Monday, March 11, 2013
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
La bougie
a translation of an excerpt from The Journal of Albion Moonlight, by Kenneth Patchen
Nous n'avons pas encore apprivoisé le royaume du mot.
Pour le dire clairement, le mot est illettré.
Le mot est l'appel de la tribu de sou l'eau.
Le mot est la façon dont quelque chose flotte, qui ne peut être vu.
Le mot est la chose qui parle aux morts.
Le mot est la bougie au pied du trône.
Note: This final post is, in a sense, my creative response to the Feast of all Saints. I had been working on something for several days that I simply could not live with (which is saying something, given some of the pieces I've put up here in a potentially misguided effort to keep my word). I came across this short excerpt, in English of course, the language The Journal of Albion Moonlight was written in, thanks to a friend. My piece dealt with language, and the dead, and I was experimenting with writing in French and English, and this piece seemed to say everything I'd wanted to, but infinitely better.
Nous n'avons pas encore apprivoisé le royaume du mot.
Pour le dire clairement, le mot est illettré.
Le mot est l'appel de la tribu de sou l'eau.
Le mot est la façon dont quelque chose flotte, qui ne peut être vu.
Le mot est la chose qui parle aux morts.
Le mot est la bougie au pied du trône.
Note: This final post is, in a sense, my creative response to the Feast of all Saints. I had been working on something for several days that I simply could not live with (which is saying something, given some of the pieces I've put up here in a potentially misguided effort to keep my word). I came across this short excerpt, in English of course, the language The Journal of Albion Moonlight was written in, thanks to a friend. My piece dealt with language, and the dead, and I was experimenting with writing in French and English, and this piece seemed to say everything I'd wanted to, but infinitely better.
Monday, October 31, 2011
the heart, and burial places known and unknown
loving, and singing,
the heart paced
on night feet through the desert
that lies between you on god's mountain,
and a home whose name you don't know.
the heart
swoons
like a femme fatale slipping
with her frighteningly slim waist
onto a couch. the heart
knows how to get what it wants. it is natively
neither open nor closed, but is something
like a goldfish;
it opens its mouth to sip its tiny breaths,
then closes so as to think it over for awhile.
the heart
is simpler than all of this:
two middle-aged men with earlocks
will stand across from one another,
holding each others' hands;
they'll revolve in slow circles, dancing
just one night of the year, every year,
over caleb's grave.
but singing in an ever-lowering voice,
your heart might find itself ready
to sleep. the longing
grew too long, the desire and gold dirt
ever-lengthening away from you. it is a good
place to die, this place, to be gathered
up, it is a good place to rest,
sings sleepily the heart.
the heart paced
on night feet through the desert
that lies between you on god's mountain,
and a home whose name you don't know.
the heart
swoons
like a femme fatale slipping
with her frighteningly slim waist
onto a couch. the heart
knows how to get what it wants. it is natively
neither open nor closed, but is something
like a goldfish;
it opens its mouth to sip its tiny breaths,
then closes so as to think it over for awhile.
the heart
is simpler than all of this:
two middle-aged men with earlocks
will stand across from one another,
holding each others' hands;
they'll revolve in slow circles, dancing
just one night of the year, every year,
over caleb's grave.
but singing in an ever-lowering voice,
your heart might find itself ready
to sleep. the longing
grew too long, the desire and gold dirt
ever-lengthening away from you. it is a good
place to die, this place, to be gathered
up, it is a good place to rest,
sings sleepily the heart.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
On Pace
Wow. This blog thing is nuts.
Obviously I haven't held up my end of the bargain, which was a commitment to posting a new piece every week. My explanation for that is twofold.
Firstly, I have been working on something, but it was not a piece that I could rush very much even in getting it to a first draft stage. Rushing was sort of the point of creating this blog - I can certainly be very, very, very precious) - but I am learning as I go.
A month or so ago a reader posted a comment which was, shall we say, not entirely positive. In discussing it with my boyfriend, one of the things I said was basically, "Well of course it's kind of crappy. It's a first draft. People get that, don't they? That by commiting to getting a new piece up every week, I'm really commiting to getting a first draft done each week, right?"
To which Kevin responded, alarmingly, no. He very sweetly pointed out that not everyone in the world is a writer and therefore not everyone in the world knows that all things done quickly are, by default, probably done none too well.
Beyond feeling that I have confirmed my earlier opinion that rushing breeds bad work, I just hate doing things quickly. What on earth are we all rushing towards? Death? I assume it will come whenever it's good and ready. I could rush to get more work done, but then I'd just have more work to do, and as I already have plenty of that right now...it seems obvious.
And the second part of my explanation for my tardiness bears intriguing implications for my understanding of liturgy. For a few of the Sundays that have elapsed since I started this project, I have not been able to go to church. The first two times it happened, I wrote something anyway, responding simply to the readings. But those two pieces (which will remain unnamed) were, by my standards, poorly conceived. Not bad through and through, but very...one-dimensional. That's the only way I can put it. The readings alone seemed to prompt a particular line of sight which I found it difficult to shake myself out of without the help of the music, incense, homily, and simply the presence of other people participating in the Eucharist. So one of these past Sundays I wasn't able to go to church, my third missed mass since I started the project, and I decided to just let that one go. I would rather not write at all then write something just to say I did it.
