And that's what I'm doing. Dedicated to VladimirJustL Menippus I can see only bones and bare skulls; most of them look exactly alike. Hermes That's what the poets have admired, the bones. And only you don't seem to think much of them. Lucian On the way from nature to being walls are not really kind, walls soaked with the urine of talents, walls running with the spittle of eunuchs in revolt against the spirit, walls no smaller for not yet bein g born, walls that enclose the ripened fruit..
Its meaning, which like amazement should be festive, with the decline of the times, in face of the possible signs of his absence becomes a supercharge levied on every apartment 63 into which a director has rudely shoved his way. Fraud alone is certainty here. And the spectator, crawling out before his time like St George's dragon, basks in the bile of the critics And those who dare to map desire are at their ease, though their bad temper shows that the brute is always with us..
And the male of the species, that opener, feels dumb simply because the spirit always moves forward while everything closes behind it.. He had an arm missing and evening rolled through the empty sleeve of his coat. So he made up his mind to admit the jinn and exclude the apparently unrevealed mysteries, and caught between himself and himself , to plead for the abyss. There was no refuge Nowhere, not even in the unconscious But he was there, Hamlet, who like a Mozart-tippler 6verturned the Alps in order to stand a bottle shakily on the creaking stairs of the fear of death, so locked in himself that all immortality could fit inside him And it is true that in his presence the knife raised above a sheep would not cut and the melted pewter of old baptismal fonts returned to its primal form.
He got in the way of eternity and had to heal the wound. He was in the grave of the father and had to be the child of the sons He was face to face with the holy spirit of music. Oh, not that he knew everything, for he well understood that when egoism overeats it doesn't throw up but digests and starts again not that he was wise, like a single wooden pillar among columns of stone not that he trembled like an aspen facing that ancient floor painted with menstrual blood not that he was a miser, thinking of final things and living in King Atreus' tomb where the treasury led straight to the charnel-house not that it mattered to him whether Alexander the Great's crooked neck had straightened out anything in history no, no, but I always see his grimace at those for whom any mystery is a void into which they hurl all the fury of the castrated He who gives is still a miser They are enlightened but don't give light They are thin-blooded yet for them nothing exists unless blood is shed, they are damned though not yet excommunicated, they are curious but haven't found the mirror in which Helen-Helen looked at herself from below-from below, and they are so deaf they would like to hear Chrises voice on a disc.
A green hawthorn leaned over the wall scattering on the road the buds of its curiosity. The window opened the wind, bringing a draught: Your deeds are many and yet none, but to do and to be is the envy of everyone! Night smoked history, ate the fried wings cut from Mercury's ankles, and drank it down with the sweat ofSt Tragedy's organist Our body is not a canvas hangar for cutting into strips But our subconscious plays tricks Even if we give alms, it is we who profit! So it is when we make love in error Yet no! The groping sex of human beings means only to have the relation without the man And yet love's liver is found in sin.
The tensing of the body reminds you of the profaning and chastisement of the spirit.. Consider how heavy a cat suddenly becomes when dead, while some man will spend the whole day shooting sparrows! Yes, there is the shame of a man and the shame of a woman. A man cannot bear to look at cotton-wool. And woman? No sooner born in the dry season, she is already flattering the rains.. They will play with a cupboard full of secrets and finally carry off the key within themselves. Or they are ill and secretly open the letters of an imprisoned poet who used to pay for his own little room simply because the letter was opened by them.
Or when ill they see in their dreams a pIllar of fire and cry: It's a bough, a vein of God! Or in illness cannot free their minds of the unending handwork of women which aims only at keeping them warm. Every moment hands reach for the slices of bread And when they run out of the barn they may trample on the last grain oflast year's harvest so that soon they will be more temptc;d. They are as full oflife as a horse that doesn't feel its rider a stranger but its own thought They have found the true names, we have only to pronounce them!
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I said. But he didn't take it badly and said: 'Po-pa! I asked and he replied: 'They talk that way in Tibet! But Ihave known convicts. For some of them it's enough to imagine huge backsides, huge only because the leaden memory of the same crime forces them to squat without legs, unless they are swollen from all the beatings, since they smell of tar And the man replied: "It's worse when a ship is late, you, I mean, who like a ship leave in you under you a continuous line..
Whereas virgins, yes, they know when a tree is unwell And the cloth of their 'innocence always covers the niale graftings, even if their stockings are made from the hair of whores Freedom, you know, is always kin to voluntary poverty.. It bowed to the earth or became a tomb for everything the living and the dead were doing Maybe the living felt shy and were insolent.. I understood when Hamlet said, not knowing my thoughts: 'What only surrounds us now. Once I was present. One of countless flames was enough for me to notice that the whole hand of a fish-pond keeper who was there had only a single joint and to make me think of the bony sculpture of nothing upon nothing The hair of a hanged man is more sensitive when silky on the spine and comes no closer to being than to the hairs of knowledge.
