punkrockandreticence
punk rock + reticence
junkyard / moodboard / noise
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Marie Howe, from Magdalene: Poems; “The Landing”
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Ecstatic Joy and Its Variations
as surely as this is about seeing you dance naked
it is also about the sky and Mahler in the wan distance heard by a child
as surely as the sadness never leaves and that music heals the night with its deeps and neon
as surely as the glow of the radiator at 3 a.m., a line of inquiry, souvenirs, a signature for the sun
o bed of stray barrettes, discourse, and water bed of laughter, hot takes, dried blood bed of cedar bows, pinhole light, thing music
surely this is about water jetting from a spring, a languid rafting with no particular destination
as the old arguments, humans, how they rhyme, stutter, get lost
this is also about conversations with the dead, the only honest definition of silence
surely you are not listening to the words I am singing
about the last day of my life, the gift of blood, the perfect text
are not all the sounds on my lyre about you, like a seam through the sky, glitter, sometime youth
surely this is about the one thing you do to me, places not even music has touched
and in my outrage, I am immortal because I love, I am here
— Peter Gizzi, Granta 162 [Art: Comforter, 2007 by Catherine Murphy]
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Patti Smith, A Book of Days
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The Quiet
before the storm is
the storm. Our waiting tunnelling outward, chewing at the as-yet-not-here, wild,
& in it the
not-yet,
that phantom, hovering, scribbling hints in the dusty airshafts where we
await rain which
once again will not come, though something we think of as the storm
will. Steeped in no-colour colour. Smothering hopes with false
promises, as wind comes up and we feel our soul turn frantic
in us, craning this way and that, yes the soul can twist, can winch itself into knots,
why not, there is light but no warmth, we are alone yet
not, no trace but the feeling of
trace, who wouldn't be a child again,
teach me how to work, how to be kind, teach me ignorance, sweet ignorance,
the roads lie down in us, all the roads taken, they knot up.
they went nowhere, cld that be true,
they made a shapeless burden we carried around calling it lived -
experience. Did you live. Did it feel like life to
you. At the water's edge you feel
you should ask for
instruction. Go ahead. Right there where the waves shatter over the rocks and the plumes
rise, the vast silky roads of ocean arrive as spray, spume, droplets, foam.
Is that shattering what was meant by ripeness.
We were told to aim for ripeness,
to be broken into
wisdom. You look at the rocks again, the sleeping planet at your back, under yr
feet, nothing coming back, nothing coming round, you close yr eyes
for clues, u peer, inhale, listen madly for clues. What is hell. The
imagination of what is
coming is hell. The light of my monitor
blinks. What will the readout
tell us. Who is us. How will us change
when the readout
arrives, the ice-core update, the new temps for the
arctic depth-sounds, bone scans, outposts on
stars, on cells. I look for the stars
my on body, I look all over. The spray off the rock rinses my face. My
eyes take the brine. What
is coming, will you be there. In this quiet now is
all of
yr life says the monitor, should I say my
life, should I say
ours, I can't tell tenses & pronouns
apart, I can feel
my veins, I shake in my dreams, I think I am cold, the wind picks up,
like a tooth on a stone, the tooth of something small
which was slaughtered,
its screaming
below the threshold of our
hearing, just below. Then maybe I'm not born yet. Maybe I am waiting in
the canal. Can you
hear me I say again. They are putting a drug in.
They want me to join the
human
race. They know we are out of time.
Hurry they say. A different kind of hurry than the one you
are used to
they say.
They are trying to tame us.
Outside I hear laughter but it could be veins rushing when
guns are pointed. They are pointed at the outside of
this. At the belly of
this poem. They can't help
it. They are in cities under
siege. Their hands on the triggers are
hopeless. They have run out of
ideas. Dogs run through the streets till they
turn to meat.
The things that live in the ground
have to surface.
The heat outside sounds like air sucking up
light. They are calling my name. I am not born yet & still I am trying to say yes, yes,
here I am,
is there a bloodied envelope for me,
one of us needs to be delivered. Now a beam is shining over all the rubble
picking for clues.
