(no subject)
We continue to
create new these
boundaries and
territories, hand-shook treaties,
rebuilt points of enterance after that explosion,
border walls, immigration laws
or passwords
yeah, mostly that spoken unspokenly
hang-up routines or whispered text
moments of frailty
digitalized;
- to now say 'I know you'
whereas before maybe hoping
you'd know me -
but we don't read the news enough
to justify these national relation metaphors
we talk through it,
we push at them,
ourselves
just to see what it feels like pressed
up against a new edge and
to see things,
to look out
into the blaze
from another point on our bodies.
I bargained with the man at the Reuse center some old windows down from $40 to $5 and unscrewed and rescrewed parts to new areas. With my arm and a driver I twisted spiraled metal into wood. It was so easy. The parts become a whole. Put them on my wall with the other things that hang and reflect back to me my mind's patterns and like rubbing a smooth North Shore stone, but not so limited, these colors and fibers compartments boxes - categories - are talking, something is being said to me but I translate slowly. Ends are deaths, not so bad, something to look back on, a novel or passage (adventure!) or conversation, the world of becoming, living like a ruin, a whole, an entire. At some point in the process. Oh, you know. By that, I mean, I know. I know this makes no sense.
New bodies, what a weird deal, discovery at a touch. I read Sappho and get wet, no other poet (that I don't know in person) really does that to me.
Fragment 52
I would not think to touch the sky with two arms
Fragment 56
not one girl I think
who looks on the light of the sun
will ever
have wisdom
like this
Fragment 147
someone will remember us
I say
even in another time
It's yet fall though I can't stop talking about winter. I don't know for sure that I'm excited, but I'm craving a gasp of cold and to witness all these buildings hazy in grey sky, snow fall, to wrestle with this dog, bundling, shivering, warming up. I don't know. It's a sad season, but like all things sad, they remain somehow beautiful. It's that living, that ruin.
Fragment 22
]
]work
]face
]
]
if not, winter
]no pain
]]I bid you sing
of Gongyla, Abanthis, taking up
your lyre as (now again) longing
floats around you,
you beauty. For her dress when you saw it
stirred you. And I rejoice.
In fact she herself once blamed me
Kyprogeneia
because I prayed
this word:
I want
(translated by Anne Carson)
Today! I read and write
This Evening! I talk and talk
Tonight! I dress up and drink
create new these
boundaries and
territories, hand-shook treaties,
rebuilt points of enterance after that explosion,
border walls, immigration laws
or passwords
yeah, mostly that spoken unspokenly
hang-up routines or whispered text
moments of frailty
digitalized;
- to now say 'I know you'
whereas before maybe hoping
you'd know me -
but we don't read the news enough
to justify these national relation metaphors
we talk through it,
we push at them,
ourselves
just to see what it feels like pressed
up against a new edge and
to see things,
to look out
into the blaze
from another point on our bodies.
I bargained with the man at the Reuse center some old windows down from $40 to $5 and unscrewed and rescrewed parts to new areas. With my arm and a driver I twisted spiraled metal into wood. It was so easy. The parts become a whole. Put them on my wall with the other things that hang and reflect back to me my mind's patterns and like rubbing a smooth North Shore stone, but not so limited, these colors and fibers compartments boxes - categories - are talking, something is being said to me but I translate slowly. Ends are deaths, not so bad, something to look back on, a novel or passage (adventure!) or conversation, the world of becoming, living like a ruin, a whole, an entire. At some point in the process. Oh, you know. By that, I mean, I know. I know this makes no sense.
New bodies, what a weird deal, discovery at a touch. I read Sappho and get wet, no other poet (that I don't know in person) really does that to me.
Fragment 52
I would not think to touch the sky with two arms
Fragment 56
not one girl I think
who looks on the light of the sun
will ever
have wisdom
like this
Fragment 147
someone will remember us
I say
even in another time
It's yet fall though I can't stop talking about winter. I don't know for sure that I'm excited, but I'm craving a gasp of cold and to witness all these buildings hazy in grey sky, snow fall, to wrestle with this dog, bundling, shivering, warming up. I don't know. It's a sad season, but like all things sad, they remain somehow beautiful. It's that living, that ruin.
Fragment 22
]
]work
]face
]
]
if not, winter
]no pain
]]I bid you sing
of Gongyla, Abanthis, taking up
your lyre as (now again) longing
floats around you,
you beauty. For her dress when you saw it
stirred you. And I rejoice.
In fact she herself once blamed me
Kyprogeneia
because I prayed
this word:
I want
(translated by Anne Carson)
Today! I read and write
This Evening! I talk and talk
Tonight! I dress up and drink