tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46334246822403361092023-11-29T09:11:34.409+01:00winterliefKimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.comBlogger306125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-27951963339462384392023-09-08T11:37:00.005+02:002023-09-08T11:37:43.988+02:00een eindeit's been a while.... ik ben verhuisd! <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://fluentinsilence.blogspot.nl">fluentinsilence.blogspot.nl</a> is mijn nieuwe plek. </div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-32442529829616357992020-12-11T14:29:00.000+01:002023-09-08T11:06:31.860+02:00voelend-zijn/ de mens; een waarnemingsinstrument<p>verhuizen <i>takes time</i>. en energie. ik lees vijf boeken tegelijkertijd, momenteel. maar ik lees niet veel omdat nieuwe omstandigheden ook tijd en energie vragen, <i>somehow</i>.</p><p>maar ik wil iets zeggen over wat ik las en bijna uit heb gelezen. het gaat over het boek <i>meteorologie van het innerlijk</i> van kris pint. toen ik de titel zag (een vriendin stuurde een foto van het boek) wist ik direct dat ik het moest lezen. omdat sommige onderwerpen bij sommige personen horen. en ik ben iemand van het weer (among other things).</p><p>toen ik werd geboren hagelde, stormde het. er stond windkracht acht. er was een volle maan die dag. en het was koud. ik ben op de hoogte van die weersomstandigheden omdat ze worden opgenoemd op mijn geboortekaart. ik ken de tekst uit mijn hoofd. hagelstenen als knikkers, windkracht acht (..) bibbers (..) zuidwester reisje — ik vraag me wel eens af of dat gevolgen heeft gehad voor mijn relatie met ‘het weer’. ik ben zo iemand die altijd naar boven, de lucht en de wolken kijkt. zonder reden. alsof daar iets te lezen is. alsof daar mijn thuis is. ik weet het niet.</p><p></p><p><i>meteorologie van het innerlijk</i> gaat over hoe weersomstandigheden het waarnemen van de ‘realiteit’ kunnen beïnvloeden. en over het belang van een tussenruimte tussen realiteit en beleving. in zijn inleidende essay, ‘weersverbeelding’, haalt pint woorden van roland barthes aan dat het hart vormen van dit boek:</p><p><i>spreken over het weer </i>[is]<i> meer</i><i> dan een vrijblijvende vorm van communicatie; het heeft volgens hem </i>[Barthes] <i>een ‘existentiële lading’, waarbij ‘het </i>voelend-zijn<i> van het subject in het spel komt, de pure en mysterieuze sensatie van het leven’.</i></p><p>ergens verderop in het boek staat het woord ‘waarnemingsinstrument’. het wierp me terug naar bovenstaand idee van barthes. <i>voelend-zijn</i>. <i>de pure en mysterieuze sensatie van het leven</i>. ergens is dat woord <i>waarnemingsinstrument</i> perfect. niet dat dat <i>voelend-zijn</i> er niet toe doet, maar komt dat niet juist later, achteraf, na de ervaring? het instrument moet ‘aan’ staan, de zintuigen open, zonder afleiding. het moet stil zijn, vanbinnen. het lijf moet stil staan. geen concentratie, want dat zou om een focus op een bepaald punt vragen, terwijl het met weersomstandigheden juist om het onverwachte en ongrijpbare draait. observatie.<br />gedachten en ideeën komen later.<br />het gaat om het moment. om het stoffelijke zijn; het voelen van de wind, warmte, waterdruppels — daar waar het leven je huid raakt, waar jij letterlijk eindigt en de buitenwereld begint. <i>de sensatie van het leven</i>.<br /><i>voelend-zijn</i>. zijn; voelend. ok. nu ben ik in de war. bedoelde barthes het voelen van het buitenlijfelijke of juist het binnenlijfelijke? misschien vond hij wel een perfect woord en is zijn <i>voelend-zijn </i>de deur tussen beide. zijn zintuigen dat niet ook?</p><p></p><p>het is vandaag koud, zoals het al een paar dagen is. vanmorgen was het helder, winterbleek, de lage zon oogverblindend. er was oranje en licht koudblauw, maar zachte wolkenflarden kondigden al aan wat er nu is: bewolking. maar het is geen laaghangende bewolking zoals er afgelopen dagen vaak was, zo laag dat er geen diepte in het landschap was; zodat de rest van de wereld ver weg leek. </p><p>misschien ga ik te ver maar heeft het <i>voelend-zijn</i> niet ook een beetje te maken met accepteren dat het weer, de natuur zoveel groter en krachtiger is dan wij mensen? ik vind het ontzettend troostrijk en hoopgevend om te kijken naar hoe het weer, de natuur, zichzelf vorm geeft, haar eigen gang gaat, zoals altijd, zonder uitzondering, zonder stoppen. constante beweging, hoe zacht en traag het soms ook is. als ik naar boven staar doe ik dat om het gevoel te krijgen even daarboven tussen wolk en wind mee te bewegen. om me nietig te voelen. om op te lossen in alles wat ik hoor en zie en voel en ruik. en te accepteren dat ik helemaal niets begrijp van al die informatie die binnenstroomt. en dat dat is zoals het moet zijn.</p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-73583563065186521692020-10-02T16:35:00.004+02:002023-09-08T11:07:03.673+02:00merwin & plath<p>al die gedichten. ik durf niets te zeggen over wat ik plaats; omdat het poëzie is en zelf zegt wat gezegd moet worden; maar ook omdat ik gewoon niet weet wat te zeggen (; en omdat ik bang ben domme dingen te zeggen).</p><p>hoewel er ongetwijfeld van alles te zeggen is want ik lees zo zo graag wat anderen over poëzie schrijven.