...now has copies of etudes for sale.
Just so you know.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Something
Measure the magnitude of an injustice by the smallness of what counts as a triumph.
Not a victory, then, but an achievement, a giving way.
How obscene to have to celebrate this; to have to celebrate the fact that having sex with someone you love no longer makes you a criminal.
And for that reason alone, how necessary to celebrate it.
It's good to know that India has finally arrived in the 20th century. Here's hoping it doesn't take till 2109 to get to the 21st.
Not a victory, then, but an achievement, a giving way.
How obscene to have to celebrate this; to have to celebrate the fact that having sex with someone you love no longer makes you a criminal.
And for that reason alone, how necessary to celebrate it.
It's good to know that India has finally arrived in the 20th century. Here's hoping it doesn't take till 2109 to get to the 21st.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
That's Dr. Falstaff to you
5 years
= STATA + JSTOR + rewrites + conference presentations + the annual caffeine output of a medium-sized Colombian plantation
= 49,000 words + 300 references + 24 tables
= 15 slides + 1 hour defense
= 1 dissertation, signed and delivered.
And it's barely lunchtime.
= STATA + JSTOR + rewrites + conference presentations + the annual caffeine output of a medium-sized Colombian plantation
= 49,000 words + 300 references + 24 tables
= 15 slides + 1 hour defense
= 1 dissertation, signed and delivered.
And it's barely lunchtime.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Four years
Depressing thought # 1461: This blog has now lasted longer than any relationship I've been in.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Booklamite
After he stopped sleeping, he moved into the library, staying hidden when the doors closed in the evening so he could spend all night wandering the shelves, picking out books at random, reading straight through till dawn.
He estimated it would take him twenty five years to read every book the library had. In fact, it took him twenty seven.
By the time he finished, he could no longer speak with anyone. A long habit of absolute silence made that impossible. Instead he spent three days sitting quietly in his carrel, thinking back over all he had read. On the fourth day he made a decision, found the book that he wanted, began to re-read.
He estimated it would take him twenty five years to read every book the library had. In fact, it took him twenty seven.
By the time he finished, he could no longer speak with anyone. A long habit of absolute silence made that impossible. Instead he spent three days sitting quietly in his carrel, thinking back over all he had read. On the fourth day he made a decision, found the book that he wanted, began to re-read.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Abandon
"Maybe all people are abandoned children. Perhaps birth is like being abandoned on earth by God."
- Yasunari Kawabata The Old Capital [1]
Or like running away. Here we are then, delinquents in search of adventure, impatient of safety, a galaxy of shooting stars. The self an assertion of independence. Mortality a coming of age.
At what point does escape turn into exile?
Robert Frost defines home as "something you somehow haven't to deserve". Who can blame us then, if death feels like home?
[1] translated from the Japanese by J. Martin Holman
Gladioli
Every Sunday she buys seven white gladioli, arranges them in the tall vase in her bedroom, their long stems immersed in water. Their presence gives the room a kind of clarity, a sense of well-being she draws sustenance from, even though she knows her joy is rootless, that her hope, even as it opens, is beginning to fade.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Rhymes
You know how people who don't know anything about it are always saying that they don't like modern poetry because it doesn't rhyme? Well, aside from being lazy and short-sighted, that particular prejudice isn't even true - a fair number of modern poets do, in fact, work in rhyme, and this month's issue of Poetry features two of the finest I know. Here's Stephen Edgar:
and A.E. Stallings:
Go read.
P.S. Those of you who don't need poems to rhyme should also check out Armantrout, who is as delightful as ever.
Look. The moon’s pale-copper sphereRings—a gong too faint to hear—Through the city.
- Stephen Edgar, 'The Building of Light'
and A.E. Stallings:
I hate you,How the children pleadAt first sight—
I want, I need,I hate how nearlyAlways I
At first say no,And then comply.(Soon, soon
They will grow boredClutching yourUmbilical cord)
- A.E. Stallings, 'The Mother's Loathing of Balloons'
Go read.
P.S. Those of you who don't need poems to rhyme should also check out Armantrout, who is as delightful as ever.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Morning Post
The paper arrives with its newsprint rain.
The world is sodden with happening. My throat is dry.
I scan the horoscopes, circle the futures I like.
Unfolded, the silence is as wide as my arms.
The world is sodden with happening. My throat is dry.
I scan the horoscopes, circle the futures I like.
Unfolded, the silence is as wide as my arms.
Monday, June 01, 2009
R.I.P. Kamala Das
Just heard the news.
I must admit I've never much cared for Ms. Das - I've only read her poems, and they've always struck me as being predictable, turgid and overripe. The sort of poems you'd expect from Edna St. Vincent Millay [1].
Still, I did read them, and while I may not be particularly fond of Ms. Das's efforts, I cannot question the sincerity of those efforts, or the immeasurable importance of her having made them.
One mourns for her the way one mourns for an elderly relative: however out of date her conversation, however embarrassing her presence, her death is still a loss.
[1] I realize some people might consider this a compliment. It's not meant to be.
I must admit I've never much cared for Ms. Das - I've only read her poems, and they've always struck me as being predictable, turgid and overripe. The sort of poems you'd expect from Edna St. Vincent Millay [1].
Still, I did read them, and while I may not be particularly fond of Ms. Das's efforts, I cannot question the sincerity of those efforts, or the immeasurable importance of her having made them.
One mourns for her the way one mourns for an elderly relative: however out of date her conversation, however embarrassing her presence, her death is still a loss.
[1] I realize some people might consider this a compliment. It's not meant to be.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
The Apocalypse
is never personal. It can no more happen to you than you can happen to a speck of cigarette ash.
It is not that the universe is incapable of malice. If it knew we existed it would despise us. Or pity us. But it's too busy to care.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares
The world is unfair, but impartial.
We are abandoned children. We seek conspiracy in the stars.
It is not that the universe is incapable of malice. If it knew we existed it would despise us. Or pity us. But it's too busy to care.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares
The world is unfair, but impartial.
We are abandoned children. We seek conspiracy in the stars.
Betraying Chopin
"Don't remember the music;
remember it as something obvious
that you are compelled, doomed, to obscure
and complicate. You erase it twice.
The first time
as you listened, unable
to have it,
the second time
as you were unable
to remember it."
- Arda Collins, 'Not for Chopin' from It Is Daylight (Yale University Press, 2009)
remember it as something obvious
that you are compelled, doomed, to obscure
and complicate. You erase it twice.
The first time
as you listened, unable
to have it,
the second time
as you were unable
to remember it."
- Arda Collins, 'Not for Chopin' from It Is Daylight (Yale University Press, 2009)
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Allegro Marcato
The handpump of history creaks in the night.
Death is sealed and hollow.
The taste of iron leaks into the water, like the voices of the lost singing under the music.
A rusted day gushes from the dawn.
(inspired by Honegger's Symphony no. 3)
Death is sealed and hollow.
The taste of iron leaks into the water, like the voices of the lost singing under the music.
A rusted day gushes from the dawn.
(inspired by Honegger's Symphony no. 3)
Heartbreak - 1
The first time is easy. You gamble, you take the hit. You pretend that the pain is making you stronger. You wonder what you did wrong, though you secretly know the answer. You do not want to believe in inevitability. It all seems very romantic, a kind of validation, the comfort of knowing that what you lost was real. You tell yourself despair is a grown-up emotion. And you can't help feeling a little proud.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Hope
He hasn't lost it.
He hasn't. It's here. Somewhere. Underneath all this mess. It has to be. He saw it the other day. It couldn't simply have vanished. He just has to find it. Just has to look more carefully. It's sure to turn up.
At least, he hopes so.
He hasn't. It's here. Somewhere. Underneath all this mess. It has to be. He saw it the other day. It couldn't simply have vanished. He just has to find it. Just has to look more carefully. It's sure to turn up.
At least, he hopes so.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
A blurring of lines
This is what the whiskey helps with - not forgetting, but a blurring of lines.
Sip by slow sip the past comes back to him.
Everything glows. Sadness, like the light at sunset, touches all things golden.
If only there was something left to wait for.
