Category: landscape

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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.

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Along the vertex, where two bodies (heavenly
            or otherwise)
Intersect, the minor tasks and major 
            efforts that lend life
A narrative, a geometric center, the appalling

            beauty of the abstract, 

What Ails Me, Sara Nicholson

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you ever look at a thing
you ain’t make, but become
a mother in the looking?
our blood is a thread tied
around my finger, tied
around her finger, that helps
me love. when her knees
swell, when her joints rust,
when her hair thins & flees
making a small continent
of skin on the side of her head,
i am witnessing her in whatever
state her body will allow.
Bismillah to the brain that
put my name next to her name
and said look at this girl your
whole life and know some kind
of peace.

Ode to Dalya’s Bald Spot, Angel Nafis

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“run the country” (NPR)

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Johanna Fateman’s The Year (2025) in Art. (Cultured)

• Jack Whitten, The Messenger (MoMA)
• Jennifer Packer, Dead Letter” (Sikkema Malloy Jenkins)
• A 2007 portrait of Zohran Mamdani by Salman Toor
• et al

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