</p><p>iets kleins dan, & het gaat eigenlijk niet echt over poëzie, maar toch een beetje, en het maakte me aan het lachen: ik luisterde gisteren naar een podcast met w.s. merwin (gevonden dankzij the magnificent <a href="https://twitter.com/flowerville_II" target="_blank">dr. flowerville</a>; <a href="https://lithub.com/w-s-merwin-on-reading-what-you-want-reading-it-slowly-and-the-beauty-of-trees/" target="_blank"><i>W.S. Merwin: On Reading What You Want, Reading It Slowly, and the Beauty of Trees</i></a>). tijdens het gesprek noemde merwin sylvia plath en wil ook eigenlijk haar <i>husband</i> noemen, maar is diens naam kwijt. dus is hughes voor even alleen plaths husband.</p><p>(ik weet niet wat merwin van hughes vond, hoe goed hij plath en hughes kende. en ik probeer heel heel erg om de poet hughes van de persoon hughes te scheiden, omwille ‘de kunst’, maar ik vind dat moeilijk. en dit kleine dingetje erg grappig.)</p><p>naar aanleiding van dat gesprek met w.s. merwin kocht ik trouwens zijn bundel <i>garden time</i>. het eerste gedicht:</p><p><i>the morning</i></p><p>Would I love it this way if it could last<br />would I love it this way if it<br />were the whole sky the one heaven<br />or if I could believe that it belonged to me<br />a possession that was mine alone<br />or if I imagined that it noticed me<br />recognized me and may have come to see me<br />out of all the mornings that I never knew<br />and all those that I have forgotten<br />would I love it this way if I were somewhere else<br />or if I were younger for the first time<br />or if these very birds were not singing<br />or I could not hear them or see their trees<br />woud I love it this way if I were in pain<br />red torment of body or gray void of grief<br />would I love it this way if I knew<br />that I would remember anything that is<br />here now anything anything<i> </i> <br /></p><p>en omdat ik ook onlangs een schitterend gedicht van plath las (ik wil meer van haar lezen maar wil geen ‘collected poems’ aanschaffen omdat ik denk dat ik liever losse bundels lees — maar dat is duur en ik ben niet rijk. dus misschien moet ik wel gewoon een collected plath kopen.) vol taal die hard en helder en schitterend is, ook een plath-gedicht:</p><p><i>mirror</i></p><p>I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.<br />Whatever I see I swallow immediately<br />Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.<br />I am not cruel, only truthful —<br />The eye of a little god, four-cornered.<br />Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.<br />It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long<br />I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.<br />Faces and darkness separate us over and over.<br /><br />Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,<br />Searching my reaches for what she really is.<br />Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.<br />I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.<br />She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.<br />I am important to her. She comes and goes.<br />Each morning it is her face that replaces darkness.<br />In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman<br />Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.</p><p>(uit <i>crossing de water</i>/ ik las het in neil astleys <i>staying alive. real poems for unreal times</i> — een prachtig boek voor mensen die wel poëzie willen lezen maar niet weten waar te beginnen.) </p><p>ik vind dit prachtig, en blijf er maar aan denken. the mirror, the lake. harde taal zei ik maar dat bedoel ik niet, geloof ik. het is exact. <i>not cruel, only truthful</i>. ja.<br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-9624958693145038822020-09-29T14:34:00.000+02:002023-09-08T11:07:06.657+02:00mushrooms/ sylvia plath<p>Overnight, very<br />Whitely, discreetly,<br />Very quietly<br /><br />Our toes, our noses<br />Take hold on the loam,<br />Acquire the air.<br /><br />Nobody sees us,<br />Stops us, betrays us;<br />The small grains make room.<br /><br />Soft fists insist on<br />Heaving the needles,<br />The leafy bedding,<br /><br />Even the paving.<br />Our hammers, our rams,<br />Earless and eyeless,<br /><br />Perfectly voiceless,<br />Widen the crannies,<br />Shoulder through holes. We<br /><br />Diet on water,<br />On crumbs of shadow,<br />Bland-mannered, asking<br /><br />Little or nothing.<br />So many of us!<br />So many of us!<br /><br />We are shelves, we are<br />Tables, we are meek,<br />We are edible, <br /><br />Nudgers and shovers<br />In spite of ourselves.<br />Our kind multiplies:<br /><br />We shall by morning<br />Inherit the earth.<br />Our foot's in the door.<br /><br /><br />: sylvia plath, ‘mushrooms’/ <i>collected poems</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-60031506506479591172020-09-27T17:04:00.002+02:002023-09-08T11:07:10.902+02:00how to kill a living thing/ eibhlín nic eochaidh<p>Neglect it<br />Criticise it to its face<br />Say how it kills the light<br />Traps all the rubbish<br />Bores you with its green<br /><br />Continually<br />Harden your heart<br />Then<br />Cut it down close<br />To the root as possible<br /><br />Forget it<br />For a week or a month<br />Return with an axe<br />Split it with one blow<br />Insert a stone<br /><br />To keep the wound wide open.