Which is a little bit what the essay I'm about to post is saying. It's a much longer piece than I've created yet for this blog, and it was a bit of a challenge for me. Long pieces of prose are difficult for me to write. But it's a direction I'm trying to work towards, and so I would welcome any comments - either in encouragement or critique - that you might have.
Obviously I haven't held up my end of the bargain, which was a commitment to posting a new piece every week. My explanation for that is twofold.
Firstly, I have been working on something, but it was not a piece that I could rush very much even in getting it to a first draft stage. Rushing was sort of the point of creating this blog - I can certainly be very, very, very precious) - but I am learning as I go.
A month or so ago a reader posted a comment which was, shall we say, not entirely positive. In discussing it with my boyfriend, one of the things I said was basically, "Well of course it's kind of crappy. It's a first draft. People get that, don't they? That by commiting to getting a new piece up every week, I'm really commiting to getting a first draft done each week, right?"
To which Kevin responded, alarmingly, no. He very sweetly pointed out that not everyone in the world is a writer and therefore not everyone in the world knows that all things done quickly are, by default, probably done none too well.
Beyond feeling that I have confirmed my earlier opinion that rushing breeds bad work, I just hate doing things quickly. What on earth are we all rushing towards? Death? I assume it will come whenever it's good and ready. I could rush to get more work done, but then I'd just have more work to do, and as I already have plenty of that right now...it seems obvious.
And the second part of my explanation for my tardiness bears intriguing implications for my understanding of liturgy. For a few of the Sundays that have elapsed since I started this project, I have not been able to go to church. The first two times it happened, I wrote something anyway, responding simply to the readings. But those two pieces (which will remain unnamed) were, by my standards, poorly conceived. Not bad through and through, but very...one-dimensional. That's the only way I can put it. The readings alone seemed to prompt a particular line of sight which I found it difficult to shake myself out of without the help of the music, incense, homily, and simply the presence of other people participating in the Eucharist. So one of these past Sundays I wasn't able to go to church, my third missed mass since I started the project, and I decided to just let that one go. I would rather not write at all then write something just to say I did it.
Which is a little bit what the essay I'm about to post is saying. It's a much longer piece than I've created yet for this blog, and it was a bit of a challenge for me. Long pieces of prose are difficult for me to write. But it's a direction I'm trying to work towards, and so I would welcome any comments - either in encouragement or critique - that you might have.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
bassinet
do you see do you remember when you saw your baby brother dead in the bassinet saw the quiet mouth of white lace freeze around him saw the mother approaching smiling then seeing then shaking then the movement towards panic and the hospital oh see oh remember the cat's body frozen in the night still and with his mouth wide open and you suddenly knew everyone everyone was leaving you going to some unseeable place everyone everyone is leaving you your cat your baby brother your father your mother your lover your dog yes someday he too with his happy eyes and bad breath and you see it more clearly now than ever bending over ben the cat that there really is hardly a believable reason to keep waking up every morning your baby brother just seems to have figured it out a little sooner than you
This was written in response to the mass on September 4th. I'm not sure that I'll be getting something written for this past week, but I will make every effort to keep up as best I can. Thanks for reading, and as always, feel free to respond to posts old or new.
This was written in response to the mass on September 4th. I'm not sure that I'll be getting something written for this past week, but I will make every effort to keep up as best I can. Thanks for reading, and as always, feel free to respond to posts old or new.
Monday, September 5, 2011
golden age or churning of the waters
the peach sliced in half fell open
gladiolas stuck out their tiny purple tongues
and strawberry blossoms by magic became strawberries
still your doubts hover swoop in and out of your brain
following an unknown will behind me
behind me behind me
where oh where
did the fruits with
their sugar and petals go?
it was that spring the one people talk about
but it's gone and somehow you know
you were never there for it
up under the mind come floodwaters in the night
dark and rotting what they touch
get behind me
i see it coming and suspect
i am less necessary than you
behind me where
shall we wait for the boats that won't come
for the turtles lumbering and snapping their mouths
to float us towards a different death one followed
by a spring we may never see
gladiolas stuck out their tiny purple tongues
and strawberry blossoms by magic became strawberries
still your doubts hover swoop in and out of your brain
following an unknown will behind me
behind me behind me
where oh where
did the fruits with
their sugar and petals go?
it was that spring the one people talk about
but it's gone and somehow you know
you were never there for it
up under the mind come floodwaters in the night
dark and rotting what they touch
get behind me
i see it coming and suspect
i am less necessary than you
behind me where
shall we wait for the boats that won't come
for the turtles lumbering and snapping their mouths
to float us towards a different death one followed
by a spring we may never see
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)