Monday, July 30, 2007

The Cock*

I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young cock
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The cock was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the well-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The cock stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."

*with apologies to Elizabeth Bishop.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

playin detective

"... the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to record in thermometers."

Elizabeth Bishop, 'The Man-Moth', from North & South (1946), in Elizabeth Bishop: The Complete Poems 1927-1979, p. 14.

"Dingin tak tercatat
pada termometer"

Goenawan Mohamad, 'Dingin Tak Tercatat' (1971), in Goenawan Mohamad: Selected Poems/Puisi Pilihan, p. 32.

Monday, July 02, 2007


Interesting TimesLast updated less than one minute ago

--->learnedly and single-handedly transforming the map
of Anglo-American poetry

Make me popular! is a leitmotif

"Till death do us part." Total bullshit.

"We'll be together forever." Fuck you!

Bungaaaa is in your overextended network

’nuair dh’ēireas mi’s tu gheobh a chiad sgailc*

Write when you feel moved to, in response to some inner necessity,
attempt to force your talent
let it develop at its own pace

'when I rise up it is thou who wilt get the first slap or blow'**

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**ta to sinds 4 da scribefiah magik

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