Is this all the life left before the gate to
the next on thing?
They tell me the gate to the next on thing is bloody but warm.
That they mean well.
To remember that they
meant well.
A seedpod floats down, swirling light on & off.
The shadows want to show us
wind. Even the invisible
say the shadows
is here. Are you here?
Was that a butterfly or its shadow just now. The lake
dried up. The earth is
on standby. No, the earth is going off
standby. The mode is shifting. A switch is
being thrown. The passengers
are stranded. Will there be enough. Of
anything. Look,
the girl is sitting on her small suitcase weeping. She is alone now.
Look, she is no longer weeping. She is staring. The earth says
it is time. Everyone checks their watch.
Your destination is in sight. Be
ready. Brace. The traincars shake. They rattle.
Our test is still blinking.
Is this the ending rattling. The outcome. The verified result. No
it is something else that rattles.
How I wish there were an intermission.
The sweets would arrive on their little wooden trays.
The curtain's velvet would descend.
To let the story cool off
for a while.
So we could catch up,
compare our favourite parts, wonder who would be saved,
who would pay the price in full,
for their folly, their trespass, their refusal, their
love. No, I remember learning,
back in the prior era,
there is no love. It's all
desire. Hurry up. Your destination's
in sight. Brace for
arrival. The traincars
shake. They rattle.
No it's something else that rattles.
I shake you gently. This would be a good time to
rouse. Do you wish
to rouse.
Are we there yet you ask. I do not know. I am
the poem. I am just shaking you
gently to remind you.
Of what? Of time? That this is time? That there is
time. Do you want
the results. No. I don't want to know.
The lake went by so quickly.
It was teeming, as they used to say, then it was
sand. Then even the sand blew away.
And now look. It is
bone. How it shines.
The people in the committee meeting don't see the lake, they are
still talking. Actually
they are not talking.
They are
screaming.
They do this by looking
down. The lakebed goes by in a flash
on their overhead.
Whose turn is it now.
Have you stood your turn in line.
Have you voted.
For what says the young eagle
diving over the lake looking for the lake
as the train rattles by, for what.
— Jorie Graham, LRB 44 (18) [art by Angela Deane]
#daily art#poetry#art#daily poem#poem#art of the day#daily poetry#angela deane#ghost photos#jorie graham#quiet#contemporary poetry#stranger in the alps
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"He, Too" by Solmaz Sharif / Immigration Men by Salman Toor
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Keeping Things Whole
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
— Mark Strand [Art by František Kobliha]
#poem#poetry#poem of the week#František Kobliha#girl against the grain#mark strand#moody#moody poems#art#art of the day#woodcut
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To Begin With, The Sweet Grass
I.
Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat
of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or
forget to sing?
Will the rivers run upstream?
Behold, I say—behold
the reliability and the finery and the teachings
of this gritty earth gift.
II.
Eat bread and understand comfort.
Drink water, and understand delight.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets
are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds
who are drinking the sweetness, who are
thrillingly gluttonous.
For one thing leads to another.
Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.
Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.
And someone’s face, whom you love, will be as a star
both intimate and ultimate,
and you will be both heart-shaken and respectful.
And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:
oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two
beautiful bodies of your lungs.
III.
The witchery of living
is my whole conversation
with you, my darlings.
All I can tell you is what I know.
Look, and look again.
This world is not just a little thrill for the eyes.
It’s more than bones.
It’s more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.
It’s more than the beating of the single heart.
It’s praising.
It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.
You have a life—just imagine that!
You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe
still another.
IV.
Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.
And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?
I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.
V.
We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we
change.
Congratulations, if
you have changed.
VI.
Let me ask you this.
Do you also think that beauty exists for some
fabulous reason?
And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure—
your life—
what would do for you?
VII.
What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself.
Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to.
That was many years ago.
Since then I have gone out from my confinements,
though with difficulty.
I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.
I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile.
They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment
somehow or another).
And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.
And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?
Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.
•
Sometimes
I.
Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.
Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.
But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.
II.
Sometimes
melancholy leaves me breathless…
III.
Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!
The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.
IV.
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
V.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.
