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

Saturday, September 6, 2014

thus spake the stone





10 comments:

  1. Oh! Your writings have nourished me over and over this week (month, year!) and now this. I want to quote a poem to you, but I've read so many poets this week I can't find it. :-) But I will because it's important, as vital as oxygen. Love you. xo

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  2. Replies
    1. dirk, you're kind, but please, tell me about the world you see, the world you know.

      xo
      erin

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  3. Well, after a nice, cleansing search (ha!) I found the book under my favorite reading chair and the poem I mentioned earlier. Here it is, only for you and your amazing photos:

    Feathers
    By Karina Borowicz

    There's a poem about Icarus
    hope abandoning him to the depths of the ocean

    there's the grainy footage of Lilienthal
    flapping like an angry barnyard hen

    there are all the birdmen
    amassing great collections of feathers

    there's the contentment of the crow
    whose eyes don't smolder
    with a lust for hands

    who doesn't line his nest with our fingernail clippings

    doesn't ponder the mysteries of our mittens
    and gloves fallen on the snow

    has no need to wear a wedding ring
    hold a pen make a fist press two parts of himself
    together in prayer

    the crow is content on the spire
    of a lone blue pine

    he lives easily
    inside his feathers

    from: "The Bees Are Waiting" By Karina Borowicz, page 17

    (It's quite an amazing book, overflowing with luminosity and light. I seldom love the 'all of it' when I get a book of poems, but this one is the rare exception.) xo

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    Replies
    1. i come back to you and this marvelous poem (such a fine gift! i am excited by this! thank you marion)) with a charles wright we read this morning near a lake ... trying our best to take flight from the too often unthinking shackles of what it is to be human.

      Is

      Transcendence is a young man's retreat,
      and resides in a place
      Beyond place, vasty, boundless.
      It hums, unlike the beauty of the world,
      without pause, without mercy.

      If it's an absence, it's we who are absent, not it.
      If it's past cold and colorless,
      it's we who are colorless, not it.
      If it's hidden, it's we who hide.

      March is our medicine,
      we take it at morning, we take it at night.
      It, too, is colorless, it, too, is cold and past tense.
      But it's here, and so are we.

      Each waits for deliverance.
      March, however, unlike ourselves, knows what to expect�
      April again in his Joseph coat.

      The seasons don't care for us. For them,
      transcendence is merely raiment,
      And never a second thought.
      Poor us, they think, poor us in our marly shoes,
      poor us in our grass hair.

      xo
      erin

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  4. I hear the wings beat inside but I can not move and winter is coming

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    Replies
    1. i'll wear snowshoes and cut a trail. follow me. in the still silence of winter the smallest movement is large and the largest movement is swallowed by the vastness. we can't go wrong.

      xo
      erin

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  5. I follow you blindly, we can't go wrong.

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  6. [transparency.]

    Keeping Things Whole

    In a field
    I am the absence
    of field.
    This is
    always the case.
    Wherever I am
    I am what is missing.

    When I walk
    I part the air
    and always
    the air moves in
    to fill the spaces
    where my body's been.

    We all have reasons
    for moving.
    I move
    to keep things whole.

    Mark Strand

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    Replies
    1. oh, thank you)) i know this strand poem, ruth. it's a very good one and one in its essence which is important to me. what is life but void and form, and momentum the bridge between the two? wholeness has been blasted to pieces, thank god. distance inserted. and at the foot of this all possibility has been born. i think of rilke's conversions, translations. they are void and form moving life along a ladder, not climbing upward but outward. and invariably in the end, inward once again to a new kind of implosion. perhaps we are brief stars, our final burst of energy meeting once again in its entirety, its origin.

      and then again new life, more rungs along the ladder.

      xo
      erin

      xo
      erin

      Delete

"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))