The stain of love covers
everything
Foolish one broken and bruised
the winged fiend
the foul jab
the artless arrow fling
Destroyer, Preserver
oh the sting.
The Siren's call
answered
I should have let it ring.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Read. Weep. Breathe.
Click here for four beautiful poems written by my friend TC. They are so achingly beautiful. I cried. Washed in tears I needed to shed.
Friday, October 23, 2015
A Love Song
Love Song
I lie here thinking of you:—
the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—
you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west!
Source: William Carlos Williams: Selected Poems (The Library of America, 2004)
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
To thine own self be true
“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Polonius:
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!
Laertes:
Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.
― Hamlet Act 1, scene 3, 78–82
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Love Requires Bravery
Don't you do that.
Don't you look at what I had for you and call it weak.
Not when you were the one afraid of it.
I stood there with my hands open,
my mouth bruised tender with supplication.
Don't you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions,
like being moved to my knees by love
was a mistake that I regret.
I will go to my grave with the memory of the bravery in my bones.
― Caitlyn Siehl, What We Buried
Don't you look at what I had for you and call it weak.
Not when you were the one afraid of it.
I stood there with my hands open,
my mouth bruised tender with supplication.
Don't you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions,
like being moved to my knees by love
was a mistake that I regret.
I will go to my grave with the memory of the bravery in my bones.
― Caitlyn Siehl, What We Buried
Monday, October 12, 2015
Three Poems by John Ashbery
My Philosophy of Life
Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will. Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?
That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like. Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests, would be affected, or more precisely, inflected by my new attitude. I wouldn’t be preachy, or worry about children and old people, except in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe. Instead I’d sort of let things be what they are while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate I thought I’d stumbled into, as a stranger accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back, revealing a winding staircase with greenish light somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions. At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender, but something in between. He thinks of cushions, like the one his uncle’s Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great
rush
is on. Not a single idea emerges from it. It’s enough to disgust you with thought. But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and his alone.
It’s fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler. Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they’d do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again. Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought-- something’s blocking it. Something I’m
not big enough to see over. Or maybe I’m frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I’ll let
things be what they are, sort of. In the autumn I’ll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won’t be embarrassed by my friends’ dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that’s the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn’t even like the
idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he’s
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can’t always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time. That would be abusive, and about as much
fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don’t know.
Still, there’s a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That’s what they’re made for! Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too. They don’t come along every day. Look out! There’s a big one...
That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like. Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests, would be affected, or more precisely, inflected by my new attitude. I wouldn’t be preachy, or worry about children and old people, except in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe. Instead I’d sort of let things be what they are while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate I thought I’d stumbled into, as a stranger accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back, revealing a winding staircase with greenish light somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions. At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender, but something in between. He thinks of cushions, like the one his uncle’s Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great
rush
is on. Not a single idea emerges from it. It’s enough to disgust you with thought. But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and his alone.
It’s fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler. Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they’d do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again. Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought-- something’s blocking it. Something I’m
not big enough to see over. Or maybe I’m frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I’ll let
things be what they are, sort of. In the autumn I’ll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won’t be embarrassed by my friends’ dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that’s the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn’t even like the
idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he’s
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can’t always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time. That would be abusive, and about as much
fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don’t know.
Still, there’s a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That’s what they’re made for! Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too. They don’t come along every day. Look out! There’s a big one...
And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name
You can’t say it that way any more.
Bothered about beauty you have to
Come out into the open, into a clearing,
And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you
Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange
Of you, you who have so many lovers,
People who look up to you and are willing
To do things for you, but you think
It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . .
So much for self-analysis. Now,
About what to put in your poem-painting:
Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium.
Names of boys you once knew and their sleds,
Skyrockets are good—do they still exist?
There are a lot of other things of the same quality
As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must
Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed,
Dull-sounding ones. She approached me
About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was
Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments.
Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head
Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something
Ought to be written about how this affects
You when you write poetry:
The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind
Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate
Something between breaths, if only for the sake
Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you
For other centers of communication, so that understanding
May begin, and in doing so be undone.
John Ashbery, “And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name” from Houseboat Days. Copyright © 1987
My Erotic Double
He says he doesn’t feel like working today.
It’s just as well. Here in the shade
Behind the house, protected from street noises,
One can go over all kinds of old feeling,
Throw some away, keep others.
The wordplay
Between us gets very intense when there are
Fewer feelings around to confuse things.
Another go-round? No, but the last things
You always find to say are charming, and rescue me
Before the night does. We are afloat
On our dreams as on a barge made of ice,
Shot through with questions and fissures of starlight
That keep us awake, thinking about the dreams
As they are happening. Some occurrence. You said it.
I said it but I can hide it. But I choose not to.
Thank you. You are a very pleasant person.
Thank you. You are too.
John Ashbery, “My Erotic Double” from As We Know. Copyright © 1979 by John Ashbery.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Two Words of The Day
numen, n.
Pronunciation:
Brit.
/ˈnjuːmən/
,
U.S.
/ˈn(j)um(ə)n/
Inflections:
Plural numina
Brit.
/ˈnjuːmᵻnə/
,
U.S.
/ˈn(j)umənə/
,
(irreg.)
numena
Brit.
/ˈnjuːmənə/
,
U.S.
