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.
Grace Paley, Just as I thought, on the art of growing older
"My father had decided to teach me how to grow old. I said O.K. My children didn’t think it was such a great idea. If I knew how, they thought, I might do so too easily. No, no, I said, it’s for later, years from now. And besides, if I get it right it might be helpful to you kids in time to come.
They said, Really?
My father wanted to begin as soon as possible.
[…]
Please sit down, he said. Be patient. The main thing is this — when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.
That’s a metaphor, right?
Metaphor? No, no, you can do this. In the morning, do a few little exercises for the joints, not too much. Then put your hands like a cup over and under the heart. Under the breast. He said tactfully. It’s probably easier for a man. Then talk softly, don’t yell. Under your ribs, push a little. When you wake up, you must do this massage. I mean pat, stroke a little, don’t be ashamed. Very likely no one will be watching. Then you must talk to your heart.
Talk? What?
Say anything, but be respectful. Say — maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember."
The Art of Listening, Erich Fromm
- The basic rule for practicing this art is the complete concentration of the listener.
- Nothing of importance must be on his mind, he must be optimally free from anxiety as well as from greed.
- He must possess a freely-working imagination which is sufficiently concrete to be expressed in words.
- He must be endowed with a capacity for empathy with another person and strong enough to feel the experience of the other as if it were his own.
- The condition for such empathy is a crucial facet of the capacity for love. To understand another means to love him — not in the erotic sense but in the sense of reaching out to him and of overcoming the fear of losing oneself.
- Understanding and loving are inseparable. If they are separate, it is a cerebral process and the door to essential understanding remains closed.
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