After the fourth drink the old songs make sense to him. Lena Horne singing Stormy Weather. The sweetness of lost disturbances, of rooms through which no one moves.
He's had enough. He fumbles about for the bottle cap but cannot find it. He gives up, pours himself another.
His throat aches.
Dark outside now. He should turn on the light, draw the curtain. Instead he sits, watching the streetlight come through the window, the shadow of the wind chime on his bedroom wall.
Two wind-stirred figures, dancing delicately apart.
Sip by slow sip the past comes back to him.
Everything glows. Sadness, like the light at sunset, touches all things golden.
If only there was something left to wait for.
After the fourth drink the old songs make sense to him. Lena Horne singing Stormy Weather. The sweetness of lost disturbances, of rooms through which no one moves.
He's had enough. He fumbles about for the bottle cap but cannot find it. He gives up, pours himself another.
His throat aches.
Dark outside now. He should turn on the light, draw the curtain. Instead he sits, watching the streetlight come through the window, the shadow of the wind chime on his bedroom wall.
Two wind-stirred figures, dancing delicately apart.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Concentric Paths
Thomas Ades Violin Concerto Op. 24
What, exactly, does time circle?
Scale after shimmering scale, the music a snake, feeding on itself.
The coin spinning to rest on the table has its own symmetry, its own precision.
An agitation building to silence.
The slower hand of the sunlight, the faster hand of the storm.
Stop.
If the machine has a soul it must be broken.
The bow runs across the strings like a knife across a thumbprint.
What, exactly, does time circle?
Scale after shimmering scale, the music a snake, feeding on itself.
The coin spinning to rest on the table has its own symmetry, its own precision.
An agitation building to silence.
The slower hand of the sunlight, the faster hand of the storm.
Stop.
If the machine has a soul it must be broken.
The bow runs across the strings like a knife across a thumbprint.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
One Downsmanship
I step into the elevator behind you, wait for you to press your floor.
You hit 6.
I pause for a moment, then hit 5.
I try hard not to smirk.
You hit 6.
I pause for a moment, then hit 5.
I try hard not to smirk.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Interpretation
Does it still qualify as a nightmare if it makes you sad, but not afraid?
***
In the dream I'm meeting with my analyst and we have a breakthrough. I discover that for the last 25 years I've been repressing the memory of a tragic accident I had as a child. I can't believe I've been hiding this from myself all these years. It explains so much.
When I wake up I think - what was the dream trying to tell me?
***
I don't believe in psychoanalysis. Apparently, my subconscious does.
***
In the dream I'm meeting with my analyst and we have a breakthrough. I discover that for the last 25 years I've been repressing the memory of a tragic accident I had as a child. I can't believe I've been hiding this from myself all these years. It explains so much.
When I wake up I think - what was the dream trying to tell me?
***
I don't believe in psychoanalysis. Apparently, my subconscious does.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Laugh about it, shout about it
Friday, May 15, 2009
An embarassment of Rich
"Applied to a particular historical subject, the feminist passion yields conclusions which, however true, are extremely general. Like all capital moral truths, feminism is a bit simple-minded. That is its power and, as the language of Rich's letter shows, that is its limitation."
- Susan Sontag
Via Book Bench, a link to a glorious exchange between Adrienne Rich and Susan Sontag, which, in my opinion at least, Sontag (no surprise!) wins hands down.
Cause of death
"Loneliness is not a cause of death"
- Jean-Luc Godard, Made in U.S.A.
A consequence. Or a disguise.
Consciousness neither alive nor dead, like a cat with nine dreams.
A coward with nine deaths.
A murderer with nine wives.
Neither heaven nor hell but a beforelife, an irreconcilable solitude, time's reflection in a mirror that may or may not be your soul.
Not a cause, but a reason.
Cheating
Not cheating when you can is stupid. And getting caught irrelevant.
All that matters is that you not lie to yourself about it.
All that matters is that you not lie to yourself about it.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Prejudice
I told you they wouldn't understand. Not at first anyway. They're small-minded that way, the lot of them. Not bigoted, you understand - they mean well - just slow, and a little petty. They'll come around in time. Probably. And if they don't, well, that's their problem. You don't need them. Not really. It would be nice to have them on your side, but you don't need them. You don't. Oh, come on. You can't mean that. You've got to learn to stand up for yourself. For who you are, what you believe. You can't let them bully you. That's what they want, you know. They're refusing to understand it because they're hoping that if they don't understand it pretty soon you won't understand it either and it'll all go away. I don't mean they're pretending not to understand it, I mean they're choosing not to. And you've got to deny them that choice. You've got to force them. And you can do it too. I'm telling you you can. And besides, you'll have to now. So maybe this is a good thing, their not understanding it. Maybe it'll force you to grow up a little. Show a little backbone. Not just sit there sniveling all the time. What? You want me to lie to you, want me to treat you with kid gloves. Why? Because of who you are? Is that really what you want? Is that why you're doing this, because you want special treatment? I thought you wanted equality. I thought that was what this was about. Oh, all right. I'm sorry. I know you're having a hard time. I didn't mean to shout at you, I really didn't, it's just that sometimes...look, forget it. You know I'm on your side. You do know that, don't you? So what if they don't understand? Like I said, I'm sure they'll come around eventually. I just didn't realize it meant that much to you. I didn't think you'd be so upset. You shouldn't have told them if it was going to hurt you this badly. I told you they wouldn't understand.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Game
This is the kind of thing they don't teach you at school.
All those years of waiting, hoping, wanting to learn how to play. And then you find out there are no rules, that there isn't even really a game. Just a confused back and forth with no one keeping score.
No way to tell if you're winning. Always afraid that you've lost.
All those years of waiting, hoping, wanting to learn how to play. And then you find out there are no rules, that there isn't even really a game. Just a confused back and forth with no one keeping score.
No way to tell if you're winning. Always afraid that you've lost.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Troubling allure
Troubling allure of eating disorder books
- Headline from the NY Times, May 11, 2009
What's for dinner tonight, honey? Ah, that book on schizophrenia I caught at Barnes & Noble last week. Yum!
- Headline from the NY Times, May 11, 2009
What's for dinner tonight, honey? Ah, that book on schizophrenia I caught at Barnes & Noble last week. Yum!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A beacon from Troy
In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, Nietzsche writes but for that route thou must have long legs.
And I think of Klytaimestra and her beacons: tongues of fire singing, from peak to peak, the fall of Troy.
Landscape as poetry. Death's trochees written across the sky.
Something is left unreconciled in this relay of tragedy to tragedy. Not a meeting of eyes, but the demand of one eye for another.
***
An exercise in bad form: To end an epic battle with a haiku of blood.
Three quick stabs is all it took. The red carpet a bloodline, bringing Agamemnon to his award.
O Apollo! Apollo!
Not a poetic fate, but fate as poetry.
***
The shortest distance between two silences is a unspoken line.
***
The old men wouldn't believe it at first. They wanted more, not fire and smoke but words, clear as a mirror,
reflecting a hope newly shaven,
reflecting heads newly shaved.
***
Poetry and prose. Smoke and mirrors.
They say it's seven years bad luck to kill a messenger. But Klytaimestra had been waiting for ten.
Besides, there were two messengers. The other came from the future, a future to which she would not return.
What she had in common with fire was language, its knowledge laughing and untouched.
Smoke and mirrors. Prophecy and news.
***
In the end, it didn't matter that fire was the truer herald. By the time they understood her, it had all turned to ash.
N.B. The italicised phrase in the middle comes from Anne Carson's magnificent new translation of Aiskhylos' Agamemnon, which this post is largely inspired by.
And I think of Klytaimestra and her beacons: tongues of fire singing, from peak to peak, the fall of Troy.
Landscape as poetry. Death's trochees written across the sky.
Something is left unreconciled in this relay of tragedy to tragedy. Not a meeting of eyes, but the demand of one eye for another.
***
An exercise in bad form: To end an epic battle with a haiku of blood.
Three quick stabs is all it took. The red carpet a bloodline, bringing Agamemnon to his award.
O Apollo! Apollo!
Not a poetic fate, but fate as poetry.
***
The shortest distance between two silences is a unspoken line.