/ˈn(j)umənə/
;
Etymology:
< classical Latin nūmen divine will, divine power, divinity, god < -nuere to nod (in e.g. abnuere, innuere, renuere; also as simplex in undated glosses) < the same Indo-European base as ancient Greek νεύειν to nod.
Divinity, god; a local or presiding power or spirit.
1495 Trevisa's Bartholomeus De Proprietatibus Rerum
(de Worde)
xvii. cxlii. sig. Tiijv/2,
And the wode that hyght Nemus hath that name of Numen: that is god, for therin Yoo made a maw met.
1582 S. Batman Vppon Bartholome, De Proprietatibus Rerum xvii. cxlii. f. 318/2,
The Woode that is called Nemus, hath the name of Numen, that is God.
1628 O. Felltham Resolves: 2nd Cent. xvi. sig. L v,
As if allowing them the name, they would conserue the Numen to themselues.
1634 T. Herbert Relation Some Yeares Trauaile 193
That what they first meet..they make their Numen and tutelary God for that day.
1662 H. More Coll. Philos. Writings
(ed. 2)
Pref. Gen. p. ix,
For it is the same Numen in us that moves all things in some sort or other.
1711 Ld. Shaftesbury Characteristicks III. Misc. ii. ii. 65
They madly dote upon Matter, and devoutly worship it, as the only Numen.
1790 Ann. Reg. 1788 Antiquities 120/1
Any local one [sc. idol], whose Numen and worship..was already established as local, would not do.
1835 J. Taylor Wks. I. 112
The Divine presence hath made all places holy, and every place hath a Numen in it, even the eternal God.
1874 J. Fergusson in Contemp. Rev. Oct. 765
In a cathedral town where all unite..in..adoring the sacred and historical numen of the place.
1910 Encycl. Brit. I. 760/1
To the primitive..the presence of the divinity was indicated by..landmarks; and from this..grew the theory that a numen might be induced to take up an abode in an artificial heap of stones.
1936 E. Underhill Worship x. 197
In the teaching of the prophets of the Reform of Josiah, and of the
Exile, we find God recognized and adored..as the Numen, the Eternal One,
the utterly Transcendent.., and as the giver of the Moral Law.
1994 C. DeLint Memory & Dream 329
You call them numena, yourself. Strictly speaking, a numen is merely
a spiritual force, an influence one might feel around a certain thing
or place.
noumenon, n.
Pronunciation:
Brit.
/ˈnuːmᵻnɒn/
,
/ˈnaʊmᵻnɒn/
,
U.S.
/ˈnuməˌnɑn/
Inflections:
Plural noumena
Brit.
/ˈnuːmᵻnə/
,
/ˈnaʊmᵻnə/
,
U.S.
/ˈnuməˌnə/
;
Forms:
17– noumenon, 19– noümena.
Etymology:
< German Noumenon (1783; plural Noumena ) < ancient Greek νοούμενον (plural νοούμενα , used by Plato in speaking of the Ideas, as perceived by the mind rather than the senses, e.g. at Republic 508c), use as noun of neuter of present participle passive of νοεῖν to apprehend, conceive (see noesis n.); introduced by E. Kant (1724–1804), German philosopher, in contrast to phenomenon n.
(in Kantian philosophy) a thing as it is in itself, as distinct from a thing as it is knowable by the senses through phenomenal attributes.
(in Kantian philosophy) a thing as it is in itself, as distinct from a thing as it is knowable by the senses through phenomenal attributes.
Kant uses the word in a Latin context in his De mundis sensibilis et intelligibilis forma et principiis (1770).
N.E.D. (1907) gives only the pronunciation (nɑu·mĕnǫn)
/ˈnuːmənɒn/
/ˈnaʊmənɒn/
An object knowable only by the mind or intellect, not by the senses; spec. (in Kantian philosophy) an object of purely intellectual intuition, devoid of all phenomenal attributes.
1796 F. A. Nitsch Gen. View Kant's Princ. conc. Man 118
The conception we have of the world of Noumena, contains no
knowledge of that world, but is a mere conception of demarkation [i.e. Grenzbegriff, or limiting concept].
1798 W. Taylor in Monthly Rev. 25 585
The phænomena of beauty, with respect to him [sc. Kant], rank among the noumena.
1803 Edinb. Rev. Jan. 267
We will admit to the transcendentalist his solitary noumenon and its separate functions.
1867 G. H. Lewes Hist. Philos.
(ed. 3)
II. 485
The peculiar merit of his doctrine is held to be that he distinguishes Phenomena from things in themselves, or Noumena.
1877 E. Caird Crit. Acct. Philos. Kant ii. xiii. 498
In a negative sense, a noumenon would be an object not given in
sensuous perception; in a positive sense, a noumenon would be an object
given in a non-sensuous, i.e. an intellectual perception.
1910 Encycl. Brit. XIX. 828/2
In the Kantian system the term ‘noümena’ means things-in-themselves
as opposed to ‘phenomena’ or things as they appear to us.
1967 Listener 27 July 123/3
It was a revelation, a vision of the noumenon..and I fear that—for
quite a long time—we will glory in the sensuous bliss of it all.
1993 B. Kosko Fuzzy Thinking
(1994)
xv. 279
It is not a Kantian noumenon or ‘thing in itself’ out there beyond the senses. It is a phenomenon in our senses and brain.
Friday, October 2, 2015
Shadows and Dust, A Farewell?
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
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