleep.
It was from her sexy grandmother in Dieppe
And Séverine translated, both of us
Somehow drawn to this third party in a tidal
Sort of way, her lunar candour, her antipodal
Ease with words and the world. We were difficult,
Séverine and I, a beautiful strain, a cult
Of two. Even eating, we made lots of noise.
Even resting in bed, watching the trees,
Our lighter breathing, our limb-shifting, sheet-
Rustling, even our dreaming had fight.
Her heart was exceptionally loud – not with love,
But with knowing. Knowing what to be afraid of

Rex Wilder

I Wish

January 5, 2019

I wish people enjoy poetry as much as hypocrisy.
I wish they created art rather than wars.
I wish they discuss atoms, aliens, sex, science, music instead of rating each other by ethnicity, religion and nationality.
I wish they had a twisted mind who speak with emotion and kindness, not with hate and blindness.

Rim Zeiny

desire to make a poem

January 5, 2019

Poetry is a river; many voices travel in it; poem after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves. None is timeless; each arrives in an historical context; almost everything, in the end, passes. But the desire to make a poem, and the world’s willingness to receive it – indeed the world’s need of it- these never pass.

Mary Oliver
A Poetry Handbook

Do I exist?

January 5, 2019

I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers I have read, all the people I have met, all the women I have loved; all the cities I have visited, all my ancestors.

[No estoy seguro de que existo, en realidad yo soy todos los escritores que he leído, todas las personas que he conocido, todas las mujeres que he amado,. Todas las ciudades que tengo visitados, todos mis antepasados.]

Jorge Luis Borges
Interview with JOSÉ LUIS A. FERMOSEL for El Pais 26th September 1981

waiting to be discovered

January 5, 2019

The great artist Michelangelo claimed that his sculptures were already present in the stone, and all he had to do was carve away everything else.

Our understanding of identity is often similar: Beneath the many layers of shoulds and shouldn’ts that cover us, there lies a constant, single, true self that is just waiting to be discovered.

Sheena Iyengar
The Art of Choosing

Wall art in the bathroom of the Elephant House in Edinburgh, also known as the “birthplace” of Harry Potter since J.K. Rowling wrote a lot of the books there – in Elephant House that is, not the bathroom.

P

Peedeel at Christmas

 

Dear God, I’m so glad Christmas is over for another year. I’ve consumed industrial quantities of confectionary, drank euro-lakes of wine and at least one barrel of very fine brandy. I’ve gained weight I didn’t need – don’t know how much, I’m too frightened to go near the scales; and I believe that if I did raise the courage to step on them, the scales would either break or scream, “One person at a time, please!” in a loud shrill voice.

P