All of us--artists on the move--meet with violent retching as devastating.
As moral illness, and yet we wrench our hearts open. But for this stretch
Of looking out beyond, locks with lever handles opening inwardly, a becoming
That it is gradually more difficult to force, saves yourself, from being a drab consort.
As moral illness, and yet we wrench our hearts open. But for this stretch
This breath-taking view of an age we've only had a single year of, and yet it aches.
That it is gradually more difficult to force, saves yourself, from being a drab consort.
And there is an almost mythic resonance guaranteed to parade your lack.
This breath-taking view of an age we've only had a single year of, and yet it aches.
You still have a scarf rent from the struggle, and I won't detain you a moment longer
And there is an almost mythic resonance guaranteed to parade your lack.
We come up against ourselves, bare bricks exposed. These our excesses make it best.
You still have a scarf rent from the struggle, and I won't detain you a moment longer
From looking into me, from where the vistas are wide and the beasts tractable
We come up against ourselves, bare bricks exposed. These our excesses make it best.
Where we spill our guts, sometimes spilling potted plants, to undress our burden.
From looking into me, from where the vistas are wide and the beasts tractable
Of looking out beyond, locks with lever handles opening inwardly, a becoming
All of us--artists on the move--meet with violent retching as devastating.
8 comments:
The biography of Caroline Blackwood that I have just finished, "Dangerous Muse" is written by a professor at William & Mary.
Lucian and Caroline spent their honeymoon in a French hotel, where her family had to wire them money just to check out.
She is twenty-two, prematurely aged, and his shadowy figure appears to be standing away, perhaps repulsed by the transformation he brought into being. Did he think that being with a beautiful woman from the right family, with the Guinness trust, legitimize his foreignness and poverty in their society? Then things went to hell...
All of his paintings are like that, explicitly tender and withering. I haven't looked at his work for sometime, for that reason.
I think this biography is one of the most fascinating that I have read, and I like how it established Caroline as a person who deeply wanted to be a creator, and not simply a sponsor from "society" as it were. Her marriages to three brilliant, tortured men (a painter, a composer, and a poet)were her way of fulfilling an education, which she formerly lacked, since none of the women in her class needed to rack their brains for a living...
All the time, she remained disciplined through her disarray of alcohol and feral children to write.
http://www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Muse-Life-Caroline-Blackwood/product-reviews/0306811871
I was curious to read this book, like I am curious to read about Petrarch's Laura or Dante's Beatrice...who really was Lowell's "Dolphin" ?
Wait, the quotation, "Besides (fors) them (aus), no-one else knew (ne le sot riens nee)." ??
The preface to The Collector...
I need to dote on a nap, a movie, a little neurologic dysfunction (for Wednesday's test) and then I will be primed for harmonizing
/extending this pantoum. I plan for a late night.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1287980167920181617
La marée haute
La route chante
Quand je m’en vais
Je fais trois pas…
La route se tait
La route est noire
À perte de vue
Je fais trois pas…
La route n’est plus
Sur la marée haute
Je suis montée
La tête est pleine
Mais le cœur n’a
Pas assez
Mains de dentelle
Figure de bois
Le corps en brique
Les yeux qui piquent
Mains de dentelle
Figure de bois
Je fais trois pas…
Et tu es là
Sur la marée haute
Je suis montée
La tête est pleine
Mais le cœur n’a
Pas assez
The high tide
The road is singing
When i set out
I take three steps…
The road grows silent
The road is dark
As far as i can see
I take three steps…
The road is gone
I climbed up
On the high tide
The head is full
But the heart
Wants more
Hands of lace
Wooden face
Body of brick
Eyes that sting
Hands of lace
Wooden face
I take three steps…
And you are there
I climbed up
On the high tide
The head is full
But the heart
Wants more
All of us--artists on the move--have a collapsing truth. Retching violently, we strive--
To sum it up, as moral illness. We wrench hearts open, and the detours are fascinating.
The devastations, too. Seen from beyond the locks with lever handles. Inwardly becoming.
Gradually it is more difficult to force, to save yourself, from being a drab consort.
To sum it up, as moral illness. We wrench hearts open, and the detours are fascinating.
This breath-taking view of an age we've only had a single year of, and yet it aches.
Gradually it is more difficult to force, to save yourself, from being a drab consort.
And there is an almost mythic resonance guaranteed to parade your lack,
This breath-taking view of an age we've only had a single year of, and yet it aches.
You still have a scarf rent from the struggle, with the visual and sonic of this rented room,
And there is an almost mythic resonance guaranteed to parade your lack,
We come up against it, ourselves, allowing it to drift with a superadded significance.
You still have a scarf rent from the struggle, with the visual and sonic of this rented room,
From looking into me, where the vistas are wide and the beasts are explicitly tender.
We come up against it, ourselves, allowing it to drift with a superadded significance.
There we spill our guts, sometimes toppling the potted plants, to undress our burden.
The devastations, too. Seen from beyond the locks with lever handles. Inwardly becoming.
There we spill our guts, sometimes toppling the potted plants, to undress our burden.
All of us--artists on the move--have a collapsing truth. Retching violently, we strive--
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/01/arts/design/01sont.html?_r=1
In the same vein, we are showcasing our isolation, tethered together, and surviving by talk, or "non-talk" ...
It reminds me of a line (one of the few I can recall) from John Ashbery's "Mood of Quiet Beauty"--
"Museums then became generous / they live in our breath"
This is just beautiful. I will leave the evening on this note:
http://grad.bio.uci.edu/ecoevo/beltranj/pictures.html
I retreated to this site after reading Neil Shubin's Your Inner Fish, where one of her slides was showcased.
I must admit to admiring the photos in a facile way, without knowing more than a layman about the biochemistry of shark jaw cartilage.
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