Thursday, February 28, 2019
danger, so what?
danger, so what?
foolish to
milk and to suck
a cobra for
honey,
to fall
asleep lulled
by the
sound of rattlesnakes
dangerous to
stay inside,
to go
outside,
to walk, to
fall,
to swim, to
fly
mad to fall
in love,
to kiss
trees,
to talk to
roses,
to teach
the mirror
happy the
first breath
walking out
of prison,
to fall
into the grass
under apple
trees , blossoming
clever to
stay alone
not telling
much,
to ask, not
to answer,
to wear a
mask
but
cleverness kills
silently,
fear turns
all demons loose
running the
mind
wise to use
thought humbly,
to act with
resilience,
for change,
consequently,
to reflect
on one’s limits
wonderful
to open
and feel
space widening,
being
vulnerable, alive,
dancing on
blood and air
mystery the
pain to be
human, one
with the
suffering
and the joy
of earth turning and turning
glorious
the grace to
live and to
die aware,
not to
escape but to
find
release in union
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Monday, February 25, 2019
The City of Dreadful Night JAMES THOMSON ,BYSSHE VANOLIS
(remark: happy my dreams are mostly more tranquil,
and this poor man's life had been quite "dreadful", read a bit...)
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: All was black,
In heaven no single star, on earth no track;
A brooding hush without a stir or note,
The air so thick it clotted in my throat;
And thus for hours; then some enormous things
Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire
Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;
The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath
Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;
Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold
Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Lo you, there,
That hillock burning with a brazen glare;
Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow
Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro;
A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell
For Devil's roll-call and some fête of Hell:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Meteors ran
And crossed their javelins on the black sky-span;
The zenith opened to a gulf of flame,
The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth's fixed frame:
The ground all heaved in waves of fire that surged
And weltered round me sole there unsubmerged:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Air once more,
And I was close upon a wild sea-shore;
Enormous cliffs arose on either hand,
The deep tide thundered up a league-broad strand;
White foambelts seethed there, wan spray swept and flew;
The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and blue:
And I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: On the left
The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft;
There stopped and burned out black, except a rim,
A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim;
Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west,
And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest:
Still I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: From the right
A shape came slowly with a ruddy light;
A woman with a red lamp in her hand,
Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand;
O desolation moving with such grace!
O anguish with such beauty in thy face.
I fell as on my bier,
Hope travailed with such fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: I was twain,
Two selves distinct that cannot join again;
One stood apart and knew but could not stir,
And watched the other stark in swoon and her;
And she came on, and never turned aside,
Between such sun and moon and roaring tide:
And as she came more near
My soul grew mad with fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Hell is mild
And piteous matched with that accursèd wild;
A large black sign was on her breast that bowed,
A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud;
That lamp she held was her own burning heart,
Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart;
The mystery was clear;
Mad rage had swallowed fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: By the sea
She knelt and bent above that senseless me;
Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there,
She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair;
She murmured words of pity, love, and woe,
She heeded not the level rushing flow:
And mad with rage and fear,
I stood stonebound so near.
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: When the tide
Swept up to her there kneeling by my side,
She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne
Away, and this vile me was left forlorn;
I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart,
Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart:
They love; their doom is drear,
Yet they nor hope nor fear;
But I, what do I here?
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Chet Baker , In a sentimental mood
'But now It has happen - no use in talking -
the silence between me and you has never had meaning.
It was. Love it, that was all that was asked.
But now it has happen - no words for the foretime,
the desperation has made me the same, has made me another.
Who looks at the shape of a fish grow giant on the side of his bowl?
Who walks on the terrace observing foliage from above?
Who hears the snapping of plastic that wraps like cellophane bare branches of climbers, you don't know.
And i who descend the stairs, neither I am the same, I am another.'
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Friday, February 22, 2019
moon
the moon still full at night, so beautiful shining from behind and between the clouds,
still snow in the garden, and this morning is foggy.
the full moon disturbs my sleep, gives my heart another rhythm, beats i don't know, makes my blood rise, my mind run and my dreams weird, and my troubled soul let me not sleep most of this night.
i woke shivering, trying to move, as if fixed with sticky tape around my arm,
and a woman crept softly in my bed, put her hand around my waist, who?
