“… gone somewhere else, beyond the frame, which is a place that we, viewing this image, cannot know, but guess, …”
The Grain, Chad Bennett
AG2024_1088541a or somewhere else
Category: language
All that is submerged, encased
I have known only my own shallows—
Safe, plumbed places,
Where I was wont to preen myself.
But for the abyss
I wanted a plank beneath
And horizons…
I was afraid of the silence
And the slipping toe-hold…
Oh, could I now dive
Into the unexplored deeps of me—
Delve and bring up and give
All that is submerged, encased, unfolded,
That is yet the best.
Submerged, Lola Ridge
my quest, to know myself.
To chart and compass this unfathomed sea,
Myself must plumb the boundless universe.
Quest, Carrie Williams Clifford
Eden in Post
AG2022_2040228a or the void does not beckon as it used to
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
What lives on
He was as a god,
stepped out of eternal dream
along the boardwalk.
He looked at my girl,
a dream to herself and
that was the end of them.
They disappeared beside the sea
at Revere Beach as
I aint seen them since.
If you find anyone
answering their description
please let me know. I need them
to carry the weight of my life
The old gods are gone. What lives on
in my heart
is their flesh
like a wound,
a tomb, a bomb.
Billie, John Wieners
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Árbol de la vida (Tree of life), 1982
Gelatin silver print
9 ¼ x 7 ¼ in (23.5 x 18.4 cm)
Courtesy of Galerie Lelong & Co., and the Estate of Ana Mendieta
AG2024_2100729a or On a fait ce qu’on pouvait
Lors d’un constat effectué au lendemain de l’attaque, des trousseaux de clés de la prison, des uniformes de police ainsi que des documents administratifs ont été retrouvés à même le sol, selon un des deux rapports obtenus par AyiboPost. Les cadenas et barrières pour la plupart étaient brisés.
«On a fait ce qu’on pouvait», déclare à AyiboPost Pierre René François, le directeur de la DAP. «On n’avait pas seulement le pénitencier national à consolider», dit-il. «Il y avait aussi le palais national, la base de l’Unité Départementale de Maintien de l’Ordre (UDMO), le commissariat de Port-au-Prince, l’aéroport… les bandits étaient partout et ce n’était pas facile à gérer.»
Widlore Mérancourt et Rolph Louis-Jeune for Ayibopost
It is easy to criticize US/UN involvement in Haiti. But who will help in maintaining some sense of order? And how?
Imagination, too, is old habit
Imagination, too, is old habit, assiduously maintained despite consequences.
And I accept the presence of dances invisible to me.
I racked up habitual sins. I desired, desire
Grand Tour: Poems, Elisa Gonzalez
AG2024IMG_20221127_161716_HDRa or always looked like agony to me
People talk of “good” or “peaceful” deaths as if they’ve seen one, but it’s always looked like agony to me, despite the morphine. “
The Dream Won’t Come True, Kathy Fagan
“The flatness I have in mind is also a form of rejoinder to a calamitous present. It, too, short-circuits the expectation that subjects will authenticate themselves through confession or breakdown, that they will call forth hidden but unfeigned intensities of feeling through their own meticulous artistry. Crucially, although a far cry from the honnêteté lofted by the crosscurrents of courtly and early commercial society, it retains what Pascal identified as an intimacy with judgement. Materializing in scenes and histories of violence, it ultimately sidesteps or leapfrogs an understanding of such contexts as traumatic, to land on the simple verdict that they are wrong. Without saying that this is a more radical approach to a political poetics, I would nonetheless suggest that it is a crucial and overlooked style of critique. In the us in particular, such flatness confronts a public culture that has long appealed to unexamined and unmanaged feeling to supercharge repressive programmes and paranoias.”
[…]
” A recessive poetics doesn’t have to be radical: it might be timid, callous or boring. As Eisen-Martin’s work suggests, because flatness is embedded in a sense of the present as not only cruel but monotonous, it has definitively seceded from more exuberant or animated forms of expression; if it didn’t, it would not be flatness but melancholy. One might accuse it, then, as one might accuse these poets, of refusing or being unable to present a model of social life that is ecstatic, and through which human life might finally uncover the full range of its capacities for experience. But flatness is also, or might be, an ethical withdrawal from the impulse to dictate how any other person should encounter themselves. There is no cult of flatness, though there has long been a cult of lyric agitation; and since the latter is in no danger of dissolving, perhaps it might be good to have some alternatives to it.”
Notes on Tone, Anahid Nersessian, New Left Review 142