Posted By Spirit of Old
Time and again. I come back to Yeats, and his prophetic words from ‘The Second Coming’. “The ceremony of innocence is drowned. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” Personally, I don’t associate Yeats’ language with religion, or politics or war. For me it represents a far deeper internal mythology; the one that presents us with the cold choice of a hero’s journey or a sleep that lasts for eternity. NB
This was posted by Nick Bantock, along with the photo (appropriately) of a postcard. Bantock is the author of Griffin & Sabine, and others of their books, the trilogy of which I have. And I will tell of that at some further post coming up.
So, Bantock and Yeats too, as we continue to read our way through our self-isolation. Our quarantine. Who better?
At the beginning of 2000, Marcello went to schools along with those who made the Resistance with him, but he always made others talk. But then, when he found himself alone, he told his story: he was a son of farmers who went to university in the 40s. War came, but he kept studying at night, after dinner, until late now. But the neighbors hadn’t digested this thing that a farmer s’ son went to university and that light on didn’t convince them: they called the police. They beat him up because they suspected him of being against the regime, they didn’t believe he was studying, because he was the son of farmers. ‘ I have notes at home ‘ said Marcello, but ‘ they are full of strange figures: give us the key to decipher what’s written ‘ they answered him. Marcello tells that they finally left him alone and was sent home. And he added that from the next day he became part of the Resistance, because every punch, every slap, every kick, was a good reason for that filth to end.
The other day when I tried to contact Marcello, I found out he was killed by the Coronavirus. It made me remember a book, Fahrenheit 451, where it is said that there are people who learn books by heart, so that the memory of those words continue in their bodies. I would like to tell Marcello that I tell his story, I take responsibility for it, even if you and many like you can’t do it anymore. And to those who think it’s rhetorical I say: memory is the answer to the question of why we are here, and why we are like this. We think memory is like an adventure movie, that we know how it ends. But who cares if we know who the good people are and who the bad guys are, because that’s the reason we have the freedom to say this is rhetoric. I’m angry at those who talk about rhetoric, with those who say those punches taken by Marcello are rhetorical. To these rhetoric experts, I, who teach rhetoric at university, would like to answer with a sentence that happens to have four rhetorical figures: the rants, climax, apostrophe, and hyperbole: ” Fuck off .” ~ (Stefano Massini, April 23, 2020, Clean Square, La7)
Piero Martina, the partisan, 1961, Palazzo Lascaris, Turin
Posted by Il Salotto di Rossana
Posted by Poetic Outlaws
Fortunately, some are born with spiritual immune systems that sooner or later give rejection to the illusory worldview grafted upon them from birth through social conditioning. They begin sensing that something is amiss, and start looking for answers. Inner knowledge and anomalous outer experiences show them a side of reality others are oblivious to, and so begins the journey of awakening. Each step of the journey is made by following the heart instead of the crowd, and by choosing knowledge over veils of ignorance.
—Henri Bergson
Posted by Il Salotto di Rossana
Evgeiy Monahov Lady 2011
Declare peace with your breath.
Inhale men of arms and friction, exhale whole buildings and stormi red-winged blackbirds.
Inhale terrorists and exhale sleeping children and freshly mowed fields.
Inhale confusion and exhale maple trees.
Inhale how much has fallen and exhale friendships of a lifetime still intact.
Declare peace with your listening: when you hear sirens, pray out loud.
Remember what your tools are: flower seeds, dress pins, clean rivers.
Make some soup.
Make music, learn how to say thanks in three different languages.
Learn how to knit, and make a hat.
Think of chaos as blueberries dancing,
imagine the pain as the exhale of beauty or the gesture of fish.
Swim to go the other way.
Declare peace.
The world has never appeared so new and precious.
Drink a cup of tea and cheer up.
Act like the armistice has already arrived.
Don’t wait another minute.
~Mary Oliver
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 