- when i turned nobody was there.
i got up out of my warm blanket, and for solace i ate bread with honey. it was good.
my house looks like a battlefield, dismantled furniture leaning on empty walls, boxes of books
taking so much space that it is hard finding a passage.
and still so much collected past in these rooms.
all i do not need, i try to find out, and i move it in the courtyard,
maybe somebody will take the burden
as a gift, but up to now even the space outside fills with the shame of possession.
how did i come to be so filled with things?
i was born naked, and i will die naked.
it is best to live naked. i try.
and i will move away far to live and to die, near the sea,
in another country where i have no name yet,
leaving things and definitions.
i go for listening, deep listening.
moon, you can go, you make me restless.
come again another time, you will.
still snow in the garden, and this morning is foggy.
the full moon disturbs my sleep, gives my heart another rhythm, beats i don't know, makes my blood rise, my mind run and my dreams weird, and my troubled soul let me not sleep most of this night.
i woke shivering, trying to move, as if fixed with sticky tape around my arm,
and a woman crept softly in my bed, put her hand around my waist, who?
- when i turned nobody was there.
i got up out of my warm blanket, and for solace i ate bread with honey. it was good.
my house looks like a battlefield, dismantled furniture leaning on empty walls, boxes of books
taking so much space that it is hard finding a passage.
and still so much collected past in these rooms.
all i do not need, i try to find out, and i move it in the courtyard,
maybe somebody will take the burden
as a gift, but up to now even the space outside fills with the shame of possession.
how did i come to be so filled with things?
i was born naked, and i will die naked.
it is best to live naked. i try.
and i will move away far to live and to die, near the sea,
in another country where i have no name yet,
leaving things and definitions.
i go for listening, deep listening.
moon, you can go, you make me restless.
come again another time, you will.
Sad moon-lit night, Sakutaro Hagiwara
Drat that snatch-thief dog,
He howls at the moon from the rotting pier.
When the soul pricks up its ears,
It hears the shrill girls choiring,
Choiring
With their gloomy voices,
By the somber stone wall out at the pier.
Why is it always this way
with me?
Listen, you dog, you.
Tell me, you pale-blue, unhappy dog, you.
He howls at the moon from the rotting pier.
When the soul pricks up its ears,
It hears the shrill girls choiring,
Choiring
With their gloomy voices,
By the somber stone wall out at the pier.
Why is it always this way
with me?
Listen, you dog, you.
Tell me, you pale-blue, unhappy dog, you.
Turtle, Hagiwara Sakutaro
Turtle
There is a forest,
there is a marsh,
there is the azure,
on a man’ hand, feeling weight,
quietly a pure gold turtle sleeps,
bearing with the pain,
of this gleaming, lonely nature,
into a man’s soul gropingly it goes down,
into the depths of the azure the turtle goes down.
Memorial Day for the War Dead, Yehuda Amichai
Memorial Day for the War Dead
Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
“Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.”
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist’s mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying
all through the night under the jasmine
tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
“Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.”
from "Amen", 1977
Wanting the moon, Denise Levertov
Not the moon. A flower
on the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,
a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music
over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns
among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,
his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
on the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,
a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music
over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns
among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,
his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
Alone and drinking under the moon, Li Po
Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.
Sad Steps, Philip Larkin
Sad Steps, Philip Larkin
Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness.
Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There’s something laughable about this,
The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)
High and preposterous and separate—
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,
One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can’t come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.
Anaïs Nin, On Writing, quotes, emotional experience
"In order to take action full maturity in experience is required. Novels which contribute to our emotional atrophy only deepen our blindness.And nothing that we do not discover emotionally will have the power to alter our vision.The constant evasion of emotional experience has created an immaturity which turns all experience into traumatic shocks from which the human being derives no strength or development, but neurosis."...
"This personal relationship to all things, which is condemned as subjective, limiting, I found to be the core of individuality, personality, and originality. The idea that subjectivity is an impasse is as false as the idea that objectivity leads to a larger form of life.
A deep personal relationship reaches far beyond the personal into the general. Again it is a matter of depths."