***
The old men wouldn't believe it at first. They wanted more, not fire and smoke but words, clear as a mirror,
reflecting a hope newly shaven,
reflecting heads newly shaved.
***
Poetry and prose. Smoke and mirrors.
They say it's seven years bad luck to kill a messenger. But Klytaimestra had been waiting for ten.
Besides, there were two messengers. The other came from the future, a future to which she would not return.
What she had in common with fire was language, its knowledge laughing and untouched.
Smoke and mirrors. Prophecy and news.
***
In the end, it didn't matter that fire was the truer herald. By the time they understood her, it had all turned to ash.
N.B. The italicised phrase in the middle comes from Anne Carson's magnificent new translation of Aiskhylos' Agamemnon, which this post is largely inspired by.
Everyday
When he awakes his eyes are a little less bloodshot, his beard a little more gray.
Perhaps it'll be better today.
He lets the water run in the basin for a minute, untouched, then turns off the tap.
No, not yet.
He goes back to the bed, sits by the phone, feet on the carpet, waiting for the wake-up call.
When it comes, he lets the phone ring four times before he answers, then tries to sound sleepy as he says "Yes, yes, thank you."
It's a small victory, but the minute he puts the phone down the tiredness reclaims him.
It begins again, just as he knew it would.
Perhaps it'll be better today.
He lets the water run in the basin for a minute, untouched, then turns off the tap.
No, not yet.
He goes back to the bed, sits by the phone, feet on the carpet, waiting for the wake-up call.
When it comes, he lets the phone ring four times before he answers, then tries to sound sleepy as he says "Yes, yes, thank you."
It's a small victory, but the minute he puts the phone down the tiredness reclaims him.
It begins again, just as he knew it would.
Suspicion
She can't understand why he hasn't confronted her about her suspicions, now that they've been proven untrue.
Could it be that there was something to it after all? No, impossible. But maybe there's something else, something he's not telling her, something he feels guilty about. Maybe that's why he hasn't picked a fight.
Or maybe he doesn't care about the way she acted. Maybe all the time she was upset he didn't even notice. Or maybe that's what he expects of her, maybe he sees her that way - as shrewish and untrusting.
Or maybe it's all a ploy. Maybe he's saving it up for the future, planning to use it against her the next time they have a fight. Maybe he thinks he can punish her more this way - by pretending to be the bigger person.
Or maybe, just maybe, he actually is the bigger person?
No, she doesn't think so.
Could it be that there was something to it after all? No, impossible. But maybe there's something else, something he's not telling her, something he feels guilty about. Maybe that's why he hasn't picked a fight.
Or maybe he doesn't care about the way she acted. Maybe all the time she was upset he didn't even notice. Or maybe that's what he expects of her, maybe he sees her that way - as shrewish and untrusting.
Or maybe it's all a ploy. Maybe he's saving it up for the future, planning to use it against her the next time they have a fight. Maybe he thinks he can punish her more this way - by pretending to be the bigger person.
Or maybe, just maybe, he actually is the bigger person?
No, she doesn't think so.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Ashvamedh
I forget, but I do not forgive.
Outrages persist like old report cards, buried away in some drawer, their scribbled grades still unfair.
I set my memories free years ago. Today one returns, having claimed everyone's past in my name. Thirsty, and a little lame, but irrevocably mine.
Childhood is a time of unforgivable happiness.
Outrages persist like old report cards, buried away in some drawer, their scribbled grades still unfair.
I set my memories free years ago. Today one returns, having claimed everyone's past in my name. Thirsty, and a little lame, but irrevocably mine.
Childhood is a time of unforgivable happiness.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
The Basics
Writing 4,000 words of my dissertation in a single day
+ Discovering a new poet
+ Simon Rattle conducting Bruckner
+ Dark chocolate
= Happiness
+ Discovering a new poet
+ Simon Rattle conducting Bruckner
+ Dark chocolate
= Happiness
Confession
I can tell you suspect nothing. Which is why this confession is necessary. Ignorance is one thing, innocence another.
No, I can't explain everything.
Some things I don't understand myself. Others I could explain but don't think I should. There are things, of course, that I could explain, but with everything I would have to leave out it hardly seems worth it.
No, I can't explain everything.
Some things I don't understand myself. Others I could explain but don't think I should. There are things, of course, that I could explain, but with everything I would have to leave out it hardly seems worth it.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Il Viaggio a Reims
In other news, I just got back from one of the worst opera performances I've ever seen. The Curtis Opera Theatre's production of Rossini's Il Viaggio a Reims.
Part of the problem, of course, was that it was Rossini (and mediocre Rossini at that) - which meant that the music was trite, uninspired and repetitive and all the characters sounded exactly like each other. But I was expecting that. What I wasn't expecting was a campy, sophomoric production comprised entirely of the kind of overdone slapstick that only below average high school students could possibly find amusing. I mean seriously, compared to this stuff the Austin Powers films would have seemed witty and sophisticated [1].
Which was a shame because if you closed your eyes and ignored the shenanigans on stage there was some real talent on display. Allison Sanders brought power and soul to her role as Marchesa Melibea, Evan Hughes (who was spectacular as Don Giovanni earlier this year) continued to impress and Elizabeth Reiter sang an exquisite Corinna. None of that really mattered though, because the silliness on stage entirely eclipsed any musical merit the production may have had.
[1] Which didn't stop the woman sitting next to me from squealing with hysterical laughter every 30 seconds or so - a fact that no doubt contributed to my annoyance with the performance.
Part of the problem, of course, was that it was Rossini (and mediocre Rossini at that) - which meant that the music was trite, uninspired and repetitive and all the characters sounded exactly like each other. But I was expecting that. What I wasn't expecting was a campy, sophomoric production comprised entirely of the kind of overdone slapstick that only below average high school students could possibly find amusing. I mean seriously, compared to this stuff the Austin Powers films would have seemed witty and sophisticated [1].
Which was a shame because if you closed your eyes and ignored the shenanigans on stage there was some real talent on display. Allison Sanders brought power and soul to her role as Marchesa Melibea, Evan Hughes (who was spectacular as Don Giovanni earlier this year) continued to impress and Elizabeth Reiter sang an exquisite Corinna. None of that really mattered though, because the silliness on stage entirely eclipsed any musical merit the production may have had.
[1] Which didn't stop the woman sitting next to me from squealing with hysterical laughter every 30 seconds or so - a fact that no doubt contributed to my annoyance with the performance.
What's in a name?
Via Book Bench, the news that German courts have decided to limit hyphenated last names to three. I wonder what that means for the greatest name in German baroque music?
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
On Love Poetry
Writing a good love poem is hard.
When you manage to write one you really like or, at the very least, are prepared to live with, you want to hold on to it, then measure everyone you meet against it till you find someone who's right.
Don't even think about trying it the other way round. After all, people are just what you make of them. Poems, on the other hand, are real.
When you manage to write one you really like or, at the very least, are prepared to live with, you want to hold on to it, then measure everyone you meet against it till you find someone who's right.
Don't even think about trying it the other way round. After all, people are just what you make of them. Poems, on the other hand, are real.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Lean on me
We all need somebody to lean on the song says. And I imagine the world as an endless line of dominoes, each sharing a little, but not all, of its weight with the one next to it, the whole system of support and coercion running its course until we come to the final domino, the one that is both the last and the first to fall (because the others haven't fallen, they're leaning), the one who bears (filtered through six billion fractions) the weight of the world on his shoulders, Chief Stopped Buck, the only one, in the end, who can take the collapse of the world lying down.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Notes on echo
After Me
repeat
peter
terra
peat
rep
eat
err
***
The artist's dilemma: To become an echo, one must first find a voice.
***
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Narcissus and his Echo-o.
***
And what of Ripple? Who took the beauty of her beloved and bore it, in fragments, to the edge of every sea?
***
The sound of emptiness clearing its throat.
***
What do you know of loss, whose cries come back to you? There are greater abysses. Frightful, sheer, no man-fathomed.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.
Nor is it insincere to say: Ask and you shall be answered. All answers are coincidences.
***
Qaasid ke aate aate khat ek aur likh rakhoon
Main jaanta hoon jo voh likhenge jawaab main
Ghalib at the tavern, waiting to judge the depth of her feelings not by the content of her message, but the speed of her reply.
