A Song of Anger

January 30, 2020

The wind sang
A song of anger
When a storm comes
In days of silence
All you can do
Is see tomorrow

Laura Zucca-Scott

Covenant

January 30, 2020

We talk about our day, we talk about our
Families. It seems to me to be missing the point.
I want to tell you of a slip of moonlight I saw
Over the grasses, I want to tell you how
The air tasted over the ocean. These things
Sunk to the bottom of me and changed the
Composition of who I am. This is the
Privacy beyond privacy, these are bits of
Promises to myself of what to remember,
These are the scraps of loveliness that make up
My inward temple. Oh, there isn’t a way to
Bring it up, and if there is, I don’t know it.

Catherine Simpson

Porthpean

January 30, 2020

Cunning swirls
of breath on a neck in a secluded place:
the echoing voice of the ocean’s waves
transports words out of sight.
So secure a narrow ravine
for two in the shadowy marches of the Otherworld:
the whispers of the sea in the time of dusk
promises them a deep hour.
Water takes possession
of its portion from the limit of hearing:
flowing tide gives perfect voice
to a salty need that sweeps to shore.
Gravel does not turn to sand, leaves of the wood do not wither,
heart is not yet pricked by the recollection of the lie:
tomorrow is of no account when all time ebbs.

Tim Saunders

master the tales

January 30, 2020

Fairy tales shaped me. I have since “put them away.” That is, the adult is a mostly rational creature, aware that fairy tales are not “real” but are a fantasy, an entertaining escape from the problems of the real world. As a man, I make such tales an object of my attention and maintain an analytical control over them: I read them. I interpret them; they don’t interpret me. I, placing them within my memory and my experience exactly where I wish them to be. Fairy tales dwell within the adult.

Walter Wangerin, Jr
Hans Christian Andersen: Shaping the Child’s Universe

We don’t really exist

January 30, 2020

What if we are all characters in some stranger’s strange dream? We don’t really exist except as phantoms in his or her sleeping head. And if he or she should wake…? What then? Oblivion? Until they fall asleep and dream us again.

School Prayer

January 28, 2020

In the name of daybreak
And the eyelids of morning
And the wayfaring moon
And the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonour
My soul with hatred,
But offer myself humbly
As a guardian of nature,
As a healer of misery,
As a messenger of wonder,
As an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors . . .
And the uttermost night . . .
And the crowning seasons
Of the firefly and the apple,

I will honour all life
          – wherever and in whatever form
It may dwell – on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

Diane Ackerman

I think about zombies. With a clean white sheet of paper before me, waiting to be filled, I imagine zombies crawling, slime-covered, out of a pit, driving cars to work, lining up for their morning coffee, streaming into offices across the country, parking themselves at computers, trying to focus on work that uses only a small part of their brains, which is good, because most of their brains have been left behind in the muck. They screw their drooping eyeballs back in after staring at computer screens for hours. My eyes ooze as I write this, and my paper is no longer clean. Instead, it is filled with messy, decaying, once-human parts.

C. Rye
Putrefaction: An Homage

perversions

January 28, 2020

Sex is now a conceptual act, it’s probably only in terms of the perversions that we can make contact with each other at all.

J. G. Ballard
The Atrocity Exhibition

we often ask ourselves this question: what road or path shall I follow? I’ll always choose that of poetry, ’cause it keeps our hearts young, and even though it has to go through a tunnel, I’ll try to reach its end of light…I’ve just reread some of Jacques Prévert’s works, and I totally agree with his definition: “Poetry? – I don’t really know what it is, but it’s the loveliest nickname given to LIFE…”

Ella Wheeler-Wilcox
POETRY & LOVE keep my heart young

walk in this unknown rain

January 28, 2020

I listen to the sound of the water falling in my sleep. Words fall like water, I fall. I draw in my eyes, the shape of my eyes, and I swim in my waters: I tell myself my silences. All night I wait for language to configure me. And I think of the wind that comes to me, that dwells in me. All night I walk in this unknown rain. I was given a silence full of forms and visions (you say). And then you ran with regret like the only bird in the wind.

Alejandra Pizarnik
The musical hell
Trans. Peedeel