Alexandra
Is anything unclear?
is(being)
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Posted on 15th Aug at 3:11 PM, with 294 notes

theparisreview: [….]



EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAYINTENTION TO ESCAPE…I think I will learn some beautiful langauage, useless for commpercial Purposes, work hard at that. I think I will learn the Latin name of every song-bird, not     only in America but wherever they sing. (Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I     might deflect that river, my mind, that unctonrollable thing,Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,     carrying away bridges;A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles on     clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast─ Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.THE ROAD TO THE PASTIt is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many yearsFor the myopic, as for me,The delightful shape, implored and hard of heart, proceedingInto the past unheeding,(No wave of the hand, no backward look to seeIf I still stand there) clear and precise along that road appears.The tress that edge that road run parallelFor eyes like mind past many towns, past hell seen plainly;All that has happened shades that street;Children all day, even the awkward, the ungainlyOf mind, work out on paper problems more abstruse:Before those hedges meet.(Poetry magazine, October 1938)

theparisreview: [….]

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

INTENTION TO ESCAPE…
I think I will learn some beautiful langauage, useless for commpercial 
Purposes, work hard at that. 
I think I will learn the Latin name of every song-bird, not
     only in America but wherever they sing. 
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:
Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I
     might deflect that river, my mind, that unctonrollable thing,
Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,
     carrying away bridges;
A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles on
     clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast─ 

Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.


THE ROAD TO THE PAST
It is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many years
For the myopic, as for me,
The delightful shape, implored and hard of heart, proceeding
Into the past unheeding,
(No wave of the hand, no backward look to see
If I still stand there) clear and precise along that road appears.

The tress that edge that road run parallel
For eyes like mind past many towns, past hell seen plainly;
All that has happened shades that street;
Children all day, even the awkward, the ungainly
Of mind, work out on paper problems more abstruse:
Before those hedges meet.

(Poetry magazine, October 1938)

Posted on 13th Aug at 6:27 AM, with 109,980 notes

by: Casey Garner

In the Beginning

In the beginning was the three-pointed star, 
One smile of light across the empty face, 
One bough of bone across the rooting air, 
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun, 
And, burning ciphers on the round of space, 
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun. 

In the beginning was the pale signature, 
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile, 
And after came the imprints on the water, 
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon; 
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail 
Touched the first cloud and left a sign. 

In the beginning was the mounting fire 
That set alight the weathers from a spark, 
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower, 
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas, 
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock 
The secret oils that drive the grass. 

In the beginning was the word, the word 
That from the solid bases of the light 
Abstracted all the letters of the void; 
And from the cloudy bases of the breath 
The word flowed up, translating to the heart 
First characters of birth and death. 

In the beginning was the secret brain. 
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought 
Before the pitch was forking to a sun; 
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve, 
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light 
The ribbed original of love.

Posted on 8th Aug at 2:24 AM, with 113 notes
theparisreview: poet’s grotto
"As Planned," Frank O’Hara
After the first glass of vodkayou can accept just about anythingof life even your own mysteriousnessyou think it is nice that a boxof matches is purple and brown and is calledLa Petite and comes from Swedenfor they are words that you know and thatis all you know words not their feelingsor what they mean and you write becauseyou know them not because you understand thembecause you don’t and you are stupid and lazyand will never be great but you dowhat you know because what else is there?
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theparisreview: poet’s grotto

"As Planned," Frank O’Hara

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t and you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

Posted on 8th Aug at 1:50 AM, with 89,714 notes
Honor a going thing, goldfinch, corporation, tree,
          morality: any working order,
       animate or inanimate: it
 
has managed directed balance,
          the incoming and outgoing energies are working right,
       some energy left to the mechanism,
 
some ash, enough energy held
          to maintain the order in repair,
       assure further consumption of entropy,
 
expending energy to strengthen order:
          honor the persisting reactor,
       the container of change, the moderator: the yellow
 
bird flashes black wing-bars
          in the new-leaving wild cherry bushes by the bay,
       startles the hawk with beauty,
 
flitting to a branch where
          flash vanishes into stillness,
       hawk addled by the sudden loss of sight:
 
honor the chemistries, platelets, hemoglobin kinetics,
          the light-sensitive iris, the enzymic intricacies
       of control,
 
the gastric transformations, seed
          dissolved to acrid liquors, synthesized into
       chirp, vitreous humor, knowledge,
 
blood compulsion, instinct: honor the
          unique genes,
       molecules that reproduce themselves, divide into
 
sets, the nucleic grain transmitted
          in slow change through ages of rising and falling form,
       some cells set aside for the special work, mind
 
or perception rising into orders of courtship,
          territorial rights, mind rising
       from the physical chemistries
 
to guarantee that genes will be exchanged, male
          and female met, the satisfactions cloaking a deeper
       racial satisfaction:
 
heat kept by a feathered skin:
          the living alembic, body heat maintained (bunsen
       burner under the flask)
 
so the chemistries can proceed, reaction rates
          interdependent, self-adjusting, with optimum
       efficiency—the vessel firm, the flame
 
staying: isolated, contained reactions! the precise and
          necessary worked out of random, reproducible,
       the handiwork redeemed from chance, while the
 
goldfinch, unconscious of the billion operations
          that stay its form, flashes, chirping (not a
       great songster) in the bay cherry bushes wild of leaf.