<br /><br /><br />: eibhlín nic eochaidh, ‘how to kill a living thing’/ <i>staying alive. real poems for unreal times </i>(edited by neil astley)<br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-71443077026054569772020-09-26T20:18:00.001+02:002023-09-08T11:07:12.861+02:00crown/ kay ryan<p>Too much rain<br />loosens trees.<br />In the hills giant oaks<br />fall upon their knees.<br />You can touch parts<br />you have no right to—<br />places only birds<br />should fly to.<br /><br /></p><p>: kay ryan, ‘crown’/ <i>say uncle</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-75110163343698430772020-09-17T10:30:00.017+02:002023-09-08T11:07:14.817+02:00on sleep stones/ anne carson<p>Camille Claudel lived the last thirty years of her<br />life in an asylum, wondering why, writing letters<br />to her brother the poet, who had signed the<br />papers. Come visit me, she says. Remember, I<br />am living here with madwomen; days are long.<br />She did not smoke or stroll. She refused to<br />sculpt. Although they gave her sleep stones—<br />marble and granite and porphyry—she broke<br />them, then collected the pieces and buried these<br />outside the walls at night. Night was when her<br />hands grew, huger and huger until in the photo-<br />graph they are like two parts of someone else<br />loaded onto her knees.<br /><br /></p><p>: anne carson, ‘on sleep stones’/ <i>short talks</i>; <i>plainwater</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-5218790859089345362020-09-16T10:30:00.001+02:002023-09-08T11:07:17.175+02:00my god, it's full of stars/ tracy k. smith<p>1. <br /></p><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
We like to think of it as parallel to what we know,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Only bigger. One man against the authorities.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Or one man against a city of zombies. One man<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Who is not, in fact, a man, sent to understand<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The caravan of men now chasing him like red ants<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Let loose down the pants of America. Man on the run.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Man with a ship to catch, a payload to drop,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em>This message going out to all of space.</em> . . . Though<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Maybe it’s more like life below the sea: silent,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Buoyant, bizarrely benign. Relics<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Of an outmoded design. Some like to imagine<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A cosmic mother watching through a spray of stars,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Mouthing <em>yes</em>, <em>yes</em> as we toddle toward the light,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Biting her lip if we teeter at some ledge. Longing<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To sweep us to her breast, she hopes for the best<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
While the father storms through adjacent rooms<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Ranting with the force of Kingdom Come,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not caring anymore what might snap us in its jaw.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Sometimes, what I see is a library in a rural community.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
All the tall shelves in the big open room. And the pencils<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In a cup at Circulation, gnawed on by the entire population.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The books have lived here all along, belonging<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
For weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequence<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Of family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A pair of eyes. The most remarkable lies.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
2.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Charlton Heston is waiting to be let in. He asked once politely.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A second time with force from the diaphragm. The third time,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
He did it like Moses: arms raised high, face an apocryphal white.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Shirt crisp, suit trim, he stoops a little coming in,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Then grows tall. He scans the room. He stands until I gesture,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Then he sits. Birds commence their evening chatter. Someone fires<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Charcoals out below. He’ll take a whiskey if I have it. Water if I don’t.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I ask him to start from the beginning, but he goes only halfway back.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em>That was the future once</em>, he says.<em> Before the world went upside down.</em><br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em> </em><br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Hero, survivor, God’s right hand man, I know he sees the blank<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Surface of the moon where I see a language built from brick and bone.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
