I Ran Out Of Words, But Not Before I Ran Out Of You

Fig. 1. Richard Serra - Equal Parallel, 1986

Ars Poetica


A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.


A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.


A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be.


Archibald MacLeish

There's Always Light In Other People's Darkenesses

Fig. 1. Edgar Degas - Woman by a Fireplace, 1880-90

'There are two kinds of light - the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.'

James Thurber

Your Ears Will Orgasm #54: Fever Ray - Mix (MixPod Player)

1. If I Had A Heart
2. When I Grow Up
3. Dry And Dusty
4. Seven
5. Triangle Walks
6. Concrete Walls
7. Now's The Only Time I Know
8. Keep The Streets Empty For Me

From Beloved Opiate To Laughing Gas Of The People

Fig. 1. León Ferrari - Untitled (from the series Rereadings of the Bible), c. 1988


'Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.'

Seneca

OK, Now Look Me In The Face And Don't Tell Me That

Fig. 1. Emil Nolde - Masks, 1911


'The serial number of a human specimen is the face, that accidental and unrepeatable combination of features. It reflects neither character nor soul, nor what we call the self. The face is only the serial number of a specimen.'

Milan Kundera

Counting Mistakes Only Makes You Better At Math

Fig. 1. Qian Haosun - Abacus made of wood with porcelain beads, 1984


'A just cause is not ruined by a few mistakes.'

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Yes, Indeed, Monsieur Rostand - And Vice Versa!!!

Fig. 1. Anonymous - Portrait of Prince Friedrich Ludwig von Württemberg, c. 1699


'Beauty in art is often nothing but ugliness subdued.'

Jean Rostand

Addendum: Katie (thanks!) and ESVM's poetry corner ...

Prince FLVW might have a hint of subdued ugliness, but that rug is sure stunning. I'll have to remember this regal interior in case I ever live in a place where I can decorate a room fit for a Queen.

FLVW meet poor old ESVM, who just couldn't let beauty be beauty for beauty's sake:

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

I'd Say I've Gone Fishing, But I Actually Hate Fishing

Fig. 1. Utagawa Kuniyoshi - Fishermen at Teppozu, early 1830s


'It is necessary to work, if not from inclination, at least from despair. Everything considered, work is less boring than amusing oneself.'

Charles Baudelaire

Addendum: Anon's poetry corner ...

Ophelie

1

Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles
La blanche Ophélia flotte comme
un grand lys,
Flotte très lentement,c ouchée
en ses longs voiles ...
- On entend dans les bois des hallalis.

Voici plus de mille ans que
la triste Ophélie
Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir.
Voici plus de mille ans que
sa douce folie
Murmure sa romance à la brise du
soir.

Le vent baise ses seins et déploie
en corolle
Ses grands voiles bercés mollement
par les eaux;
Les saules frissonnants pleurent
sur son épaule,
Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux.

Les nénuphars froissés soupirent
autour d'elle;
Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune
qui dort,
Quelque nid d'où s'échappe un petit
frisson d'aile:
- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or.

2

O pâle Ophélia! belle comme la neige!
Oui tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté!
- C'est que les vents tombants des
grands monts de Norwège
T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre
liberté;

C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,
A ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits;
Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature
Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits;

C'est que la voix des mers folles,
immense râle,
Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux;
C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,
Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux!
Ciel! Amour! Liberté! Quel rêve,
ô pauvre Folle!
Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige
au feu;
Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta
parole
- Et l'Infini terrible effara ton oeil bleu!

3

- Et le Poéte dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles
Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis,
Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles,
La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme
un grand lys.

Arthur Rimbaud