VI.
God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body
like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again—
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably—
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.
VII.
Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.
After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened
to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.
— From Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver [Art: "Sunset by the Stream" and "My Dog in a Meadow" by Per Adolfsen]
#mary oliver#devotions#poem#poetry#daily poetry#daily poem#poem a day#daily art#per adolfsen#danish art#contemporary art#nature#life#wisdom#poets wisdom
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Advice from a caterpillar - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll - Illustrations by John Tenniel
Short hand series by Pitman's
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Theory of flight, Edouard Taufenbach & Bastien Pourtout
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I.
[Artwork: Shadows (2009), Olga Kvasha]
She stood before a sketch, tracing
with a curved finger the shapes
of simple pencil strokes lightly
onto the velvet skin of her inner arm.
The slow swirl of the crowd stirred
the air in the hushed space,
the movement of her long straight hair
raising shivers on her skin
as it caressed her bare shoulders.
She never saw him, a few paces back,
rendering into lines on the smooth white
paper of his sketchpad, the flutter
of her diaphanous dress
against her arched back and full hips.
Visitors to the exhibit who saw them
glanced furtively at each other.
Couples grasped at the fingers
of their partners while avoiding
direct eye contact. Old women
fanned themselves with brochures
and laughed quietly.
At closing, the crowd spilled
into the narrow street,
visible dissipation of energy;
people shot from the opening,
ejaculated onto the heated cobbles
of a sweltering Paris evening.
Couples cuddled
on metro platforms, embraced
in the middle of sidewalks, caressed
on bridges over the Seine, pressed each other
against tall iron fences in residential neighborhoods.
If she’d had a butterfly net,
she could have scooped up extra kisses.
They skittered everywhere, crisp sycamore
leaves in an unseasonably warm wind.
She returned to her tiny room.
Up a crooked staircase,
in the corner of the fourth floor
of a tired Montmartre walk-up,
her dress fell around her feet.
She spread the shuttered doors
to the balcony, propped a mirror
against the railing, and sketched
what she saw in the falling light,
knowing that red lines
were being pressed into her
white flesh by the rigid slats
of the wooden chair, and that
no one would be coming
home to see them.
— "Klimt at the Musée Maillol" by Janalynn Bliss
II.
[Artwork: Reflection (2021), Rodney Thompson]
He said my differential was gritty and grimy and
if I didn’t have it checked the whole thing could
fall apart or stop working. I didn’t know I had
one—a differential. Or where it was, or what it
looked like. I’m good at cleaning the things I can
see and the things I know about. It’s rained for two
days and I’ve waited for the clouds to leave, the
ones that are sitting on top of the hills, but today,
I said to hell with it and walked in the rain. The desert
doesn’t soak up the rain or hang onto it long. It
rushes over the hard pack, heading downhill to
set up flash floods on Route 140. I don’t seem to
care much about things these days. I feel disarmed,
hands hanging empty at my side, a little, you know,
indifferential.
— "Car Trouble" by Marilyn McCormick
#poem#poetry#daily poem#daily art#art#rattle#rattle poetry#marilyn mccormick#janalynn bliss#contemporary poets#poets#olga kvasha#rodney thompson
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“Where does such tenderness come from?”
1.Marina Tsvetaeva / 2.open house 1998 / 3.Sylvia Plath / 4.Joseph Lorusso / 5.Pablo Neruda / 6.Malcolm T. Liepke / 7.Ocean Vuong / 8.Joseph Lorusso / 9.Richard Siken / 10.Ron Hicks / 11.Mary Ann Samyn / 12.Ron Hicks / 13.May Sarton / 14.Joseph Lorusso / 15.Ivan Malkovych / 16.Ocean Vuong / 17.Breathless, Godard, 1960 / 18.Boris Pasternak / 19.Holly Warburton / 20.Mary Jo Bang / 21.Holly Warburton / 22.Susan Sontag
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The Water Babies - by Charles Kingsley c1910
Colour illustration by Katherine Cameron - Glasgow School of Art and friend and contemporary of Charles Rennie mackintosh
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The long shadow, Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein
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