"Suddenly I'm all alone in the world. I see all this from the summit of a mental rooftop. I'm alone in the world. To see is to be distant. To see clearly is to halt. To analyse is to be foreign. No one who passes by touches me. Around me there is only air. I'm so isolated I can feel the distance between me and my suit. I'm a child in a nightshirt carrying a dimly lit candle and traversing a huge empty house. Living shadows surround me - only shadows, offspring of stiff furniture and of the light I carry. Here in the sunlight they surround me but are people."
"Life, for me, is a drowsiness that never reaches the brain. This I keep free, so that I can be sad there."
***"All I asked of life is that it ask nothing of me. At the door of the cottage I never had, I sat in the sunlight that never fell there, and I enjoyed the future old age of my tired reality (glad that I hadn't arrived there yet). To still not have died is enough for life's wretches, and to still have hope...
....satisfied with dreams only when I'm not dreaming, satisfied with the world only when I'm dreaming far away from it. A swinging pendulum, back and forth, forever moving to arrive nowhere, eternally captive to the twin fatality of a center and a useless motion." ****
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
goodness gracious!
Elegy
by Miguel Hernández
(In Orihuela, his town and mine, like lightning
death took Ramo Sijé, whom I so loved)
I wish I was the gardener whose tears
water the earth you fill and fertilise,
my closest friend, so suddenly.
With my useless grief nourishing the rains,
the snails, and the body’s organs,
I shall feed your heart
to the wasting poppies.
Grief bunches up in my ribs
until just breathing is painful.
A hard punch, a frozen fist,
an invisible, homicidal axe-blow,
a brutal shove has knocked you down.
Nothing gapes wider than my wound
I cry over this disaster, over everything,
and feel your death more than my life.
I walk over the stubble of the dead,
and without warmth or consolation from anyone
I leave my heart behind, and mind my business.
Death flew off with you too soon,
dawn dawned too soon,
you were put into earth too soon.
I won’t forgive lovestruck death,
I won’t forgive this indifferent life,
I won’t forgive the earth, or anything.
In my hands a torrent of rocks
is brewing, lightning, vicious axes,
thirsting and starved for catastrophe.
I want to carve up the eath with my teeth,
I want to break up the earth chunk by chunk
in dry fiery mouthfuls.
I want to mine the earth till I find you,
and can kiss your noble skull,
ungag and revive you.
You’ll come back to my orchard, and my fig tree:
high up in the blossoms your soul
will flutter its wings, gathering
the wax and honey of angelic hives.
You’ll come back to the ploughs’ lullaby
of lovestruck farmhands.
You’ll bring light to my darkened face,
and your blood will have to pulse back and forth
between your bride and the bees.
My greedy lovesick voice
calls your heart, now crumpled velvet,
to a field of frothy almond sprays.
I call you to come to the flying souls
of the milky blossoms because
we have so many things to talk about,
my friend, my very best friend.
You were like the young fig tree
by Miguel Hernández
You were like the young
fig tree by the cliffs.
And when I passed by
you filled the sierra with sound.
Like the young fig tree,
resplendent and blind.
You are like the fig tree.
The old fig tree.
I pass, and silence
and dry leaves greet me.
You are like the fig tree
that lightning struck old.
by Miguel Hernández
(In Orihuela, his town and mine, like lightning
death took Ramo Sijé, whom I so loved)
I wish I was the gardener whose tears
water the earth you fill and fertilise,
my closest friend, so suddenly.
With my useless grief nourishing the rains,
the snails, and the body’s organs,
I shall feed your heart
to the wasting poppies.
Grief bunches up in my ribs
until just breathing is painful.
A hard punch, a frozen fist,
an invisible, homicidal axe-blow,
a brutal shove has knocked you down.
Nothing gapes wider than my wound
I cry over this disaster, over everything,
and feel your death more than my life.
I walk over the stubble of the dead,
and without warmth or consolation from anyone
I leave my heart behind, and mind my business.
Death flew off with you too soon,
dawn dawned too soon,
you were put into earth too soon.
I won’t forgive lovestruck death,
I won’t forgive this indifferent life,
I won’t forgive the earth, or anything.
In my hands a torrent of rocks
is brewing, lightning, vicious axes,
thirsting and starved for catastrophe.
I want to carve up the eath with my teeth,
I want to break up the earth chunk by chunk
in dry fiery mouthfuls.
I want to mine the earth till I find you,
and can kiss your noble skull,
ungag and revive you.
