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


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

Marvellously clear-fretted in the unsmoked air, the Abbey rose, silver-grey. It stood detached by the serenity of age from the ephemeral growths around it. It was solid on a foundation of centuries, destined, perhaps, for centuries yet to preserve within it the monuments to those whose work was now all destroyed. I did not loiter there. In years to come I expect some will go to look at the old Abbey with romantic melancholy. But romance of that kind is an alloy of tragedy with retrospect. I was too close.

John Wyndham
The Day of the Triffids

Outside it is as if one season thrusts itself in to another. The birds still dress in black to traverse them. Gorse is flowering everywhere, yet frost whitens the moor. And now it’s started to snow –

Incredibly beautiful vampire

January 28, 2020

Yeah, sure, physically I’m here typing this. But in my head I’m dancing with this incredibly beautiful vampire in a ballroom full of glowing crystal. The music is Bartók, his Transylvanian Dances, of course.