Hamne maana ki tagaphul na karoge lekin
Khaak ho jayenge ham tumko khabar hone tak.
Ghazals like sonar, symmetric with anticipation. The plumbed echoes of language stirring ghosts from long ago.
***
What did Echo say when she realized she'd made a mistake?
Oh-uh
***
Je t'aime
Tame
Aim
I'm
Mmm.
repeat
peter
terra
peat
rep
eat
err
***
The artist's dilemma: To become an echo, one must first find a voice.
***
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Narcissus and his Echo-o.
***
And what of Ripple? Who took the beauty of her beloved and bore it, in fragments, to the edge of every sea?
***
The sound of emptiness clearing its throat.
***
What do you know of loss, whose cries come back to you? There are greater abysses. Frightful, sheer, no man-fathomed.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.
Nor is it insincere to say: Ask and you shall be answered. All answers are coincidences.
***
Qaasid ke aate aate khat ek aur likh rakhoon
Main jaanta hoon jo voh likhenge jawaab main
Ghalib at the tavern, waiting to judge the depth of her feelings not by the content of her message, but the speed of her reply.
Hamne maana ki tagaphul na karoge lekin
Khaak ho jayenge ham tumko khabar hone tak.
Ghazals like sonar, symmetric with anticipation. The plumbed echoes of language stirring ghosts from long ago.
***
What did Echo say when she realized she'd made a mistake?
Oh-uh
***
Je t'aime
Tame
Aim
I'm
Mmm.
Life: Third Degree
No, I didn't see the trigger being pulled, the bullet finding the wound and entering it, the swoon of metal meeting flesh. By the time I turned to look the facts were on the ground and the woman was leaving. Which is to say I missed it, as usual. Death is elsewhere.
Afterwards you took down our names and phone numbers, said we might be called as witnesses.
But you never called.
I suppose it's better to live in the shadow of tragedy than in the shadow of greatness. At least this way what you feel is not envy, but smallness. As though your existence didn't matter, and this was something to be grateful for.
If you had called me I would have answered, would have taken the stand reluctantly, would have told you everything I know, which would have proved too little. We would have walked away from the moment without conviction, knowing our doubts were reasonable and our reasons doubtful.
Just once I would like to say "It was me. I did it. I'm the one you want."
After that, I would go quietly.
Afterwards you took down our names and phone numbers, said we might be called as witnesses.
But you never called.
I suppose it's better to live in the shadow of tragedy than in the shadow of greatness. At least this way what you feel is not envy, but smallness. As though your existence didn't matter, and this was something to be grateful for.
If you had called me I would have answered, would have taken the stand reluctantly, would have told you everything I know, which would have proved too little. We would have walked away from the moment without conviction, knowing our doubts were reasonable and our reasons doubtful.
Just once I would like to say "It was me. I did it. I'm the one you want."
After that, I would go quietly.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Marguerite
Yes, Faust struck a bargain.
Your love was worth so much more than a soul.
In the end, who was fooled? The one who'd never known love or the one who'd never known hell?
P.S. Just got back from a Philadelphia Orchestra performance of Berlioz's Damnation of Faust, Simon Rattle conducting.
Your love was worth so much more than a soul.
In the end, who was fooled? The one who'd never known love or the one who'd never known hell?
P.S. Just got back from a Philadelphia Orchestra performance of Berlioz's Damnation of Faust, Simon Rattle conducting.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Closure
"You can't just walk away from this!"
"Why not? I'm not involved."
"What?!"
"Not publicly involved."
"Not yet. But I could expose you."
"You could try."
"Someone would believe me."
"Most people wouldn't. Besides, what would be the point? I lose everything and you get nothing."
"I get nothing anyway."
"Not true. If you don't expose me I could help you."
"Ya, right. Like I'm going to rely on your promise."
"It wasn't a promise. It was merely an observation."
"So you won't help me."
"I might."
"You bastard!"
"I'm only thinking of what's best for us."
"What's best for you, you mean."
"No, best for us. Better for me, but that's just coincidence."
"Sure. I suppose you think this whole thing is just coincidence."
"No, I think it's a mistake. There's a difference."
"Maybe I don't care what's best for me. Maybe I just want to see you suffer."
"Maybe you do. Actually, I'm sure you do. Now. But you'll regret it afterwards."
"I don't think so."
"Are you willing to take the risk?"
"What risk? I've got nothing to lose, remember."
"Oh, but you do."
"Like what?"
"Hope?"
"Oh, come on."
"All right then. The possibility of revenge. It's the same thing."
"You think you're going to get away with this, don't you?"
"And you think I'm not. That's why we're so perfect for each other."
"I'll make you pay for this."
"Sure. But you need to make sure that when you do I can still afford it."
"This doesn't end here."
"Oh, I think it does."
"Why not? I'm not involved."
"What?!"
"Not publicly involved."
"Not yet. But I could expose you."
"You could try."
"Someone would believe me."
"Most people wouldn't. Besides, what would be the point? I lose everything and you get nothing."
"I get nothing anyway."
"Not true. If you don't expose me I could help you."
"Ya, right. Like I'm going to rely on your promise."
"It wasn't a promise. It was merely an observation."
"So you won't help me."
"I might."
"You bastard!"
"I'm only thinking of what's best for us."
"What's best for you, you mean."
"No, best for us. Better for me, but that's just coincidence."
"Sure. I suppose you think this whole thing is just coincidence."
"No, I think it's a mistake. There's a difference."
"Maybe I don't care what's best for me. Maybe I just want to see you suffer."
"Maybe you do. Actually, I'm sure you do. Now. But you'll regret it afterwards."
"I don't think so."
"Are you willing to take the risk?"
"What risk? I've got nothing to lose, remember."
"Oh, but you do."
"Like what?"
"Hope?"
"Oh, come on."
"All right then. The possibility of revenge. It's the same thing."
"You think you're going to get away with this, don't you?"
"And you think I'm not. That's why we're so perfect for each other."
"I'll make you pay for this."
"Sure. But you need to make sure that when you do I can still afford it."
"This doesn't end here."
"Oh, I think it does."
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Twilight Zone
Every room you enter is empty. All around you the cards collapse.
You give a stranger your hand and find you have no fate left, or not enough to light a match.
You play chords on the guitar but there is no song, only the notes fingering each other, too shy to fall in love.
Words break and scatter, like whispers, or leaves in the wind. Language stands by the window, a barren tree, reaching for the sky.
Somewhere between blue and gray, the feeling turns from color to light.
You take in the evening like a skirt. Stick pins in the wall to map the day's retreat.
Time passes like ripples in a glass.
If what you feel is a feeling, then it's one without a name.
You give a stranger your hand and find you have no fate left, or not enough to light a match.
You play chords on the guitar but there is no song, only the notes fingering each other, too shy to fall in love.
Words break and scatter, like whispers, or leaves in the wind. Language stands by the window, a barren tree, reaching for the sky.
Somewhere between blue and gray, the feeling turns from color to light.
You take in the evening like a skirt. Stick pins in the wall to map the day's retreat.
Time passes like ripples in a glass.
If what you feel is a feeling, then it's one without a name.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Flight
We are half way across the Pacific when day rushes us. The sea gleams like dull armor. Light curves like a bow.
We are arrows shot from night's grim hand. Tips of bright steel on smoke-feathered shafts.
Our flights surpass both latitude and longitude, their blue trajectories falling away beneath us.
We aim true. We know where the heart is and we call it home.
(From missed marks the trails run endless, fresh droppings of islands, blood spoor of cloud).
We are sped and suspended, floating and fleet.
The horizon quivers to rest behind us. The sun lays its swords at our feet.
We are arrows shot from night's grim hand. Tips of bright steel on smoke-feathered shafts.
Our flights surpass both latitude and longitude, their blue trajectories falling away beneath us.
We aim true. We know where the heart is and we call it home.
(From missed marks the trails run endless, fresh droppings of islands, blood spoor of cloud).
We are sped and suspended, floating and fleet.