He sits straight in his seat, takes a long, slow high-thespian breath,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Then lets it go. <em>For all I know, I was the last true man on this earth. </em>And:<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em>May I smoke? </em>The voices outside soften. Planes jet past heading off or back.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Someone cries that she does not want to go to bed. Footsteps overhead.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
A fountain in the neighbor’s yard babbles to itself, and the night air<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Lifts the sound indoors. <em>It was another time</em>, he says, picking up again.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em>We were pioneers. Will you fight to stay alive here, riding the earth</em><br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em> </em><br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<em>Toward God-knows-where? </em>I think of Atlantis buried under ice, gone<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
One day from sight, the shore from which it rose now glacial and stark.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Our eyes adjust to the dark.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
3.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Perhaps the great error is believing we’re alone,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
That the others have come and gone—a momentary blip—<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When all along, space might be choc-full of traffic,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Bursting at the seams with energy we neither feel<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Nor see, flush against us, living, dying, deciding,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Setting solid feet down on planets everywhere,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Bowing to the great stars that command, pitching stones<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
At whatever are their moons. They live wondering<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
If they are the only ones, knowing only the wish to know,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And the great black distance they—we—flicker in.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Maybe the dead know, their eyes widening at last,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Seeing the high beams of a million galaxies flick on<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
At twilight. Hearing the engines flare, the horns<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not letting up, the frenzy of being. I want to be<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
One notch below bedlam, like a radio without a dial.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Wide open, so everything floods in at once.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And sealed tight, so nothing escapes. Not even time,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Which should curl in on itself and loop around like smoke.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
So that I might be sitting now beside my father<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
As he raises a lit match to the bowl of his pipe<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
For the first time in the winter of 1959.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
4. <br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In those last scenes of Kubrick’s <em>2001</em><br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When Dave is whisked into the center of space,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Which unfurls in an aurora of orgasmic light<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Before opening wide, like a jungle orchid<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
For a love-struck bee, then goes liquid,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Paint-in-water, and then gauze wafting out and off,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Before, finally, the night tide, luminescent<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And vague, swirls in, and on and on. . . . <br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In those last scenes, as he floats<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Above Jupiter’s vast canyons and seas,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Over the lava strewn plains and mountains<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Packed in ice, that whole time, he doesn’t blink.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In his little ship, blind to what he rides, whisked<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Across the wide-screen of unparcelled time,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Who knows what blazes through his mind?<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Is it still his life he moves through, or does<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
