Category: landscape

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Imagine
the weeks it takes to wind

nacre over the red
seed placed at another
heart’s mantle. The mussel

become what no one
wants to:
vessel, caisson, wounded

into making us
the thing we want
to call beautiful.

Vessels, Paisley Rekdal

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An overabundance of memory paralyses action, … , and encourages melancholy; deja vu is thus a ‘public pathology’ resulting from an excess of memory, a surfeit of history.

The basic structural unit of reproductive technology … is the rectangle

– Claire Bishop

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O poetry, visit this house often,
imbue my life with success,
leave me not alone,
give me a wife and home.

Take this curse off
of early death and drugs,
make me a friend among peers,
lend me love, and timeliness.

Return me to the men who teach
and above all, cure the
hurts of wanting the impossible
through this suspended vacuum.

Supplication, John Wieners

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Sustained by poetry, fed anew
by its fires to return from madness,
the void does not beckon as it used to.

Littered with syllables, the road does not loom
as a chasm. The hand of strangers on other
doors does not hurt, the breath of gods

does not desert, but looms large
as a dream, a prairie within our dream,
to which we return, when we need to.

Oh blessed plain, oh pointed chasm.

II Alone, John Wieners

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Contrary, besieged, my self
makes me its accomplice.
I owe him, my mandatory proxy,
a borrowed happenstance,
a philosophy in place of me.
Welcome, difficult neighbor,
the patient, dying, announces,
for he is my neighbor, who
assigns the me in me eaten away.
Such is the new future no present
remembers: the fall of the regular
fall of the beat—the disaster
again. Speaking, we cause it
to appear, the gentlest want,
the same word crushed, feverish.
The disaster is beyond the pale.
Improper disaster, what have you
done? God no longer the neighbor
in this night spared. It is dark, disaster.
What a long way there is to go.

Turned Back the Disaster Comes Back, Lisa Olstein

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Slow, careful, focused. Avoiding damage.

James S. A. Corey, Tiamat’s Wrath (The Expanse Book 8)

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A man marooned
No longer looks for ships, imagines
Anything on the horizon.

Myself I Sing, George Oppen

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In holiday clothing out of the great darkness by Clarice Jensen, 2025.

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Merve Emre on Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, via some biographies and Walter Benjamin.

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Goethe’s great tragedy, “Faust: The First Part,” was published that year. Faust, a thwarted scholar, is desperate to know “what it is that holds the world together” and to personally experience “all that is given to humanity, total humanity, to experience.” The demonic Mephistopheles appears in the absurd form of a yapping black poodle and grants Faust his wish. But, before he does, he pretends to show him another way to discover the secrets of the world. Why not write poetry?

Take my advice. Engage a poet. Let him turn on his imagination and load you with all the virtues and distinction—the courage of the lion, the speed of the stag, the hot blood of Italy, the endurance of the North. Let him solve the problem of combining generosity with cunning, and plan a young man’s impulsive love-affair for you. I’d like to know the gentleman. I’d call him Mr. Microcosm.

Faust raves that he will soar to the heights of “pleasures that hurt,” and swoop to the depths of “torments that enliven.” In dizzying changes of scene, he leaps from a tavern to a witch’s kitchen and from a forest cavern to a mountaintop, where the whole range of living things will pass before his eyes. But, to gain a total understanding of human experience, he must sacrifice his humanity, his moral sensibility. The victim of his sacrifice is Gretchen, a virgin whom Faust seduces and abandons in his devilish reverie, and who kills their illegitimate child. The Faustian-bargain hunter, a third Goethean type, strikes a deal whose cost is all-consuming. His antithesis is “Mr. Microcosm,” a poet of imagination and virtue, generosity and cunning, hot-blooded, coolheaded—a portrait of the artist as a mature man, the creator of a little world unto himself.

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Also, am I not learning when at the shape of her bosom,

Graceful lines, I can glance, guide a light hand down her hips?

Only thus I appreciate marble; reflecting, comparing,

See with an eye that can feel, feel with a hand that can see. . . .

Often too in her arms I’ve lain composing a poem,

Gently with fingering hand count the hexameter’s beat

Out on her back.

Roman Elegies, Goethe

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A materialist biography, … , would measure both the freedom evinced by a great man’s creations and their determination by external forces.