not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

no words required - just put your hand here


  1. i finally got around to it yesterday: the touch.

  2. and so i hug you!

    i hope you did not have to wonder for a moment where the heartbeat was. it was in you and through you, through the tree and plunging through the deep earth and then through every rabbit, fox, crow, through every person, idea, shift of light. i hope you felt that connection, andreas. if you didn't, i laugh, you must go again. again and again.

    i wonder, did you use your hands or did you dare your mouth?

    can you imagine how many different spirits of trees there are? (i get so excited!) when i shot these ones it was an especially dangerous day, freezing rain, the one i think i told you about, sliding down the hill sideways in my car. and yet i had to go back up the hill once my car was safe. and each tree elicited a gasp from me, each face so different, so defined, so timeless. even now it is almost too much to contemplate.

    i am happy, andreas. thank you.))


  3. Not only have to touch them, I have embraced.
    Lying if I said I felt the spirit of the tree, but inside it was more a question of mine, a way to reconcile with nature. Thinking we were on the same level that we were a unit but I have no illusions, I have not felt any internal flow, maybe if it felt the tree.

    I remember this poem by Dylan Thomas speaks of this, fortunately I have a bilingual edition.

    The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

    The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
    Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
    Is my destroyer.
    And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
    My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

    The force that drives the water through the rocks
    Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
    Turn mine to wax.
    And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
    How at the mountains spring the same mouth sucks.

    The hand that whirls the water in the pool
    Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
    Hauls my shroud sail.
    And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
    How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

    The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
    Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
    Shall calm her sores.
    And I am dumb to tell a weather’s Wind
    How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

    And I am dumb to tlell the lover’s tomb
    How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

  4. damaso, i am in love with this poem. i have to say, i loved it when i read it first yesterday but i have been struggling to put into words what feelings and ideas it elicits in me. and with just a little investigation i understand why, how do we put into linear form that which draws from such varying and living components of life? the poem itself is alive like an organism, dying back on itself, giving birth to itself, over and over again. i think i could spend a good long time inside of this poem. i have always loved thomas' fern hill and never read him any further. what a shame. this is an important piece. i have recently just picked up a secondhand copy of under milkwood. i look forward to reading it now so much more. thank you!

    i quite liked this quick article on the poem.

    i think this is a very important statement made in the article regarding all poetry: We do not have the power to express these truths without the contamination of language, and all that it brings. (Language is a virus, William Burroughs)And I am dumb to tell. The only way for language to express such an Idea, such a truth, is through poetry like this: abstract, incantatory, centred on the breath and the physical body, the energy of song itself.

    this is very exciting for me:)


  5. I'm glad you liked the poem, the book was abandoned in the library. I bought when I was 19 or 20 years and was my bedside for a long time.
    It is a difficult poet because his poetry is often confusing, dark, often suggests a lot but does not specify anything. But is installed within one and you get to the bottom. His poetry is a poetry organic and sensory.
    I totally agree with Burroughs, language is a virus and also add that the different languages ​​are a wall.
    I'm going back to study English.
    Your friend,

  6. damaso, let's view language as a bridge instead.)

    (today i am learning walls can be bridges. and then i remember i knew this months ago and forgot. so it is there is always room for me to learn, as i forget so much.)



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))