Wednesday, August 01, 2012

pink matter

Revision is kicking my ass, and this song is helping me through the rough spots. It's an elixir of a few of my favorite things: Andre 3000 and Frank Ocean (artistic Southern boys), haunting melodies, allusions to space, sex, and an esoteric, violent sensei who must be Pai Mei. Enjoy.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

see them go

I am revising. I don't need one poem; I need all poems. But I only have room for one today.

The Calling

And the word came--was it a god
spoke or a devil!--Go
to that lean parish; let them tread
on your dreams; and learn silence

is wisdom. Be alone with yourself
as they are alone in the cold room
of the wind. Listen to the earth
mumbling the monotonous song

of the soil. I am hungry, I
am hungry, in spite of the red dung
of this people. See them go
one by one through that dark door

with the crumpled ticket of your prayers
in their hands. Share their distraught
joy at the dropping of their inane
children. Test your belief

in spirit on their faces staring
at you, on beauty's surrender
to truth, on the soul's selling
of itself for a corner

by the body's fire. Learn the thinness
of the window that is
between you and life, and how
the mind cuts itself if it goes through.

by R.S. Thomas

Friday, March 16, 2012

The Emptiness of Being a Man

I watched Midnight in Paris today. It was delightful to see Dali and Stein and Hemingway and Picasso on the screen. Paris seemed a little antiseptic, a little too clean, but still, it was beautiful, and it made me want to go back. It also made me sad, and this made me want a poem tonight. I opened my anthology, and this is where I landed: Joao Cabral de Melo Neto is speaking of what it means to feel empty.

The Emptiness of Being a Man

The emptiness of being a man is not like
any other: not like an empty coat
or empty sack (things which do not stand up
when empty, such as an empty man),
the emptiness of man is more like fullness
the swollen things which keep on swelling,
the way a sack must feel
that is being filled, or any sack at all.
The emptiness of man, this full emptiness,
is not like a sack of bricks' emptiness
or a sack of rivets', it does not have the pulse
that beats in a seed bag or bag of eggs.

The emptiness of man, though it resembles
fullness, and seems all of a piece, actually
is made of nothings, bits of emptiness,
like the sponge, empty when filled,
swollen like the sponge, with air, with empty air,
it has copied its very structure from the sponge,
it has made up in clusters, of bubbles, of non-grapes.
Man's empty fullness is like a sack
filled with sponges, is filled with emptiness;
man's emptiness, or swollen emptiness,
or the emptiness that swells by being empty.

(translated by Galway Kinnell)