......................................................................................
"It is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. … The heightened moments … are the moments of revelation. It is the moment when the real self rises to the surface, shatters its false roles, erupts and assumes reality and identity. The fiery moments of passionate experience are the moments of wholeness and totality of the personality."
........................................................................................
"Naked truth is unbearable to most, and art is our most effective means of overcoming human resistance to truth. The writer has the same role as the surgeon and his handling of anaesthesia is as important as his skill with the knife.
Human beings, in their resistance to truth, erect fortresses and some of these fortresses can only be demolished by the dynamic power of the symbol, which reaches the emotions directly."
Phoenix
maybe i am too tired, maybe soon like one thousand years gone,
maybe i must make my fire.....a funeral pyre..
Phoenix, "Fénix' by Josignacio, Cuba :
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
The more loving one, W.H.Auden
THE MORE LOVING ONE
by W.H. Auden
by W.H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Monday, February 18, 2019
teoria das cores, herberto helder
Teoria das Cores - Herberto Helder
Era uma vez um pintor que tinha um aquário com um peixe vermelho. Vivia o peixe tranquilamente acompanhado pela sua cor vermelha até que principiou a tornar-se negro a partir de dentro, um nó preto atrás da cor encarnada. O nó desenvolvia-se alastrando e tomando conta de todo o peixe. Por fora do aquário o pintor assistia surpreendido ao aparecimento do novo peixe.
O problema do artista era que, obrigado a interromper o quadro onde estava a chegar o vermelho do peixe, não sabia que fazer da cor preta que ele agora lhe ensinava. Os elementos do problema constituíam-se na observação dos factos e punham-se por esta ordem: peixe, vermelho, pintor — sendo o vermelho o nexo entre o peixe e o quadro através do pintor. O preto formava a insídia do real e abria um abismo na primitiva fidelidade do pintor.
Ao meditar sobre as razões da mudança exactamente quando assentava na sua fidelidade, o pintor supôs que o peixe, efectuando um número de mágica, mostrava que existia apenas uma lei abrangendo tanto o mundo das coisas como o da imaginação. Era a lei da metamorfose.
Compreendida esta espécie de fidelidade, o artista pintou um peixe amarelo.
nobody will steal your controls
in dreamland there was a house, a spring near, trees, a lake, a small river.
in dreamland sky knew all.
Mother knew not to speak words and father knew only two sounds.
Mother wanted to tell her son: cry if you need to cry, laugh when you laugh. if you wish to fly, fly. you must leave all you possess and walk out of the house, you must climb a mountain and take off your clothes, then unfold your wings and jump. and a tear run down her old cheek, she was afraid he could die.
and she wanted to tell her daughter: when you go to your love, leave your rings and bangles in another room, your clothes,your mirror, your past, your controls, your habits, your mask, your opinions,comparisons,
your fears,your expectations,all,leave all there,
nobody will steal them. go naked. do not jump, flow, do not embrace, be embrace, do not love, be love.
you will be always free. find your ways.
and another tear collected in her eye.
her children were in her heart.
and she knew all, all on giving love, all on being alone, all on being a woman.
Father understood, and when he hummed ‚mmmm‘,the apple tree moved,
and golden leaves fell to the ground like tears,
and when he whispered ‚ffff‘ , they were blown across the lake.
and the sun laughed in the water.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
flow
i love rivers, many do. inter-personal stuff is often so tough as chewing gum, even sticky,
often like a rubber band snapping, and many days appear the same and same allover:
rivers show that flow is not an illusion.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
morituri te salutant
hands moving water, wind,
to touch, to let go,
i hold hands with infinity,
for a moment, without hands,
not knowing where i go
Saturday, February 9, 2019
the summer day, Mary Oliver
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
this grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Thursday, February 7, 2019
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Monday, February 4, 2019
sometimes tomorrow is good enough now
a hebephrenic god,
i dance in my ashes,
blown from the carpet,
prematurely.
i fight my hoover,
i swear , coughing
a tornado of words, circling
and spinning, i seek
flight from things,
escape from names,
piss on clouds,
letter for letter.
as clumsy and faulty
as i understand functions
and equations because
i cannot believe in them,
i take possession
and give up,
out of control,
giggling.
sometimes
tomorrow
is good enough
now.
i dance in my ashes,
blown from the carpet,
prematurely.
i fight my hoover,
i swear , coughing
a tornado of words, circling
and spinning, i seek
flight from things,
escape from names,
piss on clouds,
letter for letter.
as clumsy and faulty
as i understand functions
and equations because
i cannot believe in them,
i take possession
and give up,
out of control,
giggling.
sometimes
tomorrow
is good enough
now.
