I found a white piece of paper
with your name on it
your old phone number written in the dark
loop of your handwriting.
I was standing outside a restaurant
watching this one cloud
float by like foam on a pint of beer
and thinking about how good
you’ve become at not being here anymore, how you
like a storm across the sky of everything.
—Matthew Dickman, opening lines to “Cloud” from The American Poetry Review (v.41 no. 4, July/August 2012) (via apoetreflects)
"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place."
— Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)
"I discovered The Silent Woman, Janet Malcolm’s portrait of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, last fall and read it in just one sitting, the book in one hand and a champagne flute of white wine in the other. I had recently broken all of my wine glasses. I did not break them all at the same time. Some I broke while cleaning, and I was upset that I had managed to destroy something while trying to make it clean, make it better. Other glasses were broken using more theatrical methods, smashing them against walls to prove points. I had also recently broken my bed frame, cracked a rib, and wrecked a series of valuable relationships. Broken things had become my metric. It was fall and this book fell on my head in the Strand. It was fall and everything was falling out of place. It was fall and I felt, constantly, as if I were in a state of vertigo. I could go on. I won’t."
We come to silence by Linda Pastan
We come to silence slowly
Washed into the world
on a wave of sound
we leave it later with closed mouths,
our tongues grown heavy
as stones to anchor us
in earth. Now we hear
wind in the noisy leaves,
a hubbub of water
over the rocks,
the musical warfare
of the birds.
Consider the ear
shaped like the bass clef
Consider the spaces between stars
soliloquies of light.
It is almost time
to hush the children,
to quiet the dogs.
Even your words grow muffled
in my hair, soon
it will be only touch
I know you by.
These are the corridors
of silence, enter
Here Orpheus sleeps,
his harp unstrung.
Here the sound
a leaf makes
falling to ground
may deafen us.
"I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory."
— Julian Barnes, from The Sense of an Ending
"Lift up your dark heart and sing a song about
how time drifts past you like the gentlest, almost
— Jim Harrison, from “Cold Poem,” in Saving Daylight (Copper Canyon Press, 2012)
"What I’ve always liked about Proust is his unabashed shallowness – or, more precisely, his celebration of the power and primacy of fleeting impressions in decision-making."
Last stanza of “L’Albatros” by Charles Baudelaire - five translations.
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.
— Charles Baudelaire, from “L’Albatros” in Les Fleurs du Mal
So too the Poet, like that prince of space,
Who haunts the storm and scorns the archer’s bow:
Mocked, jeered, his giant’s wings hobble his pace
When exiled from his heights to earth below.
—translation by Norman R. Shapiro
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds
Familiar of storms, of stars, and of all high things;
Exiled on earth amidst its hooting crowds,
He cannot walk, borne down by his giant wings.
— translation by Richard Wilbur
The poet is so like this prince of clouds
Who haunted storms and sneered at earthly slings;
Now, banished to the ground, to cackling crowds,
He cannot walk beneath the weight of wings.
— translation by A. Z. Foreman
The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
— translation by William Aggeler
The Poet is a kinsman in the clouds
Who scoffs at archers, loves a stormy day;
But on the ground, among the hooting crowds,
He cannot walk, his wings are in the way.
— translation by James McGowan
"If painting aims to make every organ function as an eye, if it aims to make the very entrails see, and if music makes every organ and pore of the body function as an ear attuned to rhythm and melody, if, as Deleuze suggests, painting ever more deeply materializes the body while music spiritualizes it, this is because, through the various arts, the body is, for a moment at least, directly touched by the forces of chaos from which it so carefully shields itself in habit, cliché, and doxa, those movements of containment that render only predictable and preproduced sensations, not sensations that announce the future."
— Elizabeth Grosz, “Chaos, Cosmos, Territory, Architecture”, in Chaos, Territory, Art: Deleuze and the Framing of the Earth (via groansofcreation)