You’ll come back to my orchard, and my fig tree:
high up in the blossoms your soul
will flutter its wings, gathering
the wax and honey of angelic hives.
You’ll come back to the ploughs’ lullaby
of lovestruck farmhands.
You’ll bring light to my darkened face,
and your blood will have to pulse back and forth
between your bride and the bees.
My greedy lovesick voice
calls your heart, now crumpled velvet,
to a field of frothy almond sprays.
I call you to come to the flying souls
of the milky blossoms because
we have so many things to talk about,
my friend, my very best friend.
You were like the young fig tree
by Miguel Hernández
You were like the young
fig tree by the cliffs.
And when I passed by
you filled the sierra with sound.
Like the young fig tree,
resplendent and blind.
You are like the fig tree.
The old fig tree.
I pass, and silence
and dry leaves greet me.
You are like the fig tree
that lightning struck old.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Easter Sunday.. another little story by me
Easter Sunday
It was Easter, but he didn't know it. The plastic Easter eggs from last year had been left out all year, filled with sand, and used as paper weights on top of the big desk in the dusty room. Inside the house it was still November, it was always November. It was never young and it would never be old enough. The old woman lived in the dusty room with the Easter eggs. She was dying. She had been dying for as long as he could remember. But she never died fast enough. And she never got well either. Maybe she never got well because she had never been sick. But he was not to say such things. Instead he tiptoed past the door to the dusty room and held his breath lest he should wake her. "I'll show you!" she'd screech. "I'll show you fear in a handful of dust! Just look at this!" she'd say. "Just look!" and she'd stretch out her hand that was withered and yellow like old newspaper, and he hadn't known better. He had looked right at her. At the sagging skin that looked like it had been melted against her pointy bones. But it wasn't the sunken skin that scared him; it wasn't the ashen complexion. The eyes were black, but it wasn't even that. It was the twinkle in them. It was the twinkle out of black eyes that was all that was left alive in her and that wanted him to see fear in a handful of dust. Fear in a handful of ..
"..soil. Now this is soil, and it's not even frozen like it was last month, remember when we found the cat stuck stiff to it?" his father reminded him. He watched his father sift the soil through his fingers and pick it up again and sift it again. He looked and he could not see the difference. "See this is what happens when the winter ends. It all softens up again so I can replant everything. And then it'll grow and we can eat it, just like last year with those watermelons. Remember?" But he still couldn't see the difference. The grass was still short and brown and brittle and it was still cold. There was only one feeble patch of green beside the gnarled rosebush skeleton. And all the rest was brown. "See, we'll have another garden just where it was last year and we'll grow watermelons again," his father explained as he shifted his foot against the clumping dirt. He sifted more of it through is fingers and turned to spit tobacco juice which landed on the patch of green beside the gnarled skeleton. "There," he thought to himself, "now it matches."
It was Easter, but he didn't know it. The plastic Easter eggs from last year had been left out all year, filled with sand, and used as paper weights on top of the big desk in the dusty room. Inside the house it was still November, it was always November. It was never young and it would never be old enough. The old woman lived in the dusty room with the Easter eggs. She was dying. She had been dying for as long as he could remember. But she never died fast enough. And she never got well either. Maybe she never got well because she had never been sick. But he was not to say such things. Instead he tiptoed past the door to the dusty room and held his breath lest he should wake her. "I'll show you!" she'd screech. "I'll show you fear in a handful of dust! Just look at this!" she'd say. "Just look!" and she'd stretch out her hand that was withered and yellow like old newspaper, and he hadn't known better. He had looked right at her. At the sagging skin that looked like it had been melted against her pointy bones. But it wasn't the sunken skin that scared him; it wasn't the ashen complexion. The eyes were black, but it wasn't even that. It was the twinkle in them. It was the twinkle out of black eyes that was all that was left alive in her and that wanted him to see fear in a handful of dust. Fear in a handful of ..
"..soil. Now this is soil, and it's not even frozen like it was last month, remember when we found the cat stuck stiff to it?" his father reminded him. He watched his father sift the soil through his fingers and pick it up again and sift it again. He looked and he could not see the difference. "See this is what happens when the winter ends. It all softens up again so I can replant everything. And then it'll grow and we can eat it, just like last year with those watermelons. Remember?" But he still couldn't see the difference. The grass was still short and brown and brittle and it was still cold. There was only one feeble patch of green beside the gnarled rosebush skeleton. And all the rest was brown. "See, we'll have another garden just where it was last year and we'll grow watermelons again," his father explained as he shifted his foot against the clumping dirt. He sifted more of it through is fingers and turned to spit tobacco juice which landed on the patch of green beside the gnarled skeleton. "There," he thought to himself, "now it matches."
