Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

March 31, 2020

Octavio Paz, , born this day in 1914

Filed under: poetry, surreal, Uncategorized — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 8:53 am

 

Soliloquio
by Octavio Paz

persistent, flowing through fallen shadows,
excavating tunnels, drilling silences,
insisting, running under my pillow,
brushing past my temples, covering my eyelids
with another, intangible skin made of air,
its wandering nations, its drowsy tribes
migrate through the provinces of my body,
it crosses, re-crosses under the bridges of my bones,
slips into my left ear, spills out from my right,
climbs the nape of my neck,
turns and turns in my skull,
wanders across the terrace of my forehead,
conjures visions, scatters them,
erases my thoughts one by one
with hands of unwetting water,
it evaporates them,
black surge, tide of pulse-beats,
murmur of water groping forward
repeating the same meaningless syllable,
I hear its sleepwalking delirium
losing itself in serpentine galleries of echoes,
it comes back, drifts off, comes back,
endlessly flings itself
off the edges of my cliffs,
and I don’t stop falling
and I fall
endlessly in its falling,
I fall without moving,
I fall
with a murmur of falling water,
I fall through myself without touching myself.
I fall through my center,
far from me, far off,
I am here and I don’t know where here is,
what day is today?
today is today,
it is always today and I am a date
lost between before and after.
yes and no, never and always,
this very moment and its flute solo
at the edge of the void,
geometries
suspended in a timeless space,
cubes, pyramids, spheres, cones
and the other toys of sleepless reason.
shapes made of crystal, light, air:
ideas,
in the abstract sky of the mind,
fixed constellations,
neither living nor dead,
spider threads and crystalline drivel,
woven by insomnia, unwoven at dawn,
river of thoughts I don’t think, that think me,
river, itinerant music, delta of silence,
soundless cataracts, tide at my eardrums,
desire and its eyes that touch,
its hands that see,
its bedroom that is a drop of dew,
its bed made from a single shaft of light,
desire,
obelisk tattooed by death,
rage in its house of knives,
doubt with its triangular head,
remorse with its scalpel and lens,
the two sisters, fatigue and restlessness,
that battle tonight for my soul,
all of them, one after the other,
fling themselves over,
hushed mumble of downcast eyes,
blurred murmur of water talking to itself,
no, k is not he murmur of water
but of blood,
it comes and goes incessantly through my veins,
I am its prison, and it my jailer,
no, it is not blood,
it is the days and years,
the dead hours and this instant
that is still alive,
time falling
endlessly in itself,
I hear my breathing, falling, hurling down,
I am stretched out alongside myself.
far off, far,
I am stretched out there, far off,
where is my left side, my right,
which way is north?
unmoving, rocked by the wave with no body,
I am a heartbeat, a blink of an eye
in a crease of time,
the moment opens and closes,
a hazy clarity shoots across,
is it coming or going?
does it return or drift off?
echoes of footsteps, procession of shadows
in the theater of closed eyes,
torrent of heartbeats,
drumroll of syllables
in the cave of my chest,
chorus of psalms
in the temple of vertebrae and veins,
is it death arriving?
is it day,
the inflexible every day?
today is no longer today,
a black river drags me along
and I am that river
what time is it,
cruel clock, clock with no hours?

 

December 4, 2019

DEATH/Rainer Maria Rilke

Filed under: lost, mirrors, POEM, poetry, surreal, Uncategorized, visions, WAITING, WISE UP — Tags: , , — namelessneed @ 12:41 pm
Death
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Issue no. 82 (Winter 1981)There stands death, a bluish distillate
in a cup without a saucer. Such a strange
place to find a cup: standing on
the back of a hand. One recognizes clearly
the line along the glazed curve, where the handle
snapped. Covered with dust. And Hope is written
across the side, in a faded Gothic script.The man who was to drink out of that cup
read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of beings are they then,
who finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherwise would they stay here? Would they keep
chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?
The hard present moment must be pulled
out of them, like a set of false teeth.
Then they mumble. Then they go on mumbling. . .

