Quotes to like or puzzle over: “There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” ― James Salter, All That Is
Just in case there was something prior, More on words I dislike:
Eponymous. It seems so pretentious. Why not just say what it is? The title of whatever is the same as the person I’m writing about. Well OK, in fewer words. Or maybe it just annoys me as I had to look it up so many times as I kept forgetting what it meant. The word is just plain unfriendly.
Siblings. Hissssss. A cold word, an almost but not quite harsh word. It doesn’t sound at all like brother or sister. Maybe it’s good to use if you don’t like your family.
Facetious. Another pretentious word. It’s rarely spoken unless it’s the only three-syllable word someone knows. And then it’s used often.
And something to note about Yeats:
He is the only poet I’m aware of who has many poem titles longer than the poem.
I love & adore many of his short poems. There’s none better than “When You are Old,” “The Mask,” and “A Deep-sworn Vow.” “Leda and the Swan” is so powerful it can quite make you shudder. That poem is posted in full under “Myth and Mystery” in this blog.
Of course the Center Will Not Hold…there is no center. (This I discovered within Meditation.) Go ahead—look for your center.
And then, because there are no better words than those we receive from Rumi:
And thus it is I leave us for the day—to go sit on the patio, the dog and I—to watch the Thunderstorm, aye, by and by.
“And I’ll dance with you in Vienna, I’ll be wearing a river’s disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I’ll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.”
“In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river’s head. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons”
Federico Garcia Lorca
The words and the music take my breath away, my soul jumps with joy. It doesn’t matter to me the obvious use of Lorca’s poem. I just want to give Lorca a little credit here. As T. S. Eliot famously said: immature poets imitate but mature poets steal.
The Cohen photo & his words to the song were posted by Ravenous Butterflies.
“When your little girl asks you if she’s pretty your heart will drop like a wineglass on the hardwood floor part of you will want to say of course you are, don’t ever question it and the other part the part that is clawing at you will want to grab her by her shoulders look straight into the wells of her eyes until they echo back to you and say you do not have to be if you don’t want to it is not your job both will feel right one will feel better she will only understand the first when she wants to cut her hair off or wear her brother’s clothes you will feel the words in your mouth like marbles you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to it is not your job.”
“I feel my failure intensely as if it were a vital organ the gods grew from the side of my head. You can’t cover it with a hat and I no longer can sleep on that side it’s so tender. I wasn’t quite faithful enough to carry this sort of weight up the mountain. When I took my vows at nineteen I had no idea that gods were so merciless. Fear makes for good servants and bravery is fraudulent. When I awoke I wasn’t awake enough.” ~ Jim Harrison
Although Jimmy boy was quite a rotter in his lifetime, wasn’t he. Not only that, even to his fans he became a bit of a dirty-old man. Too sad that, that so many men—with or without true artistic credentials—become such lechers when in the presence of the beautiful younger ones. Why do they consider that their value? Their right? Perhaps he is indeed right when he says he wasn’t awake enough.
And he wrote beautiful prose, published some fine books.
She was a Bosch painting Of mangled bodies deformed And perverted into a nightmare of her own screams And The meadows of Spring Running through tall Indian grass and daises and daffodils And A child of the Ether in skirts Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings
She was Hell itself anchored in Despair and the flames of Demons Rocked in the cradle of Doubt Opened by a bloody knife of her own wounds and scarred the same
She was a Poem of Light And Smiles of soft shining fireflies, Curls around an eternal face Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight
She saved a life and killed a man Ran full force across the world and Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks Unstoppable Unbreathable Unbearable
She searched for God so she could punch Him in the face, Tear off His gowns to leave Him Naked in His own blasphemy of Creation He Who created the Minotaur As well as Theseus Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls
She wrote and Sang and Painted She marched the stairs and Laughed and cooked and baked And Created her own music and Love And Still kept the unborn in jars Fermented in the formaldehyde of Alcohol underneath the floor
Until she became the Nightmare Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins And in the stream below the rocks her body broken Where it can at last Sing out… “So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”
And she was all things
And she was nothing
And she wore boots so heavy she could not leave the earth her moans heard now only by Angels who cry to God…our pain, her worth