The horizon quivers to rest behind us. The sun lays its swords at our feet.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Know-it-almighty
A creature that believed itself to be all-knowing would have no curiosity and no reason to listen to anything it was told.
This wouldn't be so bad if the creature were, in fact, all-knowing.
But it were ignorant, and omnipotent as well in the bargain, the result would be infinite megalomania, eternal tyranny without the possibility of appeal.
Of course, if the creature were omnipotent then all other reality would be sacrificed to its delusion, so that the creature would, in fact, become all-knowing, not because it knew all that existed, but because only what it knew would be allowed to exist.
Better a God who knows it's all imagined, than one who imagines it's all known.
This wouldn't be so bad if the creature were, in fact, all-knowing.
But it were ignorant, and omnipotent as well in the bargain, the result would be infinite megalomania, eternal tyranny without the possibility of appeal.
Of course, if the creature were omnipotent then all other reality would be sacrificed to its delusion, so that the creature would, in fact, become all-knowing, not because it knew all that existed, but because only what it knew would be allowed to exist.
Better a God who knows it's all imagined, than one who imagines it's all known.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Alea Iacta Est
There are six sides to this story, and they all add up the same.
All come down to the seventh day, when God rested, and played dice, and saw it was good.
Since then, every belief is a gamble. All religion a crap game.
The truth is a blank dice. The minute you put your mark on it - give it a name, a face - it becomes God.
But to give equally to opposing sides you must resort to half measures, and that God cannot do. That is why probability is needed, to restore the balance, be the enemy of faith.
To desire symmetry is human. To deny it divine.
Einstein knew this, or thought he did.
No matter how lucky you are, the universe is loaded against you.
All come down to the seventh day, when God rested, and played dice, and saw it was good.
Since then, every belief is a gamble. All religion a crap game.
The truth is a blank dice. The minute you put your mark on it - give it a name, a face - it becomes God.
But to give equally to opposing sides you must resort to half measures, and that God cannot do. That is why probability is needed, to restore the balance, be the enemy of faith.
To desire symmetry is human. To deny it divine.
Einstein knew this, or thought he did.
No matter how lucky you are, the universe is loaded against you.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Two versions of heaven
1
It's a book
full of ghost children,
safely dead,
where dead means
hidden,
or wanting
or not wanting
to be known
2
Heaven is symmetric
with respect to rotation.
It's beautiful
when one thing changes
while another thing
remains the same
3
Fading redundancies.
Feathery runs.
Alternate wisps.
Imaginary
sprung striations
"Imaginary" meaning
"seen by humans"
- Rae Armantrout, 'Heaven' from Versed
(Have I mentioned how much I envy Armantrout? I mean, the woman just published a new collection, Next Life, in 2007 for FSM's sake, she's not supposed to be turning out another collection in 2009. That's 120 pages of finely tuned poetry in under two years. Aargh!)
***
Minds that can only function
with sense data as their point of departure
have dreamed up a zoomorphic heaven
without a structure of its own
a simple transposition of earthly fauna
to a place where angels and cherubim run around
as if they were barnyard fowl
no matter how you look at it it's unacceptable
I suspect that heaven resembles
a treatise on symbolic logic
more than an animal fair.
- Nicanor Parra, from 'The Sermons and Preachings of the Christ of Elqui' (translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman)
and, as a bonus:
Rest in Peace
sure - rest in peace
but what about the damp?
and the moss?
and the weight of the tombstone?
and the drunken gravediggers?
and the people who steal the flowerpots?
and the rats gnawing at the coffin?
and the damned worms
crawling in everywhere
they make death impossible for us
or do you really think
we don't know what's going on...
fine for you to say rest in peace
when you know damn well that's impossible
you just like running off at the mouth
well for your information
we know what's going on
the spiders scurrying up our legs
make damn sure of that
let's cut the crap
when you stand at a wide open grave
it's time to call a spade a spade:
you can drown your sorrows at the wake
we're stuck at the bottom of the pit.
- Nicanor Parra (translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman)
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
A Star is Born
Just got back from a truly sublime performance of Shostakovich's First Violin Concerto by Sergey Khachatryan (along with the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Kurt Masur). Khachatryan looks a lot younger than his 24 years (on stage tonight he looked more like a callow teenager than anything else) but he plays like a true virtuoso. By the time he was done with that glorious third movement I had tears streaming down my face. And I wasn't the only one either - I swear at least a third of the orchestra was crying.
Something tells me this is one violinist I'm going to be hearing a lot more of.
Something tells me this is one violinist I'm going to be hearing a lot more of.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Silence
The silence has fluorescent lights and a bare floor.
Our prayers are worn at the knees, but there is no answer.
Only the possibility of doors behind us, and a wall where a portrait once hung.
Our prayers are worn at the knees, but there is no answer.
Only the possibility of doors behind us, and a wall where a portrait once hung.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
What doesn't kill you
doesn't make you strong.
It doesn't kill you because you already are strong and always have been. Though it only takes a moment of weakness to destroy a lifetime of strength.
What doesn't kill you makes you brave, yes, but bravery will kill you, unless you're very strong, or very lucky.
What doesn't kill you makes you lucky.
What does kill you makes us weak.
It doesn't kill you because you already are strong and always have been. Though it only takes a moment of weakness to destroy a lifetime of strength.
What doesn't kill you makes you brave, yes, but bravery will kill you, unless you're very strong, or very lucky.
What doesn't kill you makes you lucky.
What does kill you makes us weak.
Baptism
I don't want to be someone else. I want to be myself differently.
Like a basin of clear water, waiting for the light to be born.
Like a basin of clear water, waiting for the light to be born.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Too many
He is not looking for answers. Or friends.
He is content with the wind up his sleeve, with his small piece of sky.
He has seen too many die to turn away from death.
He envies the mountains their vulnerability and the white doves their sleep.
He walks the roads to set them free.
He does not care what he is called.
He is content with the wind up his sleeve, with his small piece of sky.
He has seen too many die to turn away from death.
He envies the mountains their vulnerability and the white doves their sleep.
He walks the roads to set them free.
He does not care what he is called.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Switch
The act of crossing the threshold, groping for the switch. The doorway your own personal dusk.
Like standing in the dock waiting for the light to pass sentence. The room's innocence a relief.
Also, a disappointment.
Like standing in the dock waiting for the light to pass sentence. The room's innocence a relief.
Also, a disappointment.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
An artist's reconstruction of the portrait's youth
What did the picture see in Dorian?
Something very like childhood, perhaps, something to protect and indulge, a cruel innocence, or a pretense of innocence to mask cruelty?
In any case, a conspiracy of equals.
They say we weigh children down with the weight of our aspirations. But aspirations are always weightless; it is their emptiness that makes them oppressive. What we bequeath children is not our disappointment, but the ugliness of our triumph.
What did the picture feel about Dorian, watching itself grow old in his eyes, the light in them contemptuous and fearful, the lack of recognition, the turning away?
Something very like childhood, perhaps, something to protect and indulge, a cruel innocence, or a pretense of innocence to mask cruelty?
In any case, a conspiracy of equals.
They say we weigh children down with the weight of our aspirations. But aspirations are always weightless; it is their emptiness that makes them oppressive. What we bequeath children is not our disappointment, but the ugliness of our triumph.
What did the picture feel about Dorian, watching itself grow old in his eyes, the light in them contemptuous and fearful, the lack of recognition, the turning away?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Don't hold your breath
Seriously, don't.
It's not good for you, this constant anxiety, this experience of hope as a kind of altitude sickness, the air getting thinner the higher you climb.
You have to let it go, relax, breathe.
Let your breath hold you.
It's not good for you, this constant anxiety, this experience of hope as a kind of altitude sickness, the air getting thinner the higher you climb.
You have to let it go, relax, breathe.
Let your breath hold you.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Our Lady of Paris
Just a quick note to say that I've been reading Daniyal Mueenuddin's In Other Rooms, Other Wonders. It's a strong first collection, though some parts of it get a little repetitive, but the story I really loved was 'Our Lady of Paris' (an earlier version of which can be found online here). It made me think of Henry James, and that, coming from me, is a serious compliment.
Go read.