Moon River: a disturbing little story by me
Moon River
She had gravel in her voice when she screamed, and I listened with annoyance because it was that screaming that kept me from concentrating. She screamed like she was special, like she was losing something, like she didn't deserve to be lying there like that, with the back of her head smashed into the pillow and his cold hand that felt like metal crushing both of hers against the headboard. And I hoped that soon she'd realize that it was nothing personal; it had nothing to do with her, just him. And I finally gave up on the book I'd been struggling to read all evening, and leaning back with my eyes closed, tried to focus my mind on Moon River, whose haunting melody could be heard echoing through the house at any given moment. I listened to his angel voice that spewed out every dununciation he could muster just beneath her weakening shrieks, and I pictured his eyes, pale blue and so tired.
"..ohh dream-maker, you heart-breaker.."
Almost fifteen minutes had passed when the screaming abruptly stopped and was replaced by trembling sobs, which sounded closer and closer as the girl stumbled down the hallway and spilled into the living room, where I sat with half-opened eyes. I glanced up and saw that she was a tiny brunette with big eyes and a pixie face. Her tears and mascara had run down her cheeks, making lines that looked like cracks in her blotchy, red skin. I watched her nervous hands that hugged her skirt against her narrow hips, since she was in too much of a hurry to zip it back up, and I was just as disgusted with her as he must have been. After all, she should have known what she was getting herself into. She should have realized that drug addicts don't make very good boyfriends. And what was she doing going home with someone she barely knew in the first place? She paused for a second and looked at me with her desperate Barbie-doll eyes, as if silently asking me for help, but I only met her tears with my usual tired glare, which shifted to the other side of the room as he tore through the doorway roaring, "I SAID GET OUT!!!" Then he fell back into a chair across from me as the door slammed behind her.
My eyes followed her through the window by the front door as she hurried down the sidewalk and into a neighborhood full of people who were either sleeping heavily or not home from work yet. Then my voice sounded sharply, "Can't you at least gag them with something from now on; I'm sick of all that noise."
But he didn't answer. Instead he sat on the edge of the chair with his head in his hands and stared at the floor with eyes that weren't guilty, just hurt. And I couldn't believe that I'd used that tone of voice with him. I couldn't believe that I had allowed a hint of anger to seep into my voice when I knew that none of it was his fault. He didn't rape girl after girl because he wanted to; it was just something that he had to do, to work out his demons, so to speak. After all, didn't his eyes harbor just as much hurt in the aftermath as theirs did, although admittedly a different kind of hurt? He was a little less than perfect as he sat staring through heavy eyelids at truths only he could decipher. And I couldn't help wondering, as I noticed that his pants were still unbuttoned and his open Oxford shirt had a stain on the front, probably from some nose bleed or another, what had happened to make angels become like this.
Moon River still floated idly around us. Everything was calm, and I had begun to wonder if he knew I was there when his eyes moved up and locked with mine, and then, "You never feel like one of them, do you?"
I looked down and thought it funny that our eyes talked more than we did. And I tried to look thoughtful as I searched for an answer.
"I'm not so sure the world deserves us..."
And finally I looked at his shoes and whispered, "I wouldn't scream."
She had gravel in her voice when she screamed, and I listened with annoyance because it was that screaming that kept me from concentrating. She screamed like she was special, like she was losing something, like she didn't deserve to be lying there like that, with the back of her head smashed into the pillow and his cold hand that felt like metal crushing both of hers against the headboard. And I hoped that soon she'd realize that it was nothing personal; it had nothing to do with her, just him. And I finally gave up on the book I'd been struggling to read all evening, and leaning back with my eyes closed, tried to focus my mind on Moon River, whose haunting melody could be heard echoing through the house at any given moment. I listened to his angel voice that spewed out every dununciation he could muster just beneath her weakening shrieks, and I pictured his eyes, pale blue and so tired.
"..ohh dream-maker, you heart-breaker.."
