it is the hard
edge of things
i am avoiding
the separations
so that i can take my glasses off
and then i cannot tell
which are the leaves
and which the angels
like blake
like that man
who lived with the lepers
not noticing what was sin
and what was grace
visioning visions vision
i take my glasses off
so i can see
i take my glasses off, Lucille Clifton
in the dream of foxes
there is a field
and a procession of women
clean as good children
no hollow in the world
surrounded by dogs
no fur clumped bloody
on the ground
only a lovely line
of honest women stepping
without fear or guilt or shame
safe through the generous fields.
a dream of foxes, Lucille Clifton
One night I wandered alone from my comrades’ huts;
The grasshoppers chirped softly
In the warm misty evening;
Bracken fronds beckoned from the darkness
With exquisite frail green fingers;
The tree gods muttered affectionately about me,
And from the distance came the grumble of a kindly train.
I was so happy to be alone,
So full of love for the great speechless earth,
That I could have laid my cheek in the wet grasses
And caressed with my lips the hard sinewy body
Of Earth, the cherishing mistress of bitter lovers.
A Moment's Interlude, Richard Aldington
It is the smallest idea born in the interior will,
that has no fury nor ignorance,
no intruder but stranger, no scaffold of a plea,
no mote of the hungry, no pitchfork of instinct,
no ladder of pity, no carriage of lust,
no wavering foot on concrete, no parish of bees,
no mountains of coal, no limestone and ash,
no lie poured down the stairs of a house among them,
and this is the will of maker and offspring,
no boot in the hallway indicating more exit
than arrival, more straying than strategy, no more struggle
than contained in my body now, as I wander the rooms,
tearing curtains apart from their windows
separating material from light.
Infinite and Plausible, Tina Chang
Earthquake Magnitude 7.4 – 5 km S of San José del Palmar, Colombia. Servicio Geológico Colombiano.
El volcán Puracé, also, erupted.
Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.
Going There, Jack Gilbert
Tell me is there anything lovelier,
Anything more quieting
Than the green of little blades of grass
And the green of little leaves?
Is not each leaf a cool green hand,
Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger,
Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats?
Greenness, Angelina Weld Grimké
In the very early morning
Long before Dawn time
I lay down in the paddock
And listened to the cold song of the grass.
Between my fingers the green blades,
And the green blades pressed against my body.
“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?”
Sang the grass.
“Why does she weep on my bosom,
Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?
Foolish little earth child!
It is not yet time.
One day I shall open my bosom
And you shall slip in—but not weeping.
Then in the early morning
Long before Dawn time
Your lover will lie in the paddock.
Between his fingers the green blades
And the green blades pressed against his body . . .
My song shall not sound cold to him
In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair
In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.
Long and long he will lie there . . .
Laughing—not weeping.”
The Earth-Child in the Grass, Katherine Mansfield
To be able to walk along and see
the fierce green sun
the meadow grass the tall gently bobbing weeds
then to take a walk inside yourself
and see trees tall as Tom Thumb
It’s always raining here It never rains
I’m strolling among the shadows of everyone
I’ve ever loved
But this morning I was flying with the birds
Not knowing like the map there was a destination
But it was fun
Like making love on Tuesday instead of
our customary Sunday afternoon
I’ve learned to suffocate death
and continue doing so all day
Song, Paul Carroll
For Lefebvre, ‘moments’ are intense experiences in which everyday life is suspended and possibilities for authenticity, creativity or transcendence are opened up. These moments – whether aesthetic, amorous or revolutionary – reveal the potential richness of existence, both individual and collective. This approach seeks to break with the reproduction of relations of domination.