Go read.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
In vino veritas
You're right, of course. It was stupid to think the whiskey would keep me honest. But it was either that or a relationship, and I've never been good at love.
For a while I had a rule about not drinking alone. Then I realized I was spending my evenings with people I didn't like, people I didn't even know enough to dislike, just so I could get a drink.
There are nights now when I don't even need a drink, when it's enough going to bed with a bottle in my arms, cradling it like a baby, feeling the glow of its promise against my chest.
I'm sorry, I know this is not making any sense. You should come back in the morning. It's easier to pretend when I'm sober.
For a while I had a rule about not drinking alone. Then I realized I was spending my evenings with people I didn't like, people I didn't even know enough to dislike, just so I could get a drink.
There are nights now when I don't even need a drink, when it's enough going to bed with a bottle in my arms, cradling it like a baby, feeling the glow of its promise against my chest.
I'm sorry, I know this is not making any sense. You should come back in the morning. It's easier to pretend when I'm sober.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Ghalib 20
Okay, so after Sunday's post and equivocal's response, I thought I may as well try a translation of my own. It's just a first draft really, just a few hours work, but well:
The original here and other recent translations here.
P.S. Going over the Seshadri translation again, the one phrase from it I really love (and envy) is "this grave anyone can visit". I'm not sure that's what Ghalib meant, but it's a brilliant line anyway.
It was not my fate
It was not my fate that my love be returned.
If I'd lived longer I would still be waiting.
If I lived by your vows my life would be a lie.
I would gladly die if I could only believe.
Your weakness taught me that our bond was weak.
Could you have broken it if it had been strong?
Question my heart about your half-hearted arrow:
Would it hurt this much if the shaft had gone through?
What friends are these, who tell me what to do?
Will no one heal me, no one share my pain?
If this thing I call my sorrow had even a spark
The stones would drip blood, would open their veins.
Pain spends our lives away - why save the heart?
If it isn't spent on love, it's spent in making do.
To whom shall I complain that the night is dark?
Death wouldn't be so bad, if it only happened once.
Better a swift drowning, than death's endless disgrace.
No procession of mourners, no grave to return to.
All these riddles, Ghalib, this testimony of yours -
We'd think you a prophet, if you weren't always drunk.
- Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
The original here and other recent translations here.
P.S. Going over the Seshadri translation again, the one phrase from it I really love (and envy) is "this grave anyone can visit". I'm not sure that's what Ghalib meant, but it's a brilliant line anyway.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Poetry gripes
Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Vijay Seshadri's translation of Ghalib's Yeh Na Thi Hamari Qismat (the original here) in this month's Poetry is really terrible? I'm vaguely fond of Seshadri, and quite enjoyed his last book, but this translation of his doesn't so much miss the boat as not even make it to the harbor. The first time I read the translation I didn't even recognize the original (which I know large chunks of by heart - as who doesn't?) in it, and even now I have trouble reconciling the translation with Ghalib's ghazal. I mean, seriously, who renders
Koi mere dil se pooche tere teer-e neem-kash ko
Yeh khalish kahan se hoti jo jigar ke paar hota
as
You are a laconic marksman. You leave me
not dead but perpetually dying.
That is so far from the original (roughly: "Someone should ask my heart about your half-hearted arrow / Would it have hurt this much if the shaft had passed through?") that it's practically a different poem. Not only does it not stay true to the tone and sensibility of the original (always a difficult thing to do) it completely mangles the sense of the verse, obscures Ghalib's wit, and ends up 'telling' rather than 'showing' the final line. And that's one of the better verses of Seshadri's translation. Gah!
***
Meanwhile, Jim Holt, writing in the NY Times informs me that Robert Browning is "not quite a first-rate poet". I'm sorry, what?! I have no idea what Mr. Holt has been inhaling lately, but if Browning is not a first-rate poet I'd like to know who is. Personally, I consider Browning the greatest poet of his era (admittedly, this is an era that consists of Arnold, Swinburne and Tennyson - not English poetry's finest hour) and would gladly lose several minor appendages if I could turn out one poem that has half the flow and precision of My Last Duchess.
***
And finally, to calm my indignant nerves, Lawrence Raab's 'The Poem that Can't Be Written' from last week's New Yorker.
Koi mere dil se pooche tere teer-e neem-kash ko
Yeh khalish kahan se hoti jo jigar ke paar hota
as
You are a laconic marksman. You leave me
not dead but perpetually dying.
That is so far from the original (roughly: "Someone should ask my heart about your half-hearted arrow / Would it have hurt this much if the shaft had passed through?") that it's practically a different poem. Not only does it not stay true to the tone and sensibility of the original (always a difficult thing to do) it completely mangles the sense of the verse, obscures Ghalib's wit, and ends up 'telling' rather than 'showing' the final line. And that's one of the better verses of Seshadri's translation. Gah!
***
Meanwhile, Jim Holt, writing in the NY Times informs me that Robert Browning is "not quite a first-rate poet". I'm sorry, what?! I have no idea what Mr. Holt has been inhaling lately, but if Browning is not a first-rate poet I'd like to know who is. Personally, I consider Browning the greatest poet of his era (admittedly, this is an era that consists of Arnold, Swinburne and Tennyson - not English poetry's finest hour) and would gladly lose several minor appendages if I could turn out one poem that has half the flow and precision of My Last Duchess.
***
And finally, to calm my indignant nerves, Lawrence Raab's 'The Poem that Can't Be Written' from last week's New Yorker.
Bystander
He checks the papers the next morning but there's nothing, not even in the locals. He goes over them twice just to be sure. He figures this is good news, it probably means that the boy survived. Surely if he'd died there would have been some mention of it in the paper. Wouldn't there?
Maybe he should have stayed, should have waited around to see what happened. Though it probably wouldn't have helped. And besides, he didn't want to be one of them, the crowd, all those people with their ghoulish curiosity, gathered around the accident site like a flock of vultures. No, not vultures, exactly, more like crows, waiting to snatch some tidbit to take home to their families. A murder of crows. The very thought of it makes him sick. And to be mistaken for one of them! For that is how they would have seen him, wouldn't they - the medics, the police - shouting move along people nothing more to see here. The very idea was intolerable. If only there were some way to signal the purity of his intentions, the sincerity of his concern, of his sympathy. But it was impossible.
So, better to have come away then, throwing barely a glance at the boy lying in the middle of the road, his bicycle crushed beside him, a puddle of blood spreading under his head. But what if someone saw him, thought him callous, unfeeling? No, of course not. Everyone would have been focusing on the accident. No one would have been paying attention to him.
Except he himself. Isn't that why he wants to find out what happened to the boy? To appease his own conscience, prove to himself that he did care? Or is he just like the others, driven by a morbid desire to observe the suffering of others? No, it's not that. He really felt for that boy, for his parents. When he got back home he almost felt like crying.
If only he could find out what happened to the boy, whether he made it or not. Maybe if he searches on the Internet. There must be something about the accident somewhere. Someone must have covered it. What do they all do, anyway, these reporters? Sit around writing stupid opinion pieces or gabbing about the first lady's clothes. A boy is injured, maybe even killed, and they don't even report it? Maybe he should do a little investigative journalism of his own. They must have taken the boy to a hospital nearby. He could try calling the hospitals, ask if a little boy was brought in yesterday - a hit and run - and what happened to him. If someone asks who's calling he can always claim to be a reporter for some newspaper.
No, better not. They may be able to trace the call back to him. He could get into trouble. They may even think he was involved in some way, maybe he was driving the car or something. Better let it go. It's none of his business. Besides, the kid's probably okay. And maybe the accident just happened too late in the day to make the papers. Maybe there'll be something about it in the papers tomorrow. He should just wait and see.
Maybe he should have stayed, should have waited around to see what happened. Though it probably wouldn't have helped. And besides, he didn't want to be one of them, the crowd, all those people with their ghoulish curiosity, gathered around the accident site like a flock of vultures. No, not vultures, exactly, more like crows, waiting to snatch some tidbit to take home to their families. A murder of crows. The very thought of it makes him sick. And to be mistaken for one of them! For that is how they would have seen him, wouldn't they - the medics, the police - shouting move along people nothing more to see here. The very idea was intolerable. If only there were some way to signal the purity of his intentions, the sincerity of his concern, of his sympathy. But it was impossible.