Almost fifteen minutes had passed when the screaming abruptly stopped and was replaced by trembling sobs, which sounded closer and closer as the girl stumbled down the hallway and spilled into the living room, where I sat with half-opened eyes. I glanced up and saw that she was a tiny brunette with big eyes and a pixie face. Her tears and mascara had run down her cheeks, making lines that looked like cracks in her blotchy, red skin. I watched her nervous hands that hugged her skirt against her narrow hips, since she was in too much of a hurry to zip it back up, and I was just as disgusted with her as he must have been. After all, she should have known what she was getting herself into. She should have realized that drug addicts don't make very good boyfriends. And what was she doing going home with someone she barely knew in the first place? She paused for a second and looked at me with her desperate Barbie-doll eyes, as if silently asking me for help, but I only met her tears with my usual tired glare, which shifted to the other side of the room as he tore through the doorway roaring, "I SAID GET OUT!!!" Then he fell back into a chair across from me as the door slammed behind her.
My eyes followed her through the window by the front door as she hurried down the sidewalk and into a neighborhood full of people who were either sleeping heavily or not home from work yet. Then my voice sounded sharply, "Can't you at least gag them with something from now on; I'm sick of all that noise."
But he didn't answer. Instead he sat on the edge of the chair with his head in his hands and stared at the floor with eyes that weren't guilty, just hurt. And I couldn't believe that I'd used that tone of voice with him. I couldn't believe that I had allowed a hint of anger to seep into my voice when I knew that none of it was his fault. He didn't rape girl after girl because he wanted to; it was just something that he had to do, to work out his demons, so to speak. After all, didn't his eyes harbor just as much hurt in the aftermath as theirs did, although admittedly a different kind of hurt? He was a little less than perfect as he sat staring through heavy eyelids at truths only he could decipher. And I couldn't help wondering, as I noticed that his pants were still unbuttoned and his open Oxford shirt had a stain on the front, probably from some nose bleed or another, what had happened to make angels become like this.
Moon River still floated idly around us. Everything was calm, and I had begun to wonder if he knew I was there when his eyes moved up and locked with mine, and then, "You never feel like one of them, do you?"
I looked down and thought it funny that our eyes talked more than we did. And I tried to look thoughtful as I searched for an answer.
"I'm not so sure the world deserves us..."
And finally I looked at his shoes and whispered, "I wouldn't scream."
the love poems
more from ages ago....
Good Night
The timing was off...
But the violins in our heads
dulled our senses
until everything was quietly Victorian.
You saved some time
and what was lost?
Stars were the words
you never heard, I know
though they screamed in your
ears from light years away.
Love #1
it's the purple that turned me off of passion fruit
my eyes never could get past
the sickness
the gangrene
that gnawed away at the skin.
Love #2
I stared at
the tangled mess of petals and thorns
that you mistook for something beautiful.
It wasn't much of a vision to me--
No, I guess I'm not in love after all.
untitled
For three years,
forty-six days,
and twenty-odd minutes,
I've been hanging on the edge
waiting for you to rescue me.
And you whispered in my ear,
"Hang on,
God is on your side."
So I held,
My grip tighter than death.
I peered down, then back to you,
then down again.
And as my hand began to slip
and God paid no mind,
a funny thought occurred:
I wouldn't need God
if you were on my side.
Le Charmeur de Serpents
your voice is on me
like rain when you're away
and suddenly,
we're in love again.
Je ne lis pas la langue de ton coeur.
Good Night
The timing was off...
But the violins in our heads
dulled our senses
until everything was quietly Victorian.
You saved some time
and what was lost?
Stars were the words
you never heard, I know
though they screamed in your
ears from light years away.
Love #1
it's the purple that turned me off of passion fruit
my eyes never could get past
the sickness
the gangrene
that gnawed away at the skin.
Love #2
I stared at
the tangled mess of petals and thorns
that you mistook for something beautiful.
It wasn't much of a vision to me--
No, I guess I'm not in love after all.
untitled
For three years,
forty-six days,
and twenty-odd minutes,
I've been hanging on the edge
waiting for you to rescue me.
And you whispered in my ear,
"Hang on,
God is on your side."
So I held,
My grip tighter than death.
I peered down, then back to you,
then down again.
And as my hand began to slip
and God paid no mind,
a funny thought occurred:
I wouldn't need God
if you were on my side.
Le Charmeur de Serpents
your voice is on me
like rain when you're away
and suddenly,
we're in love again.
Je ne lis pas la langue de ton coeur.
The Season Poems
These are some more that I wrote back then.. all on seasons..
Spring
And I believe you when you tell me
this is spring.
And I see the birth of greenness
in the trees.
But why does the frost still come
and why do my eyes still close
when the light gets too bright?