That end at the end of what he can name?<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
On set, it’s shot after shot till Kubrick is happy,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Then the costumes go back on their racks<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And the great gleaming set goes black.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
5.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When my father worked on the Hubble Telescope, he said<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
They operated like surgeons: scrubbed and sheathed<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In papery green, the room a clean cold, a bright white.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
He’d read Larry Niven at home, and drink scotch on the rocks,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
His eyes exhausted and pink. These were the Reagan years,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
When we lived with our finger on The Button and struggled<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
To view our enemies as children. My father spent whole seasons<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Bowing before the oracle-eye, hungry for what it would find.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
His face lit-up whenever anyone asked, and his arms would rise<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
As if he were weightless, perfectly at ease in the never-ending<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Night of space. On the ground, we tied postcards to balloons<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
For peace. Prince Charles married Lady Di. Rock Hudson died.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
We learned new words for things. The decade changed.<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The first few pictures came back blurred, and I felt ashamed<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
For all the cheerful engineers, my father and his tribe. The second time,<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
The optics jibed. We saw to the edge of all there is—<br /></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div><p>
So brutal and alive it seemed to comprehend us back.</p><p> </p><p>: tracy k. smith, ‘my god, it's full of stars’; <i>life on mars</i> <br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-76258006286257705772020-09-15T10:30:00.002+02:002023-09-08T11:07:21.732+02:00the old poets of china/ mary oliver<p>Wherever I am, the world comes after me.<br />It offers me its busyness. It does not believe<br />that I do not want it. Now I understand<br />why the old poets of China went so far and high<br />into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.<br /><br /><br />: mary oliver, ‘the old poets of china’; <i>new and selected poems, volume ii</i></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-89895796325551911222020-09-14T10:30:00.002+02:002023-09-08T11:07:23.556+02:00unknowing before the heavens of my life/ rainer maria rilke<p>Unknowing before the heavens of my life<br />I stand in wonder. O the great stars.<br />The rising and the going down. How quiet.<br />As if I didn't exist. <i>Am </i>I part? Have I dismissed<br />the pure influence? Do high and low tide<br />alternate in my blood according to this order?<br />I will cast off all wishes, all other links,<br />accustom my heart to its remotest space. Better<br />it live in the terror of its stars than<br />seemingly protected, soothed by something near.<br /><br /></p><p>: rainer maria rilke, <i>uncollected poems</i> (tr. edward snow) <br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-37816395259785627322020-09-13T10:30:00.005+02:002023-09-08T11:07:25.497+02:00transcendental etude/ adrienne rich<p>(..)<br />But there come times–perhaps this is one of them–<br />when we have to take ourselves more seriously or die;<br />when we have to pull back from the incantations,<br />rhythms we’ve moved to thoughtlessly,<br />and disenthrall ourselves, bestow<br />ourselves to silence, or a severer listening, cleansed<br />or oratory, formulas, choruses, laments, static<br />crowding the wires. We cut the wires,<br />find ourselves in free-fall, as if<br />our true home were the undimensional<br />solitudes, the rift<br />in the Great Nebula.<br />No one who survives to speak<br />new language, has avoided this:<br />the cutting-away of an old force that held her<br />rooted to an old ground<br />the pitch of utter loneliness<br />where she herself and all creation<br />seem equally dispersed, weightless, her being a cry<br />to which no echo comes or can ever come.<br />(..)<br /><br /></p>