So, better to have come away then, throwing barely a glance at the boy lying in the middle of the road, his bicycle crushed beside him, a puddle of blood spreading under his head. But what if someone saw him, thought him callous, unfeeling? No, of course not. Everyone would have been focusing on the accident. No one would have been paying attention to him.
Except he himself. Isn't that why he wants to find out what happened to the boy? To appease his own conscience, prove to himself that he did care? Or is he just like the others, driven by a morbid desire to observe the suffering of others? No, it's not that. He really felt for that boy, for his parents. When he got back home he almost felt like crying.
If only he could find out what happened to the boy, whether he made it or not. Maybe if he searches on the Internet. There must be something about the accident somewhere. Someone must have covered it. What do they all do, anyway, these reporters? Sit around writing stupid opinion pieces or gabbing about the first lady's clothes. A boy is injured, maybe even killed, and they don't even report it? Maybe he should do a little investigative journalism of his own. They must have taken the boy to a hospital nearby. He could try calling the hospitals, ask if a little boy was brought in yesterday - a hit and run - and what happened to him. If someone asks who's calling he can always claim to be a reporter for some newspaper.
No, better not. They may be able to trace the call back to him. He could get into trouble. They may even think he was involved in some way, maybe he was driving the car or something. Better let it go. It's none of his business. Besides, the kid's probably okay. And maybe the accident just happened too late in the day to make the papers. Maybe there'll be something about it in the papers tomorrow. He should just wait and see.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
A violin, a cello and a piano
...walk up to a bar.
***
The perfect piano would be too delicate to touch.
***
New cellos are no good. The perfect cello must be aged for years in cask of pure silence, until all its high-strung bitterness had turned to mellow grief.
***
There's really nothing like discovering a new piece of great music, is there? This week's find for me [1] was Beethoven's Triple Concerto for Violin, Cello and Piano in C, Op. 56. It's an incredible piece of music, combining energy and song as only Beethoven can, and to hear a version of it performed by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Karajan with soloists Oistrakh, Rostropovich and Richter is an experience so exhilarating it ought to be illegal without a prescription.
You can find a version of the piece (with the same soloists, but a different orchestra) on YouTube: here, here, here and here.
[1] Strauss's Symphonia domestica, which I heard performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Andre Previn yesterday, comes in a close second.
***
The perfect piano would be too delicate to touch.
***
New cellos are no good. The perfect cello must be aged for years in cask of pure silence, until all its high-strung bitterness had turned to mellow grief.
***
There's really nothing like discovering a new piece of great music, is there? This week's find for me [1] was Beethoven's Triple Concerto for Violin, Cello and Piano in C, Op. 56. It's an incredible piece of music, combining energy and song as only Beethoven can, and to hear a version of it performed by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Karajan with soloists Oistrakh, Rostropovich and Richter is an experience so exhilarating it ought to be illegal without a prescription.
You can find a version of the piece (with the same soloists, but a different orchestra) on YouTube: here, here, here and here.
[1] Strauss's Symphonia domestica, which I heard performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Andre Previn yesterday, comes in a close second.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Half Glass
At some point in life you start buying glasses. Round and tall, squat and long-stemmed, wine glasses, cocktail glasses, glasses for everyday use. Pretty soon you have a whole shelf full of them, in all shapes and sizes - a small menagerie of glassware all sitting there unused because you live alone and drink straight from the bottle mostly, or just use the one glass that's always out.
Opening the cupboard tonight, trying to decide which glass to serve you water in, I am aware of an obscure pride in my kitchen, as though its clean, well-lit surfaces were proof of an achievement I cannot name.
How did we end up this way, you and I, so polite, so middle-aged, drinking tap-water, making conversation? And is it foolish of me to think that there is an intimacy to this: the glass naked, transparent, passed from one hand to the other, the fingers not touching but joined, for a moment, in a shared compact, the gift speechless, filled with light?
I have not filled the glass to the brim. I was afraid of spilling it, afraid it would be too much. I watch you sip the water and wonder, but will not ask, how long you'll stay this time. When you put the glass down I ask if you want some more, though I can see the glass is half full. You say no, it's fine. I say are you sure, it's no trouble. You say I know. After that we sit in silence.
Opening the cupboard tonight, trying to decide which glass to serve you water in, I am aware of an obscure pride in my kitchen, as though its clean, well-lit surfaces were proof of an achievement I cannot name.
How did we end up this way, you and I, so polite, so middle-aged, drinking tap-water, making conversation? And is it foolish of me to think that there is an intimacy to this: the glass naked, transparent, passed from one hand to the other, the fingers not touching but joined, for a moment, in a shared compact, the gift speechless, filled with light?
I have not filled the glass to the brim. I was afraid of spilling it, afraid it would be too much. I watch you sip the water and wonder, but will not ask, how long you'll stay this time. When you put the glass down I ask if you want some more, though I can see the glass is half full. You say no, it's fine. I say are you sure, it's no trouble. You say I know. After that we sit in silence.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
April 1st
He views everything with suspicion today. The news in the paper, the ads on TV. Was the government really going to buy up bad assets? Would the new detergent really make his clothes whiter? Everything he hears seems a potential hoax. Everywhere he looks he senses an undercurrent of laughter, waiting to burst out.
And it isn't just the media, either. Everyone is implicated - his co-workers, his friends, his family - anyone and everyone could be lying to him, leading him on. His boss's praise, the baby pictures the girl in accounting shows him, the e-mail from his parents - how can he be sure that any of this is true? No, he must doubt everything. Only then will he escape being fooled.
But what if these things are true? What if he expects a retraction and it never comes? Would he be fooling himself then?
And if these things can be doubted then why only today? Why not some other day? Why not everyday? Has he been gullible all year? Or is he just being paranoid?
Back in his apartment, sitting down to a drink at the end of the day, he allows himself to relax. He has done it, he has escaped being tricked. Tomorrow he can go back to life as usual, unafraid to believe what he is told.
But what if no one had been out to get him anyway? What if no one had considered him worth playing a prank on? What if they thought him too boring, too staid, to be worth making a fool? Wouldn't that be the worst joke of all?
And it isn't just the media, either. Everyone is implicated - his co-workers, his friends, his family - anyone and everyone could be lying to him, leading him on. His boss's praise, the baby pictures the girl in accounting shows him, the e-mail from his parents - how can he be sure that any of this is true? No, he must doubt everything. Only then will he escape being fooled.
But what if these things are true? What if he expects a retraction and it never comes? Would he be fooling himself then?
And if these things can be doubted then why only today? Why not some other day? Why not everyday? Has he been gullible all year? Or is he just being paranoid?
Back in his apartment, sitting down to a drink at the end of the day, he allows himself to relax. He has done it, he has escaped being tricked. Tomorrow he can go back to life as usual, unafraid to believe what he is told.
But what if no one had been out to get him anyway? What if no one had considered him worth playing a prank on? What if they thought him too boring, too staid, to be worth making a fool? Wouldn't that be the worst joke of all?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Two Birds
It is easier to be the tree than the dawn, the worm than the birdsong. Easier to make wings out of broken air than trace the flutter in your heart.
Given the choice, it is easier to kill the birds in the bush with a single stone than to hold one in your hand and not smother it. Given the choice.
The truth, like a flight of swallows, moves in all directions at once.
Given the choice, it is easier to kill the birds in the bush with a single stone than to hold one in your hand and not smother it. Given the choice.
The truth, like a flight of swallows, moves in all directions at once.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Book Guilt
"You again!"
"I'm afraid so."
"What is it now? More questions?"
"Just a few."
"Well, what then?"
"Where were you the night June was killed?"
"Oh, Jesus! Not that again! I told you - I was here, at home, reading the new Bolano."
"Yes, you said that. The thing is, John, we took your copy of Bolano and checked the pages for fingerprints. And you know what we found?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Not a single fingerprint of yours on anything but the cover. How do you read a book without leaving fingerprints, John?"
"I..."
"You've never even opened that book, have you, John? You made the whole thing up."
"No...I...maybe your lab made a mistake."