But right now I'm expecting guests, I added, annoyed that h. But what moves a mother would shatter argosies on the open sea I had this feeling once while hunting white falcon It also rises from Chinese tombs And the tables of Moses say the same While hunting white falcon I have felt rhythm, before the tables of Moses, movement, by the Chinese tombs, the symphony of rhythm, and, among the Ainus, gods, near, far, light and heavy..
Yes, to see each other and talk together and feel a warm trust and heartbeat true as Rembrandt's needles, though each of us is different from the other for that is what the soul does , and yet not to catch the serpent by another's hand. A jet engine is not for the poet And as a tree remains a tree while it bears some fruit that ripens too soon and some at the right time and some still later no, one cannot hurry with words for we do not nor have we come from the pitiable right of mankind to be human for man's sake!
Effective love, you know? The everyday is the miraculous The greater the poem, the greater the poet, 'and not the contrary! Yes, art as something that stops a swollen head I tell you, art is a lament, something for somebody, nothing for everyone, for simply by hoping you are already in the future There is always something that outstrips us, for even love 71 is only part of our certitude.. Atonal harmony. Or is it that human aid, which might have helped, calls upon the aid of God?
I don't know, but from the form of some people I have recognized the true proportions of an octopus. And in some grove ruffled the hair on a fallow-deer's penis.. But you can't drive out the soul by drinking, like a gopher from its hole, for even if you think of it as so full-bosomed that you say: what reserves!
To befaithful to one's lot, unselfishly, or to sell indulgences or become a zealous stoker in a crematorium, stick a thermometer in the rectum of war or have to sing at the vintage to prove you don't eat grapes, examine a horse's teeth or like an executioner rip out the nostrils of the condemned, be corroded by vinegar and bile and take revenge on others or burn off a woman's right breast to make her an archer, to be the seed of fate in history's womb or the feeling that is condemned to forced labour under the grey Siberia of old heads or on penalty of death to ftle off your fetters and rather force your eyes out than look at the horrors of today, and yet still hear the singers dead long ago, but free?
No, no, I'm not indifferent to the single fall of a child Yet evil always rises up humanity's spine, spattered with blood like a dentist's staircase Ancient and weary, at each step it recoils in disgust, yet rises again and again to the brain of pride, for after so many attempts 'Salamander in the ftre!
And then frying the seed of the Word on the melted bacon of his tongue, hissed: 'What a poet writes, an angel or demon does Thus dreams revenge themselves on uninterrupted consciousness! I am always looking for a free canteen where the little window would not be that of a prison cell through which the prisoner is watched, the peephole called the judas..
- Project MUSE - A Burden of Guilt.
- Fiduciary Law.
But of course We can also wait until something bursts and love falls on us. Imagine life's terminus An old man stands there, cowering like words in the rain.
Jacket 1 - John Tranter - An Introduction to Martin Johnston - Selected Poems and Prose
And the old man's trust was so blind or so openhanded that it saw a snug future for him and only the passers-by understood that someone had taken him for a ride under the mezzo rilievo of the moon But you know how it is: suddenly nothing, absolutely nothing, absolutely nothing facing us like the moment when it seems the future is behind us.
Lovers should be gay!
The universe, though as they say finite, is also unlimited A man is suddenly sick at heart, a woman cold, instead of killing each other they come together, grateful once again to see something of their fate, though it leads with shameless precision to the poorhouse. Daybreak It is the hour when the priest goes to mass , up the devil's back. It is the hour when the heavy bag of dawn is zipped up the human spine. It is the hour of frost and no sun yet the stone is warm because it moves. It is the hour when the lake freezes round its shores and man in his heart.
It is the hour when dreams are nothing more than fleas nipping the skin of Marsyas. It is the hour when trees ripped by the deer bind their wounds with resin. It is the hour when elves pick up the splintered words of time. It is the hour when merely for love one dares descend the stalagmite cave of tears which held back in secret worked their hidden will.
Selected Poems (Modern European Poets)
It is the hour when you have to write a poem and say it differently, quite differently. Night We stepped into the lift. The two of us, alone. We looked at each other and that was all.
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Two lives, a moment, fullness, bliss. At the fifth floor she got out and I went on up knowing I would never see her again, that it was a meeting once and for all, that if! But tree and stone are silent though each is born of the word and therefore dumb since the word is afraid of what it has become. But names they still have.
Names: pine, maple, aspen And names: feldspar, basalt, phonolite, love. Beautiful names, afraid only of what they have become. A girl stood by the fountain in the square. I talked to her. She seemed almost grateful, every word of mine invited her not to be only of this world, she knew nothing, not even that nakednesS can be so clad that only a dress uncovers it, she laughed, played with her ring, coughed a little.
Her ordinariness was so mysterious that it disappeared and she had to be kissed to become more mysterious. But when I asked her later the way to the nearest village she pointed in the wrong direction. Light comes from a low bank of cloud. The snow is moving out. Air sleeks itself in the willows. Earth remembers. Springs are aware. From love oflife the crow flies without a sound and the seed is wordless But not everything silent is dumb.
That cave on the left of the landscape is very quiet. And if it quickly fills with soldiers Some big mouth has been at work. It began to snow at midnight. And certainly the kitchen is the best place to sit, even the kitchen of the sleepless.