Summer
the bananas
in the frayed wicker basket
soften
and blacken
in summer's brutal sun.
Autumn # 1
if a violin ever had the heart to weep for november,
her tears would be dying autumn leaves.
not worth holding on to,
treasuring,
nurturing or protecting.
only worth condemning,
crushing,
crumbling to dust,
feeling the death of a season
in your own bare hands.
autumn # 2
autumn is so like death
all ash and dust
so old
like a book in some forgotten library
i never asked to visit.
i never wanted to see you
dead, dying
just to see your crumbling hands
the way they were
winter
it is said that
god has a beard
so white
so long
so dreaded
as to be compared to winter.
Spring
And I believe you when you tell me
this is spring.
And I see the birth of greenness
in the trees.
But why does the frost still come
and why do my eyes still close
when the light gets too bright?
Summer
the bananas
in the frayed wicker basket
soften
and blacken
in summer's brutal sun.
Autumn # 1
if a violin ever had the heart to weep for november,
her tears would be dying autumn leaves.
not worth holding on to,
treasuring,
nurturing or protecting.
only worth condemning,
crushing,
crumbling to dust,
feeling the death of a season
in your own bare hands.
autumn # 2
autumn is so like death
all ash and dust
so old
like a book in some forgotten library
i never asked to visit.
i never wanted to see you
dead, dying
just to see your crumbling hands
the way they were
winter
it is said that
god has a beard
so white
so long
so dreaded
as to be compared to winter.
the youssoupov files..
So, I came across some old old stuff that I wrote a long long time ago. This set is all focused on Felix Youssoupov, a prince from imperial Russia. You might want to check wikipedia for some background info to understand it a little better. but here we go.... (and please remember, this stuff is very old) (and also remember, if you look into Youssoupov at all, that there are many variation on the spelling of his name, including, but not limited to: yusupof, yusupov, yusoupov,youssoupof, etc) A brief intro can be found here. And I actually have the book mentioned by Greg King and it's wonderful! You should pick it up!
Imperial Ruin
Blue, but aren't all dripping fountains?
St. Petersburg wore a crown, wore a frown
and dying autumn leaves were its hands.
Discarded Roman numerals, I wish.
Youssoupovian beauty at its brightest,
Seducing a fascist next year at this time.
youssoupov
it takes a pretty little prince like you
to kill
not for national glory
but to finally feel a big, strong man gasping in your arms.
As if all the rouge in the world could ever
put the glimmer back in your eyes
(as if you'll ever be half the man
you dreamt of seducing)
In Russia
In Russia
the tourists will line up for miles
just to see the cellar
in Youssoupov Palace
on the Moika Canal.
They smuggle in cameras
and touch everything --
hoping to absorb some historical essence.
They look around
and they are unimpressed.
After all, the blood was mopped up decades ago,
and there is no chalk outline on the stiff concrete.
Youssoupov's Last Glance at Rasputin's Body over the Bridge on the River Neva
i wonder if anyone heard the splash
when your body slid through the ice
and into the neva river.
could the water have been cold
to a man whose breath was so hot,
whose strong hands could burn through
old money, just like that?
i watched you float to the top --
just beneath the solid blanket of ice.
did anyone see the smile you flashed at me
or the wink i offered in return?
Imperial Ruin
Blue, but aren't all dripping fountains?
St. Petersburg wore a crown, wore a frown
and dying autumn leaves were its hands.
Discarded Roman numerals, I wish.
Youssoupovian beauty at its brightest,
Seducing a fascist next year at this time.
youssoupov
it takes a pretty little prince like you
to kill
not for national glory
but to finally feel a big, strong man gasping in your arms.
As if all the rouge in the world could ever
put the glimmer back in your eyes
(as if you'll ever be half the man
you dreamt of seducing)
In Russia
In Russia
the tourists will line up for miles
just to see the cellar
in Youssoupov Palace
on the Moika Canal.
They smuggle in cameras
and touch everything --
hoping to absorb some historical essence.
They look around
and they are unimpressed.
After all, the blood was mopped up decades ago,
and there is no chalk outline on the stiff concrete.
Youssoupov's Last Glance at Rasputin's Body over the Bridge on the River Neva
i wonder if anyone heard the splash
when your body slid through the ice
and into the neva river.
could the water have been cold
to a man whose breath was so hot,
whose strong hands could burn through
old money, just like that?
i watched you float to the top --
just beneath the solid blanket of ice.
did anyone see the smile you flashed at me
or the wink i offered in return?
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