RICE-FIELD IN THE EARLY MORNING, Herberto Helder
RICE-FIELD IN THE EARLY MORNING
weeds from the rice-field.
But what is this: the dew of the field,
or tears of pain?
Tríptico, The lover transforms, Herberto Helder
Tríptico
«Transforma-se o amador na coisa amada», com seu
feroz sorriso, os dentes,
as mãos que relampejam no escuro. Traz ruído
e silêncio. Traz o barulho das ondas frias
e das ardentes pedras que tem dentro de si.
E cobre esse ruído rudimentar com o assombrado
silêncio da sua última vida.
O amador transforma-se de instante para instante,
e sente-se o espírito imortal do amor
criando a carne em extremas atmosferas, acima
de todas as coisas mortas.
Transforma-se o amador. Corre pelas formas dentro.
E a coisa amada é uma baía estanque.
É o espaço de um castiçal,
a coluna vertebral e o espírito
das mulheres sentadas.
Transforma-se em noite extintora.
Porque o amador é tudo, e a coisa amada
é uma cortina
onde o vento do amador bate no alto da janela
aberta. O amador entra
por todas as janelas abertas. Ele bate, bate, bate.
O amador é um martelo que esmaga.
Que transforma a coisa amada.
Ele entra pelos ouvidos, e depois a mulher
que escuta
fica com aquele grito para sempre na cabeça
a arder como o primeiro dia do verão. Ela ouve
e vai-se transformando, enquanto dorme, naquele grito
do amador.
Depois acorda, e vai, e dá-se ao amador,
dá-lhe o grito dele.
E o amador e a coisa amada são um único grito
anterior de amor.
E gritam e batem. Ele bate-lhe com o seu espírito
de amador. E ela é batida, e bate-lhe
com o seu espírito de amada.
Então o mundo transforma-se neste ruído áspero
do amor. Enquanto em cima
o silêncio do amador e da amada alimentam
o imprevisto silêncio do mundo e do amor.
«Transforma-se o amador na coisa amada», com seu
feroz sorriso, os dentes,
as mãos que relampejam no escuro. Traz ruído
e silêncio. Traz o barulho das ondas frias
e das ardentes pedras que tem dentro de si.
E cobre esse ruído rudimentar com o assombrado
silêncio da sua última vida.
O amador transforma-se de instante para instante,
e sente-se o espírito imortal do amor
criando a carne em extremas atmosferas, acima
de todas as coisas mortas.
Transforma-se o amador. Corre pelas formas dentro.
E a coisa amada é uma baía estanque.
É o espaço de um castiçal,
a coluna vertebral e o espírito
das mulheres sentadas.
Transforma-se em noite extintora.
Porque o amador é tudo, e a coisa amada
é uma cortina
onde o vento do amador bate no alto da janela
aberta. O amador entra
por todas as janelas abertas. Ele bate, bate, bate.
O amador é um martelo que esmaga.
Que transforma a coisa amada.
Ele entra pelos ouvidos, e depois a mulher
que escuta
fica com aquele grito para sempre na cabeça
a arder como o primeiro dia do verão. Ela ouve
e vai-se transformando, enquanto dorme, naquele grito
do amador.
Depois acorda, e vai, e dá-se ao amador,
dá-lhe o grito dele.
E o amador e a coisa amada são um único grito
anterior de amor.
E gritam e batem. Ele bate-lhe com o seu espírito
de amador. E ela é batida, e bate-lhe
com o seu espírito de amada.