O falling star,
once seen into from a bridge—:
Not to forget you. To endure

May 20, 2018

PROSE FROM A DREAM MAN

Filed under: dream, DREAMS, fragments, lost, prose, stream of consciousness, surreal, Uncategorized, visions — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 10:53 am

 

Grand Hotel Sousse

Sousse Monday, March 15, 1920

This Africa is incredible

. . . Unfortunately, I cannot write coherently to you, for it is all too much. Only sidelights. After cold, heavy weather at sea, a sparkling morning in Algiers. Bright houses and streets, dark green clumps of trees, tall palms’ crowns rising among them. White burnooses, red fezzes, and among these the yellow uniforms of the Tirailleurs d’Afrique, the red of the Spahis, then the Botanical Gardens, an enchanted tropical forest, an Indian vision, holy acvatta trees with gigantic aerial roots like monsters, fantastic dwellings of the gods, enormous in extent, heavy, dark green foliage rustling in the sea wind.

Then thirty hours by rail to Tunis. The Arab city is classical antiquity and Moorish middle ages, Granada and the fairy tale of Baghdad. You no longer think of yourself; you are dissolved in this potpourri which cannot be evaluated, still less described: a Roman column stands here as part of a wall; an old Jewess of unspeakable ugliness goes by in white baggy breeches; a crier with a load of burnooses pushes through the crowd, shouting in gutturals that might have come straight from the canton of Zurich; a patch of deep blue sky, a snow-white mosque dome; a shoemaker busily stitching away at shoes in a small vaulted niche, with a hot, dazzling patch of sunlight on the mat before him; blind musicians with a (hum and tiny three-stringed lute; a beggar who consists of nothing but rags; smoke from oil cakes, and swarms of flies; up above, on a white minaret in the blissful ether, a muezzin sings the midday chant; below, a cool, shady, colonnaded yard with horseshoe portal framed in glazed tiles; on die wall a mangy cat lies in the sun;ia coming and going of red, white, yellow, blue, brown mantles, white turbans, red fezzes, uniforms, faces ranging from white and light yellow to deep black; a shuffling of yellow and red slippers, a noiseless scurrying of naked black feet, and so on and so on.

In the morning the great god rises and fills both horizons with his joy and power, and all living things obey him. At night the moon is so silvery and glows with such divine clarity that no one can doubt the existence of Astarte.

Between Algiers and Tunis He 550 miles of African soil, towering up to the noble and spreading shapes of the great Atlas range, wide valleys and plateaus bursting with grapes and grain, dark green forests of cork oak. Today Horus rose out of distant, pale mountains over an unending green and brown plain, and from tie desert there sprang up a mighty wind which blew out to the dark blue sea. On rolling, gray-green hills yellow-brown remains of whole Roman cities, small flocks of black goats grazing around them, nearby a Bedouin camp with black tents, camels, and donkeys. The train runs into a camel which cannot make up its mind to get off the tracks; the beast is killed; there is a great running up, shrieking, and gesticulating of white-clad figures; and always the sea, now deep blue, now hurting the eyes with its glitter in the sunlight. Out of olive groves and palms and hedges of giant cactus floating in the flickering, sun-shot air rises a snow-white city with divinely white domes and towers, gloriously spread out over a hill. Then comes Sousse, with white walls and towers, the harbor below; beyond the harbor wall the deep blue sea, and in the port lies the sailing ship with two lateen sails which I
once painted!!!!

You stumble over Roman remains; with my cane I dug a piece of Roman pottery out of the ground.

This is all nothing but miserable stammering; I do not know what Africa is really saying to me, but it speaks. Imagine a tremendous sun, air clear as in the highest mountains, a sea bluer than any you have ever seen, all colors of incredible power. In the markets you can still buy the amphorae of antiquity things like that and the moonlll! . . .~Carl Jung; (Memories Dreams and Reflections; Pages 371-372.)

LETTER TO EMMA JUNG FROM NORTH AFRICA (1920)

July 31, 2014

“COULD HAVE” –Wislawa Szymborska

Filed under: lost, mirrors, POEM, poetry, private, prose, surreal, WISE UP — Tags: , , , , , — namelessneed @ 7:53 am

It could have happened

It had to happen./It happened earlier. Later.

Nearer. Farther off.

It happened, but not to you.

You were saved because you were the first.

You were saved because you were the last.

Alone. With others.

On the right. The left.

Because it was raining. Because of the shade.

Because the day was sunny.                                                                                                                     

You were in luck — there was a forest.

You were in luck — there were no trees.

You were in luck — a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,

A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant . . .

So you’re here? Still dizzy from

another dodge, close shave, reprieve?

One hole in the net and you slipped through?

I couldn’t be more shocked or

speechless.

Listen,

how your heart pounds inside me.

Submitted: F

July 21, 2014

Goings On In Glass

Filed under: dream, fragments, lost, mirrors, photography, private, stream of consciousness, surreal, visions, windows — namelessneed @ 6:10 am

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