Posts tagged "death"

Untitled

To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product – the finished artwork. To you, and you alone, what matters is the process: the experience of shaping the work.1

A struggle with my daily drabble. Three discordant points occupy my mind, defying order; a disparate triangle.

Kendrick Castillo. Student (their child!) dies defending his Colorado classmates during (another!) school shooting. We the People christen him a hero.

Kurt Cobain, beautiful, (self-deceased) idealist. All apologies.

Brown Bird in my garden, perched atop a sunburned finial. Teacup size, befitting call of teakettle, teakettle, teakettle. Translation: In the sun I feel as one.2

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Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

~W. H. Auden

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Anamnesis

The voice of the pheasant;
How I longed
For my dead parents!

~Bashō

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Rest!

Copper-coated copter flies with intention.
He knows just where he is headed,
no energy-bleeding, hope-wasting hither and thither.
His aim is there—
that slit of space formed by the incomplete union of two elderly deck planks.
The tiny-waisted tiny being glides inside.
Blackness welcomes him home.
Safe, safe, safe.
Rest! rest! rest!
(I know I am Nobody’s poet—And still!)
God, I want to be that wasp.

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Last Words

Some accuse me of morbidity, their assertion supported by a scaffold of dark twigs; my fondness for cemeteries and storms, my ubiquitous clothing choice in the color without color, my reliance upon heavy literature, my collection of dying words. I wish that I might lend them my lens, an owl bestowing her nighttime sight to the worshippers of the sun, that they might see beyond the limits of labels to the radiant core of all—Beauty.

Who is it? Who is it?
~Billy the Kid

Does nobody understand?
~James Joyce

The sadness will last forever.
~Vincent van Gogh

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