obsessive_a101: (Daisuke)
The weather is beautiful today, and it just seemed perfect for a walk. :)

Spent so long
staring at the sky
So far away...
Just realizing -
It's never been
about distance
Being opportune
Still waiting
To plant these feet
on solid ground
The wanting is long
It is weary
But worthwhile
Because then it's just
looking up
everything locked into place
moving around and around
obsessive_a101: (Default)
This woman is wonderful. I'm so grateful to my professor for organizing the poetry reading; this woman is just amazing to meet and see in person. Anyway, the last from Susan Howe's "Chair" series excerpt in my book:

To the Compiler of Memories

Frequent exposure to night air

An inattention to the necessity

of changing damp clothes

Sweet affliction sweet affliction

Singing as I wade to heaven

obsessive_a101: (Default)
I'm on a really strong Ilya Kaminsky kick right now... He's a little more coherent then Celan, but he has the most interesting weaving of memory and fancy and life into his poems.

"Author's Prayer"
If I speak for the dead, I must leave
the animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the ede
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What year is it?"
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.



This poem, for whatever reason, haunts me:

Maestro )The dynamics between him and Celan are so different. He writes in English though much of his work thus far, especially in this volume that harkens back to his birthplace in Odessa, involves Russia, a homeland that's no longer home. On the other side of this struggle is Celan, someone who survived the Holocaust and became a German poet, though he resided in Paris until the day he committed suicide at fifty. He grew this love-hate relationship with the German language, unable to resist writing in it though he was fluent in several other languages. If anyone's interested, I highly recommend "Death Fugue." One of his earliest works and clearly influenced by his past though it's a past he tries to avoid wallowing in in his later pieces.


obsessive_a101: (Kyouya... Lost)
Drop by drop the water falls
Sliding down the arcs of leaves
Moving curve by curve
"Til it hangs at last precariously
Clutching, clutching an end (a beginning)

Mayhaps it'll be happier in the puddle
If it falls and lands and drowns
Joins the mass of overflowing fluid
Once individual droplets
But it clutches, clutches the tipping point

A little drop clinging and clinging
Until another comes to knock it away
But now it falls unworried
For the replacement will remember
As it will clutch, clutching...

One out of the mass, the crowd, which surges and surrounds
Drip drop Plip plop echoes through the night
Is that the only choice chosen not to be made?


obsessive_a101: (Default)

August 2015



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