SUGAR IN DRY SEASON

Judith Nichols

Posts sway like cake picks along roadsides
in heat waves, and the whole province bristles and bakes.
No rain for three months, and the throat starts to ache.
Saturdays, starting early, we smell the brush burning.

A thin promise, a change, bursts open, a fever—
pink flowers cover branches and hover like smoke.
Red blossoms pop too, in parched, humble yards.
Vultures looking down would see the province bleeding.

On the ground, sugarcane heaps high on bumbling diesel trucks.
Workers ride careening loads, holding wooden railings.
Ducking for low wires, one leans into a story
or a complicated joke. Another waves insistently

to a nearly-grown daughter. She turns buoyant
and completely unpredictable. Blowing kisses to a worker,
she says to believe, with any luck, before long, rain
will come again, softening mossy hills, washing away sorrow.

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As a general rule, fantasies simply treat the indefinite as a mask for a personal or a possessive: ‘a child is being beaten’ is quickly transformed into ‘my father beat me.’ But literature takes the opposite path and exists only when it discovers beneath apparent persons the power of the impersonal —which is not a generality but a singularity at the highest point: a man, a woman, a beast, a stomach, a child… It is not the first two persons that function as the condition for literary enunciation; literature begins only when a third person is born in us that strips us of the power to say ‘I’ (Blanchot’s ‘neuter’).
Gilles Deleuze, “Literature and Life” (via ardora)
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PIC

Paul Legault

Your mouth is putting me on

like a flower
     that fits.

EARLY PHOTOGRAPHY: You are very quickly.
FOREST MUSHROOM: I am its beauty.
FOREST: I am it
     with the whitensses of the mushrooms.
PACIFIC GARDENS: What was one thing

was moonesque.
What was wet ran

that way with the demon-gardener.
A SMOKE: I am the devotion of smoke.

HER: I’m the beauty of her beauty.
LIGHT: When I go somewhere

with my one eye
I don’t go somewhere else.

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Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

(Source: thefundad, via some-velvet-morning)

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SYNTAX

WANG PING

She walks to a table
She walk to table
She is walking to a table
She walk to table now
What difference does it make
What difference it make
In Nature, no completeness
No sentence really complete thought
Language, like woman
Look best when free, undressed

This was posted 1 year ago. It has 1 note.
emperortomatoketchup:

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

emperortomatoketchup:

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

(via momokapu)

This was posted 1 year ago. It has 7,042 notes. .

YOUR HAND

PAUL CELAN

Your hand full of hours, you came to me – and I said:
‘Your hair is not brown.’
You lifted it, lightly,
on to the balance of grief,
it was heavier than I.

They come to you on their ships, and make it their load,
then put it on sale in the markets of lust.
You smile at me from the deep.
I weep at you from the scale that’s still light.
I weep: Your hair is not brown.
They offer salt-waves of the sea,
and you give them spume.
You whisper: ‘They’re filling the world with me now,
and for you I’m still a hollow way in the heart!
You say: ‘Lay the leaf-work of years by you, it’s time, 
that you came here and kissed me.
The leaf-work of years is brown, your hair is not brown. 

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STUTTERED-OVER-AGAIN WORLD

PAUL CELAN

Stuttered-over-again World,
where I shall have been
a Guest, a Name,
sweated down from the Wall,
that a Wound licks up. 

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ILLEGIBILITY

PAUL CELAN

Illegibility of this
World. All twice-over.

Robust Clocks
agree the Cracked-Hour,
hoarsely.

You, clamped in your Depths,
climb out of yourself
for ever. 

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from THE REPRODUCTION OF PROFILES

ROSMARIE WALDROP 

I had inferred from pictures that the world was real and therefore paused, for who knows what will happen if we talk truth while climbing the stairs. In fact, I was afraid of following the picture to where it reaches right out into reality, laid against it like a ruler. I thought I would die if my name didn’t touch me, or only with is very end, leaving the inside open to so many feelers like chance rain pouring down from the clouds. You laughed and told everybody that I had mistaken the Tower of Babel for Noah in his Drunkenness.

The proportion of accident in my picture of the world falls with the rain. Sometimes, at night, diluted air. You told me that the poorer houses down by the river still mark the level of the flood, but the world divides into facts like surprised wanderers disheveled by a sudden wind. When you stopped preparing quotes from the ancient misogynists it was clear that you would forget my street.

Was it the jokes you told? Our bodies fitted one another like the links of a chain resplendent with cymbals and xylophones. Because form is the possibility of structure, you hoped there were people watching. My desire was more like a sailor’s rolling gait, as if shifting my weight from one side to the other were a matter heavy with consequence. The salt reached saturation. You said wet was wet, without following the river farther than this sentence or looking at negative facts, their non-existent mouths twisted for explanation.

I was not sure I understood. I was naked enough to disappear in the shops windows. Your weight on me sank through my bones, and I didn’t know where I had lost my body–as if it had no vowels, as if the construction were faulty, the mesh too coarse–when you felt a sneeze coming on and fumbled for your handkerchief. I traced the law of sufficient reason down your spine. Your skin was delicate, like a retracted confession.

Everything that can be thought at all, you said, can be thought over. When I asked if you were referring to nuclear arms, genetic engineering, or marriage, you hastily closed the window. I had seen you, in the park, push a banana peel off the sandal of Constance Witherby’s statue and recite with large gestures: a poem? a funeral oration? I was not musician enough to read this score, not with the wind blowing your hair against the approach of winter, though if the swallows had stopped circling high in the solid blue, my breath would already have failed me. Sharp smell of the sea, of fish rocking in the surf. And already clouds. You said it might be different if we were able to stand outside logic. I knew by this you meant: barefoot.

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