Saturday, January 3, 2009


"Eurydice evokes the discombobulating experience of grief and loss, the desperate need to move on and the overwhelming desire to never let go - to turn and look back just one more time."

from: New York Times theater review


We do not rid ourselves of these things
even when we are cured of personal silence
when for no reason one morning
we begin to hear the noise of the world again.

“City Walk-up, Winter 1969,” Carolyn Forché

Friday, January 2, 2009


“The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful… I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera

Bonnard painting

Somewhere I have never traveled

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


Love is a fire.

"Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your heart or burn down your house, you can never tell." - Joan Crawford

"An idea occurred to me. Subject for a short story; a young girl like you lives all her life beside a lake; she loves the lake like a seagull, and like a seagull, is happy and free. A man comes along by chance, sees her, and having nothing better to do, destroys her, just like this sea gull here
The Sea Gull, Anton Chekhov


If you want my apartment, sleep in it
but let's have a clear understanding:
the books are still free agents.

If the rocking chair's arms surround you
they can also let you go,
they can shape the air like a body.

I don't want your rent, I want
a radiance of attention
like the candle's flame when we eat,

I mean a kind of awe
attending the spaces between us—
Not a roof but a field of stars.

Jane Cooper 1924-2007


Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

from "The Dead" by James Joyce

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Message in a bottle

trip to the rainforest [19/365] by holly.skye.
For Bob

That summer will always remain
so very still and close
I was afraid to breathe lest everything would dissolve
before I could take hold of your hand
and you would pull me back
to walk along that dusty dirt road
kicking up the stones with the tips of our boots
I can remember our laughter, giddy yet nervous
so frightened by the uncertainty of bits and pieces
of our lives falling apart
We sat on the old wooden bridge you and I
and the hours passed
our words drifting out into the river
like a message in a bottle
Hoping someone would save us.

K. Pilapovich
: flickr


© All rights reserved.

We buried him in the yard
only his ashes mind you
Now blown by the wind
and washed by the rain
Are you still hiding there
little pieces of bone
He would have wanted something else
No matter, he is gone
He loved open spaces
the sky, the west, cowboy boots and planes
The questions have ceased only
where was that secret place?

K. Pilapovich
via: flickr


Kristin Kenney - DJ Flanagan PHOTO

The naked weeping girl
is thinking of my name
turning my bronze name
over and over
with the thousand fingers
of her body
anointing her shoulders
with the remembered odour
of my skin

O I am the general
in her history
over the fields
driving the great horses
dressed in gold cloth
wind on my breastplate
sun in my belly

May soft birds
soft as a story to her eyes
protect her face from my enemies
and vicious birds
whose sharp wings
were forged in metal oceans
guard her room
from my assassins

And night deal gently with her
high stars maintain the whiteness
of her uncovered flesh

And may my bronze name
touch always her thousand fingers
grow brighter with her weeping
until I am fixed like a galaxy
and memorized
in her
secret and fragile skies.

Leonard Cohen
: New York Times