Então o mundo transforma-se neste ruído áspero
do amor. Enquanto em cima
o silêncio do amador e da amada alimentam
o imprevisto silêncio do mundo e do amor.
.................................................................................................................
The lover transforms
«The lover transforms into the thing loved» with his
savage smile, his teeth,
his hands that flash in the dark. He brings sound
and silence. He brings the noise of the cold waves
and burning stones which rage within him.
And he covers this primordial sound with the staggered
silence of his last life.
The lover transforms from moment to moment,
and it's the moment of the immortal spirit of love
creating flesh in extreme atmospheres, wafting
over all death things.
The lover transforms. He cuts through forms to the core.
And the thing loved is an enclosed bay,
the space of a candlestick,
the backbone and spirit
of women sitting.
He transforms into extinguishing night.
Because the lover is everything, and the thing loved
is a curtain
battered by the wind of the lover on the heights
of an open window. The lover enters
through every open windows and
batters, batters, batters.
The lover is smashing hammer.
that transforms the thing loved.
He enters through her ears,and the woman
who listens
holds that shout forever in her mind
burning like the first day of summer.She hears
and slowly transforms, while sleeping, into that shout
of the lover.
She awakens, and goes, and gives herself to the lover,
she gives him his own shout.
And the lover and the thing loved are a single shout
preceding love.
And they shout and batter. He batters her with his lover
spirit. And she is battered and batters him
with her spirit of the beloved.
Then the world transforms into this harsh noise
of love.While overhead
the silence of the lover and the beloved feed
the surprising silence of the world and of love.
«The lover transforms into the thing loved» with his
savage smile, his teeth,
his hands that flash in the dark. He brings sound
and silence. He brings the noise of the cold waves
and burning stones which rage within him.
And he covers this primordial sound with the staggered
silence of his last life.
The lover transforms from moment to moment,
and it's the moment of the immortal spirit of love
creating flesh in extreme atmospheres, wafting
over all death things.
The lover transforms. He cuts through forms to the core.
And the thing loved is an enclosed bay,
the space of a candlestick,
the backbone and spirit
of women sitting.
He transforms into extinguishing night.
Because the lover is everything, and the thing loved
is a curtain
battered by the wind of the lover on the heights
of an open window. The lover enters
through every open windows and
batters, batters, batters.
The lover is smashing hammer.
that transforms the thing loved.
He enters through her ears,and the woman
who listens
holds that shout forever in her mind
burning like the first day of summer.She hears
and slowly transforms, while sleeping, into that shout
of the lover.
She awakens, and goes, and gives herself to the lover,
she gives him his own shout.
And the lover and the thing loved are a single shout
preceding love.
And they shout and batter. He batters her with his lover
spirit. And she is battered and batters him
with her spirit of the beloved.
Then the world transforms into this harsh noise
of love.While overhead
the silence of the lover and the beloved feed
the surprising silence of the world and of love.
Keaton Henson ,Grow Up With Me (Poem - Last.fm Session)
Grow up with me.
Let's run in fields and fear the dark together.
Fall of swings, and burn special things,
and both play outside in bad weather.
Let's eat badly.
Let's watch adults drink wine and laugh at their idiocy.
Let's sit in the back of the car,
making eye contact with strangers driving past,
making them uncomfortable.
Not caring.
Not swearing.
Don't fuck.
Let's both reclaim our superpowers;
the ones we all have and lose with our milk teeth.
The ability not to fear social awkwardness.
To panic when locked in the cellar;
still sure there's something down there.
And while picking from pillows each feather,
let's both stay away from the edge of the bed,
forcing us closer together.
Let's sit in public, with ice cream all over both our faces;
sticking our tongues out at passers by.
Let's cry.
Let's swim.
Let's everything.
Let's not find it funny lest someone falls over.
Classical music is boring.
Poetry baffles us both;
there's nothing that's said is what's meant.
Plays are long, tiresome, sullen, and filled;
with hours that could be spent rolling down hills,
and grazing our knees on cement.
Let's hear stories and both lose our innocence.
Learn about parents and forgiveness,
death and morality,
kindness and art,
thus losing both of our innocent hearts,
but at least we won't do it apart.
Grow up with me.
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