: adrienne rich, een fragment uit ‘transcendental etude’; <i>the dream of a common language: poems 1974-1977</i>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-82597086486345401742020-09-12T10:30:00.004+02:002023-09-08T11:07:27.806+02:00september/ jennifer michael hecht<p>Tonight there must be people who are getting what they want.<br />I let my oars fall into the water.<br />Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.<br /><br />The night is so still that I forget to breathe.<br />The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.<br /><br />Tonight there are people getting just what they need.<br /><br />The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.<br />I remember you in a black and white photograph<br />taken this time of some year. You were leaning against<br />a half-shed tree, standing in the leaves the tree had lost.<br /><br />When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.<br /><br />Tonight, there are people who are so happy,<br />that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.<br /></p><p>Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.<br />My hand trails in the water.<br />I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.<br /><br /></p><p>: jennifer michael hecht, ‘september’; <i>the next ancient world</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-10169107625445445482020-09-11T10:30:00.004+02:002023-09-08T11:07:32.675+02:00crater lake/ louise glück<p>There was a war between good and evil.<br />We decided to call the body good.<br /><br />That made death evil.<br />It turned the soul<br />against death completely.<br /><br />Like a foot soldier wanting<br />to serve a great warrior, the soul<br />wanted to side with the body.<br /><br />It turned against the dark,<br />against the forms of death<br />it recognized.</p><p>Where does the voice come from<br />that says suppose the war<br />is evil, that says</p><p>suppose the body did this to us,<br />made us afraid of love—<br /><br /></p><p>: louise glück, ‘crater lake’; <i>averno</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-25611690219466360952020-09-10T10:30:00.016+02:002023-09-08T11:07:34.566+02:00on waterproofing/ anne carson<div style="text-align: justify;">Franz Kafka was Jewish. He had a sister, Ottla,<br />Jewish. Ottla married a jurist, Josef David, not<br />Jewish. When the Nuremberg Laws were intro-<br />duced to Bohemia-Moravia in 1942, quiet Ottla<br />suggested to Josef David that they divorce. He<br />at first refused. She spoke about sleep shapes<br />and property and their two daughters and a<br />rational approach. She did not mention, be-<br />cause she did not yet know the word, Ausch-<br />witz, where she would die in October 1943.<br />After putting the apartment in order she packed<br />a rucksack and was given a good shoeshine by<br />Josef David. He applied a coat of grease. Now<br />they are waterproof, he said.<br /><br /></div><p>: anne carson, ‘on waterproofing’/ <i>short talks</i>; <i>plainwater</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-70592482683501887012020-09-09T10:30:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:37.182+02:00sweet darkness/ david whyte<p>When your eyes are tired<br />the world is tired also.</p><p>When your vision is gone,<br />no part of the world can find you.</p><p>Time to go into the dark<br />where the night has eyes<br />to recognize its own.</p><p>There you can be sure<br />you are not beyond love.</p><p>The dark will be your home<br />tonight.</p><p>The night will give you a horizon<br />further than you can see.</p><p>You must learn one thing.<br />The world was made to be free in.</p><p>Give up all the other worlds<br />except he one to which you belong.</p><p>Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet<br />confinement of your aloneness<br />to learn<br /><br />anything or anyone<br />that does not bring you alive</p><p>is too small for you.<br /><br /></p><p>: david whyte, ‘sweet darkness’ (uit <i>the house of belonging</i>)<br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-28628785533961887392020-09-08T10:30:00.004+02:002023-09-08T11:07:39.561+02:00freud's beautiful things/ emily berry<p> <i>A cento</i></p><p>I have some sad news for you<br />I am but a symbol, a shadow cast on paper<br />If only you knew how things look within me at the moment<br />Trees covered in white blossom<br />The remains of my physical self<br />Do you really find my appearance so attractive<br />Darling, I have been telling an awful lot of lies lately<br />If only I knew what you are doing now?<br />Standing in the garden and gazing out into the deserted street?<br />Not a mermaid, but a lovely human being<br />The whole thing reminds me of the man trying to rescue a birdcage from the burning house<br />(I feel compelled to express myself poetically)<br />I am not normally a hunter of relics, but ...<br />It was this childhood scene ...