WHO IS COMING, YOU ASK – Gunnar Ekelöf
October 13, 2011, 7:39 pm
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Who is coming, you ask
You wish somebody would come
Don’t you know that you are the one who will come
You will come, but not to any god
to Nothing
Its doors stand open
Its doors swing in the wind
What will be found in there?
What will you offer me?
O always something!
There will be a little dust, some ashes
a broken cogwheel on the dirt floor
and some slagstuff, as when a smithy is torn down
though it’s always possible there never was one at all

SUCH a great poem.. I can’t stop reading it! That second line completely caught me off guard.. I love the intensity of the voice there. And then the capitalization of Nothing, the lack of capitalization in the word god.. seems so effortless.. there is just so much to love in this.

I just finished reading Friends, You Drank Some Darkness (amazing title, right?!), a book with three Swedish poets: Martinson, Ekelöf, and the newly crowned Nobel Prize winner, Tranströmer. And while this book has been on my list for the semester since June, I set it aside as one of those books that I’ll want to read when I’m reading a lot of other books that I’m.. not sure I’ll like as much, if that makes sense. I have a newfound love for translations since discovering Carlos Drummond de Andrade, and was really looking forward to this book.. but didn’t know I’d fall for Mr. Ekelöf!

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quotes i like today
October 11, 2011, 9:39 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

“There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words.”
-Fyodor Dostoevsky

“Beginning today, treat everyone you meet as if they were going to be dead by midnight. Extend them all the care, kindness and understanding you can muster. Your life will never be the same again.”
-Og Mandino

“An entire sea of water can’t sink a ship unless it gets inside the ship. Similarly, the negativity of the world can’t put you down unless you allow it to get inside you.
-Goi Nasu



Last Year- James Cihlar
October 9, 2011, 1:22 pm
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What we do not know about fate
Harms us less than what we think we know.

We think we know the rate of exchange,
As if we can trade off years of estrangement

With deathbed forgiveness,
A life of sinning

With one true repentance,
But we cannot. Fate will catch up.

Fate does not tell time with clocks.
It does not enter with the creak of the stair

We hear from our bed alone
In a house wrapped in dark,

As we count the muffled footsteps in the hallway,
Measuring the shrinking distance from our pillow.

It will never come at a time
That allows us to anticipate arrival.

It would sooner show up the moment before
We bury our face in sleep

Exhaling the last worry of day.
Fate moves with the staccato bounce

Of an alley cat on winter ice.
It visits us as a car accident en route

To a job interview
The day after we were fired from the previous job –

Bestowing one blow
On the heels of another –

As if to say, you thought you had me figured out,
You thought you were safe.



Mourner’s Kaddish, a Variation
October 8, 2011, 6:29 pm
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The Moss of His Skin BY ANNE SEXTON
October 7, 2011, 5:17 pm
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Young girls in old Arabia were often buried alive next to their dead fathers, apparently as sacrifice to the goddesses of the tribes …
Harold Feldman, “Children of the Desert”
Psychoanalysis and Psychoanalytic Review, Fall 1958

It was only important
to smile and hold still,
to lie down beside him
and to rest awhile,
to be folded up together
as if we were silk,
to sink from the eyes of mother
and not to talk.
The black room took us
like a cave or a mouth
or an indoor belly.
I held my breath
and daddy was there,
his thumbs, his fat skull,
his teeth, his hair growing
like a field or a shawl.
I lay by the moss
of his skin until
it grew strange. My sisters
will never know that I fall
out of myself and pretend
that Allah will not see
how I hold my daddy
like an old stone tree.



Final Curve and Suicide’s Note by Langston Hughes
October 3, 2011, 7:29 am
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Final Curve

When you turn the corner
And you run into yourself
Then you know that you have turned
All the corners that are left.

 

Suicide’s Note

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.



White Rose BY TOM PICKARD
October 1, 2011, 10:54 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

you gave me a white rose
put the lamp on the stove
it caught fire
the I Ching said
thunder above the lake
lightning in Baker Street

switched on the cooker
and blew a fuse
blue flash
you see
the whole experience
is electric