A. R. Ammons, “Mechanism” from Collected Poems: 1951-1971. Listen to it read by poet at Poetry Foundation.

Posted on 5th Aug at 1:20 AM, with 1,535 notes
4dele: untitled by voldy92 on Flickr.

"Song for the Last Act," from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968

BY LOUISE BOGAN


Now that I have your face by heart, I look   
Less at its features than its darkening frame   
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,   
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.   
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show   
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.
Now that I have your face by heart, I look.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read   
In the black chords upon a dulling page   
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.   
The staves are shuttled over with a stark   
Unprinted silence. In a double dream   
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.   
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.
Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
View high resolution

4deleuntitled by voldy92 on Flickr.

"Song for the Last Act," from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968

BY LOUISE BOGAN

Now that I have your face by heart, I look   
Less at its features than its darkening frame   
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,   
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.   
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show   
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read   
In the black chords upon a dulling page   
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.   
The staves are shuttled over with a stark   
Unprinted silence. In a double dream   
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.   
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.
Posted on 29th Jul at 3:41 PM, with 13 notes
Elizabeth Bishop, Uncollected Poems (1933-1969), “The Flood” |
|It finds the park first, and the treesturn wavery and wet;but all the extinguished traffic showsthat it will drown the steeples yet.|The battered houses, rows of brick,are clear as quartz; the color thinsto amethyst, — the chimney-potsand weather-vanes stick up like fins.|And slowly down the fluid streetsthe cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,enamlled bright like gaping fish,drift home on the suburban tide.|Along the airy upper beachto the minutely glittering skytwo sand-pipers have stepped, and leftfour star-prints high and dry.|Beyond the town, subaqueous,the green hills change to green-mossed shells;and at the church, to warn the ships above,eight times they ring the bells.
|
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Elizabeth Bishop, Uncollected Poems (1933-1969), “The Flood” 
|

|
It finds the park first, and the trees
turn wavery and wet;
but all the extinguished traffic shows
that it will drown the steeples yet.
|
The battered houses, rows of brick,
are clear as quartz; the color thins
to amethyst, — the chimney-pots
and weather-vanes stick up like fins.
|
And slowly down the fluid streets
the cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,
enamlled bright like gaping fish,
drift home on the suburban tide.
|
Along the airy upper beach
to the minutely glittering sky
two sand-pipers have stepped, and left
four star-prints high and dry.
|
Beyond the town, subaqueous,
the green hills change to green-mossed shells;
and at the church, to warn the ships above,
eight times they ring the bells.

|

Posted on 29th Jul at 3:20 PM, with 8 notes
(photo-graph by kasperpalsnov )
Elizabeth Bishop, “Sonnet” 
|
Caught — the bubblein the spirit-level,a creature divided;and the compass needlewobbling and wavering,undevided.Freed — the brokenthermometer’s mercuryrunning away;and the rainbow-birdfrom the narrow bevelof the empty mirror,flying whereverit feels like.
|
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(photo-graph by kasperpalsnov )

Elizabeth Bishop, “Sonnet” 

|

Caught — the bubble
in the spirit-level,
a creature divided;
and the compass needle
wobbling and wavering,
undevided.
Freed — the broken
thermometer’s mercury
running away;
and the rainbow-bird
from the narrow bevel
of the empty mirror,
flying wherever
it feels like.

|

Posted on 29th Jul at 3:12 PM, with 1 note
Dear, my compassstill points northto wooden housesand blue eyes,|fairy-tales whereflaxen-headedyounger sonsbring home the goose,|love in hay-lofts,Protestants, andheavy drinkers…Springs are backward,|   but crab-applesripen to rubies,cranberriesto drops of blood,|and swans can paddleicy water,so hot the bloodin those webbed feet.|Cold as it is, we’dgo to bed, dear,early, but neverto keep warm. |
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Dear, my compass
still points north
to wooden houses
and blue eyes,
|
fairy-tales where
flaxen-headed
younger sons
bring home the goose,
|
love in hay-lofts,
Protestants, and
heavy drinkers…
Springs are backward,
|   
but crab-apples
ripen to rubies,
cranberries
to drops of blood,
|
and swans can paddle
icy water,
so hot the blood
in those webbed feet.
|
Cold as it is, we’d
go to bed, dear,
early, but never
to keep warm. 
|

Posted on 27th Jul at 3:45 AM, with 6 notes




“Miracles”, Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)







Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge 
    of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, 
Or talk by day with any one I love,     or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, 
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, 
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, 
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a     summer forenoon, 
Or animals feeding in the fields, 
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, 
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars     shining so quiet and bright, 
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in     spring; 
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, 
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is     spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
    the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
View high resolution
Miracles, Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, 
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, 
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, 
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge 
    of the water, 
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, 
or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a
summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars
shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in
spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is
spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves— the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
Posted on 16th Jul at 4:27 PM

from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book III, the myth of Actaeon

Posted on 16th Jul at 1:31 AM
listening to the early summer nordic sun-rise in your music

released 16 July 2014 

Evan Shay - Tenor Sax 
Sam Davis - Alto Sax & Clarinet 
Jake Wiens - Guitar 
Dominic Sbrega - Bass 
Guillaume Pilote - Drums 

Dominic Mekky - Sound Design 

Brian Chan & Philip Gosselin - Recording 
Brian Chan - Mixing & Mastering 

Recorded in Montreal, QC March 2014 

Posted on 9th Jul at 6:46 PM, with 1 note
Genesis 1-2:4, according to Frank Bidart (In The Western Night)
In the beginning, God made HEAVEN and EARTH.
The earth without form was waste.
DARKNESS was the face of the deep.
His spirit was the wind brooding over the waters.
*
In the darkness he said, LET THERE BE LIGHT.
There was light.
In the light he said, IT IS GOOD.
God, dividing darkness from light,
named light DAY and darkness NIGHT.
Night and day were the first day.
*
God said, LET THE FIRMAMENT
ARC THE EARTH.
The waters opened.
The ARC above the eath
divided the waters above from the waters below.
God named the arc, HEAVEN.
Night and day were the second day. 
View high resolution

Genesis 1-2:4, according to Frank Bidart (In The Western Night)

In the beginning, God made HEAVEN and EARTH.

The earth without form was waste.

DARKNESS was the face of the deep.

His spirit was the wind brooding over the waters.

*

In the darkness he said, LET THERE BE LIGHT.

There was light.

In the light he said, IT IS GOOD.

God, dividing darkness from light,

named light DAY and darkness NIGHT.

Night and day were the first day.

*

God said, LET THE FIRMAMENT

ARC THE EARTH.

The waters opened.

The ARC above the eath

divided the waters above from the waters below.

God named the arc, HEAVEN.

Night and day were the second day. 

Posted on 5th Jul at 7:39 AM, with 1 note
"For years, I had been asking myself what might be special or unique about the brains of the workshop writers I had studied. In my own version of a eureka moment, the answer finally came to me: creative people are better at recognizing relationships, making associations and connections, and seeing things in an original way—seeing things that others cannot see."
Why was it so hard for Nancy Andreasen to figure out this very obvious fact? #sciencestrugglingtoundestandliterature
Posted on 4th Jul at 8:11 AM, with 1,068 notes
magicsystem:

Milford Sound by __Nicolaa on Flickr.

|||
“… I, who used to imagine Paradise as a sort of library…" — Jorge Luis Borges
|||
(from the Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland-translation, Dreamtigers (1970))
||
Slow in my darkness, I explore
The hollow gloom with my hesitant stick — 
I, who used to picture Paradise
In such a library’s guise.
|
Something that surely cannot be called
Mere chance must rule these things;
Some other man has met this doom,
On other days among these books and in this dark.
|
As I walk through the slow galleries
I grow to feel with a kind of holy dread
That I am that other; I am the dead,
And the steps I make are also his.
|
Which of us two is writing now these lines
About a plural I and a single gloom?
What does it matter what word is my name
If the curse is indivisibly the same?
|
Whether Groussac or Borges, I gaze at this beloved
World that grows more shapeless, and its light
Dies down into a pale, uncertain ash

Resembling sleep and the oblivion of night.
View high resolution

magicsystem:

Milford Sound by __Nicolaa on Flickr.

|||

… I, who used to imagine Paradise as a sort of library…" — Jorge Luis Borges

|||

(from the Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland-translation, Dreamtigers (1970))

||

Slow in my darkness, I explore

The hollow gloom with my hesitant stick —

I, who used to picture Paradise

In such a library’s guise.

|

Something that surely cannot be called

Mere chance must rule these things;

Some other man has met this doom,

On other days among these books and in this dark.

|

As I walk through the slow galleries

I grow to feel with a kind of holy dread

That I am that other; I am the dead,

And the steps I make are also his.

|

Which of us two is writing now these lines

About a plural I and a single gloom?

What does it matter what word is my name

If the curse is indivisibly the same?

|

Whether Groussac or Borges, I gaze at this beloved

World that grows more shapeless, and its light

Dies down into a pale, uncertain ash

Resembling sleep and the oblivion of night.

Start
00:00 AM