<br />(My mother ... )<br />All the while I kept thinking: <i>her face has such a wild look<br /></i>... as though she had never existed<br />The fact is I have not yet seen her in daylight<br />Distance must remain distance<br />A few proud buildings; your lovely photograph<br />I find this loss very hard to bear<br />The bells are ringing, I don't quite know why<br />What makes all autobiographies worthless is, after all, their mendacity<br />Yesterday and today have been bad days<br />This oceanic feeling, continuous inner monologues<br />I said, “All the beautiful things I still have to say will have to remain unsaid,” and the writing table flooded<br /><br /></p><p>: emily berry, ‘freud's beautiful things’ (uit poetry magazine june 2015)<br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-25263382409278412022020-09-07T10:24:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:44.367+02:00to know the dark/ wendell berry<p>To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.<br />To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,<br />and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,<br />and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.<br /><br /></p><p>: wendell berry, ‘to know the dark’; <i>the peace of wild things</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-48502812149978269832020-09-06T16:32:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:46.411+02:00postscript/ seamus heaney<p>And some time make the time to drive out west<br />Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,<br />In September or October, when the wind<br />And the light are working off each other<br />So that the ocean on one side is wild<br />With foam and glitter, and inland among stones<br />The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit<br />By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,<br />Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,<br />Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads<br />Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.<br />Useless to think you'll park and capture it<br />More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,<br />A hurry through which known and strange things pass<br />As big soft buffetings come at the care sideways<br />And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.<br /><br /></p><p>: seamus heaney, ‘postscript’; <i>the spirit level</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-43567568023748868512020-09-05T14:33:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:49.159+02:00real poems for unreal times<p>ik kocht een dik boek vol poëzie, getiteld <i>staying alive. real poems for unreal times</i>. het is gemaakt, samengesteld door neil astley. dit is het eerste gedicht dat ik las:</p><p><i>the hug</i>/ tess gallagher</p><p>A woman is reading a poem on the street<br />and another woman stops to listen. We stop too,<br />with our arms around each other. The poem<br />is being read and listened to out here<br />in the open. Behind us<br />no one is entering or leaving the houses.<br /><br />Suddenly a hug comes over me and I'm<br />giving it to you, like a variable star shooting light<br />off to make itself comfortable, then<br />subsiding. I finish but keep on holding<br />you. A man walks up to us and we know he hasn't<br />come out of nowhere, but if he could, he<br />would have. He looks homeless because of how<br />he needs. ‘Can I have on of those?’ he asks you,<br />and I feel you nod. I'm surprised,<br />surprised you don't tell him how<br />it is – that I'm yours, only<br />yours, etc., exclusive as a nose to<br />its face. Love – that's what we're talking about, love<br />that nabs you with ‘for me<br />only’ and holds on.<br /><br />So I walk over to him and put my<br />arms around him and try to<br />hug him like I mean it. He's got an overcoat on<br />so thick I can't feel<br />him past it. I'm starting the hugh<br />and thinking, ‘How big a hug is this supposed to be?<br />How lang shall I hold this hug?’ Already<br />we could be eternal, his arms falling over my<br />shoulders, my hands not<br />meeting behind his back, he is so big!<br /><br />I put my head into his chest and snuggle<br />in. I lean into him. I lean my blood and my wishes<br />into him. He stands for it. This is his <br />and he's starting to give it back so well I know he's<br />getting it. This hug. So truly, so tenderly<br />we stop having arms and I don't know if<br />my lover has walked away or what, or<br />if the woman is still reading the poem, or the houses –<br />what about them? – the houses.<br /><br />Clearly, a little permission is a dangerous thing.<br />But when you hug someone you want it<br />to be a masterpiece of connection, the way the button<br />on his coat will leave the imprint of<br />a planet on my cheek<br />when I walk away. When I try to find some place<br />to go back to.</p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-51826446815353257022020-09-04T14:38:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:51.794+02:00heart labor/ maggie anderson<p>When I work too hard and then lie down,<br />even my sleep is sad and all worn out.<br />You want me to name the specific sorrows?<br />They do not matter. You have your own.<br />Most of the people in the world<br />go out to work, day after day,<br />with their voices chained in their throats.<br />I am swimming a narrow, swift river.<br />Upstream, the clouds have already darkened<br />and deep blue holes I cannot see<br />churn up under the smooth flat rocks.<br />The Greeks have a word, <i>paropono</i>,<br />for the complaint without answer,<br />for how the heart labours, while<br />all the time our faces appear calm<br />enough to float through the moonlight.<br /><br /><br />: maggie anderson, ‘heart labor’; <i>a space filled with moving</i><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-36068614050735321662020-09-03T10:17:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:07:56.388+02:00the collector/ matthew hollisSeek rarity as old men might seek time.<br />
By which you meant such glimpses in the grasses:<br />
<br />
a fledgling bittern, a Norfolk Hawker,<br />
an earthstar last seen in the war;<br />
<br />
and now a scarce fen orchid,<br />
found on just three sites you will not name.<br />
<br />
I've seen it, in the reed beds of the alder carr,<br />
staked to keep it out from under foot,<br />
<br />
You'd barely note its modesty:<br />
its simple, yellow-greening flowers,<br />
<br />
its humble leaves, unscented airs,<br />
so well within the frame of ordinary.<br />
<br />
But scarcity can lend a mind to madness,<br />
to strain to keep in harness what runs out.<br />
<br />
In these numb unnumbered mornings,<br />
our tea-bags clouding in the cup,<br />
<br />
what's common is suddenly so precious:<br />
this sunburst through a pane of glass;<br />
<br />
an arrow of geese<br />
pointed somewhere sout;<br />
<br />
the toddler in the street below<br />
who looks so far to see just up ahead,<br />
<br />
his eyeline tilted skyward,<br />
reaching an ungloved hand for rain.<br />
<br />
: matthew hollis, ‘the collector’; gevonden in <i>the analog sea review </i>#2Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-66817123411420098032020-09-02T08:00:00.005+02:002023-09-08T11:07:58.289+02:00lies about sea creatures/ ada limónI lied about the whales. Fantastical blue <br /> water-dwellers, big, slow moaners of the coastal. <br /> I never saw them. Not once that whole frozen year. <br /> Sure, I saw the raw white gannets hit the waves <br /> so hard it could have been a showy blow hole. <br /> But I knew it wasn’t. Sometimes, you just want <br /> something so hard you have to lie about it, <br /> so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, <br /> how real hunger has a real taste. Someone once <br /> told me gannets, those voracious sea birds <br /> of the North Atlantic chill, go blind from the height <br /> and speed of their dives. But that, too, is a lie. <br /> Gannets never go blind and they certainly never die.<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1"><br /><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
: ada limón, ‘lies about sea creatures’; <i>bright dead things</i></div>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-22040285682981523092020-09-01T08:00:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:08:00.164+02:00choices/ tess gallagherI go to the mountain side<br />of the house to cut saplings,<br />and clear a view to snow<br />
on the mountain. But when I look up,<br />
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in<br />
the uppermost branches.<br />
I don't cut that one.<br />
I don't cut the others either.<br />
Suddenly, in every tree,<br />
an unseen nest<br />
where a mountain<br />
would be.<br />
<br /><br />
: tess gallagher, ‘choices’; <i>midnight lantern: new and selected poems</i>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-9821899283638167662020-08-31T08:00:00.003+02:002023-09-08T11:08:01.943+02:00the blessing/ joyce carol oatesBarefoot daring<br />
to walk<br />
amid<br />
the thrashing eye-glitter<br />
of what remains<br />
when the tide<br />
retreats<br />
we ask ourselves<br />
why did it matter<br />
so much<br />
to have the last<br />
word?<br />
Or any<br />
word?<br />
<br />
Here, please—<br />
take what<br />
remains.<br />
It is yours.<br /><br />
<br />
: joyce carol oates, ‘the blessing’; poetry magazine july/august 2020Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4633424682240336109.post-81644364348672379212020-08-30T08:00:00.004+02:002023-09-08T11:08:04.019+02:00suggested donation/ heather christie<p>In the morning I drink<br />coffee until I can see<br />a way to love life<br />again. It's okay, there's<br />no difference between<br />flying and thinking<br />you're flying until<br />you land. Somehow<br />I own like six nail clippers<br />and I honestly can't<br />remember ever buying<br />even one. My sister<br />came to visit and<br />saw them in a small<br />wooden bowl. I<br />heard her laughing in<br />the bathroom. I hope<br />she never dies. There's <br />no harm in hoping<br />until you land.<br />The deer are awake.<br />Is one pregnant?<br />If they kept diaries<br />the first entry would<br />read: <i>Was born<br />Was licked<br />Tried walking<br /></i>Then they'd walk<br />away and no second<br />entry would ever exist.<br />I run the deer's<br />archive. It's very<br />light work. Visitors<br />must surrender<br />their belongings. <br />Surrender to me<br />your beautiful shirt.<br /><br /></p><p>: heather christie, ‘suggested donation’; via <a href="http://www.instagram.com/poetryisnotaluxury">poetryisnotaluxury</a><br /></p>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02088086096719620747noreply@blogger.com0