"There's no mistake, John, you lied to us."
"Oh, all right. I lied."
"So where were you?"
"I was right here, like I said, reading. I just wasn't reading the Bolano."
"What were you reading then?"
"....."
"What was that, John? I couldn't hear you."
"Breaking Dawn. It's the last book in the Twilight series."
"The Twilight series? You were reading a book meant for teenage girls?"
"Yes."
"You're a professor of English Literature and you were reading a book meant for teenage girls?"
"Yes. Yes, alright. A friend lent it to me. It's totally ridiculous but I got hooked. I was embarrassed to admit it, which is why I lied to you."
"I'm sorry John, but I don't believe you."
"What? Why not?"
"Because it doesn't make sense. A man like you - a Dante scholar - reading vampire chick-lit? I don't think so. I don't think you were reading at all that night. I think you were over at June's place and the two of you got into a fight and you killed her."
"You're crazy! I'm telling you I was here. Why would I lie to you?"
"You did before."
"That was different. I didn't want to admit I was reading trashy pulp."
"And enjoying it. Did the books turn you on, John? Was that why you were reading them? Did you maybe decide to do a little bloodletting of your own?"
"Are you insane? Of course not. Look, here's my copy of the book, you can have it tested, you'll find my fingerprints all over it."
"Won't help, John. Fingerprints will only prove that you've read the book, not when you read it."
"But I don't understand. How does it matter what book I was reading? My alibi's still as good. Or as bad."
"Yes, but now you've lied to us. And that makes us suspicious. Very suspicious. Which is why we're going to take you in."
"Take me in? You mean arrest me?"
"I'm afraid so."
"What for? I've done nothing wrong, I tell you. Reading a crappy book isn't a crime, is it?"
"We'll just have to see about that, won't we? Okay, cuff him and take him in. Oh, and take those books along as well. They're evidence."
"I'm afraid so."
"What is it now? More questions?"
"Just a few."
"Well, what then?"
"Where were you the night June was killed?"
"Oh, Jesus! Not that again! I told you - I was here, at home, reading the new Bolano."
"Yes, you said that. The thing is, John, we took your copy of Bolano and checked the pages for fingerprints. And you know what we found?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Not a single fingerprint of yours on anything but the cover. How do you read a book without leaving fingerprints, John?"
"I..."
"You've never even opened that book, have you, John? You made the whole thing up."
"No...I...maybe your lab made a mistake."
"There's no mistake, John, you lied to us."
"Oh, all right. I lied."
"So where were you?"
"I was right here, like I said, reading. I just wasn't reading the Bolano."
"What were you reading then?"
"....."
"What was that, John? I couldn't hear you."
"Breaking Dawn. It's the last book in the Twilight series."
"The Twilight series? You were reading a book meant for teenage girls?"
"Yes."
"You're a professor of English Literature and you were reading a book meant for teenage girls?"
"Yes. Yes, alright. A friend lent it to me. It's totally ridiculous but I got hooked. I was embarrassed to admit it, which is why I lied to you."
"I'm sorry John, but I don't believe you."
"What? Why not?"
"Because it doesn't make sense. A man like you - a Dante scholar - reading vampire chick-lit? I don't think so. I don't think you were reading at all that night. I think you were over at June's place and the two of you got into a fight and you killed her."
"You're crazy! I'm telling you I was here. Why would I lie to you?"
"You did before."
"That was different. I didn't want to admit I was reading trashy pulp."
"And enjoying it. Did the books turn you on, John? Was that why you were reading them? Did you maybe decide to do a little bloodletting of your own?"
"Are you insane? Of course not. Look, here's my copy of the book, you can have it tested, you'll find my fingerprints all over it."
"Won't help, John. Fingerprints will only prove that you've read the book, not when you read it."
"But I don't understand. How does it matter what book I was reading? My alibi's still as good. Or as bad."
"Yes, but now you've lied to us. And that makes us suspicious. Very suspicious. Which is why we're going to take you in."
"Take me in? You mean arrest me?"
"I'm afraid so."
"What for? I've done nothing wrong, I tell you. Reading a crappy book isn't a crime, is it?"
"We'll just have to see about that, won't we? Okay, cuff him and take him in. Oh, and take those books along as well. They're evidence."
J'ai perdu mon Eurydice
She cannot go home with him. With his air of endless injury, the mad anguish in his eyes. This man prematurely old - so different from the brash, laughing boy she married, so long ago now, she can no longer remember, in this place where silence is mortal and every arrival false.
Can it be that a different time runs through the hearts of lovers? That one lives from minute to minute, while the other counts the hours?
Is this what it means to be apart?
But how to tell him this? After all he has been through, all he has risked. Better to desert him than to betray him, turn away when he isn't looking, leave him leaving her behind.
Better that he should blame himself than he should understand her.
[for those unfamiliar with the title]
Can it be that a different time runs through the hearts of lovers? That one lives from minute to minute, while the other counts the hours?
Is this what it means to be apart?
But how to tell him this? After all he has been through, all he has risked. Better to desert him than to betray him, turn away when he isn't looking, leave him leaving her behind.
Better that he should blame himself than he should understand her.
[for those unfamiliar with the title]
Friday, March 27, 2009
Splendour falls
The water is shocked into stillness. No one cries.
Slowly emptiness returns to the mirror from which you startled it. The trees begin to whisper behind the wind's back.
Slowly emptiness returns to the mirror from which you startled it. The trees begin to whisper behind the wind's back.
Approaching Eden
Hunger is a season between the mouth's blossoming and the ripening of fruit.
Butterflies dance in the stomach of the forest, nibbling away at the raw, green light.
Butterflies dance in the stomach of the forest, nibbling away at the raw, green light.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pet Peeve # 67
Musicians who insist on talking about the piece they're going to play before they play it. [1]
Special pet peeve:
Musicians who not only insist on talking about the piece they're going to play before they play it, but then say things like, "words can't do justice to the beauty of the piece - I think the only real way to describe it is to play it for you" Duh!
Was at a recital by Jose Franch-Ballester yesterday - he's a talented clarinetist, but he insisted on subjecting us to the most annoying inanities before every piece, and then had the nerve to ask why no one was applauding his 'introductions'. Some people just can't take a hint.
[1] This is especially true of classical musicians - if you're a jazz artist talking about a piece you've composed that's one thing, but do I really need someone to stand there and tell me how Brahms was a great composer?
Special pet peeve:
Musicians who not only insist on talking about the piece they're going to play before they play it, but then say things like, "words can't do justice to the beauty of the piece - I think the only real way to describe it is to play it for you" Duh!
Was at a recital by Jose Franch-Ballester yesterday - he's a talented clarinetist, but he insisted on subjecting us to the most annoying inanities before every piece, and then had the nerve to ask why no one was applauding his 'introductions'. Some people just can't take a hint.
[1] This is especially true of classical musicians - if you're a jazz artist talking about a piece you've composed that's one thing, but do I really need someone to stand there and tell me how Brahms was a great composer?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Publication day
"Why did you do it?"
"I had to."
"Had to?"
"It was a beautiful poem."
"It wasn't a 'poem', Hal, it was a coded message."
"Yes, but it was beautiful."
"So you sent it in to the Kenyon Review."
"Yes."
"Knowing it contained sensitive government information."
"Yes."
"You realize that's treason?"
"Oh come on, nobody's going to know. It's a lit journal, for Christ's sake - hardly anyone even reads the thing. Certainly not anyone capable of cracking an obscure cipher."
"You can't know that for sure. You have no idea who may be reading it or what they may or may not be capable of."
"But..."
"So the information is now compromised. And it isn't just the information. You realize the kind of attention this is going to draw? One day you're an obscure English professor in a dead-end state college no one has ever heard of and the next day you're in print next to John Ashbery. We can never use you for anything again."
"'In print next to Ashbery'. Don't you see? That's the whole point! All those years collecting rejection slips, knowing I was no good, only managing to get 'published' by signing up to be a government agent. And then one day I'm sitting there wrestling with the code book and suddenly I turn out exactly the kind of poem I've always dreamed of writing, the kind of poem I've spent a lifetime training myself to recognize, a truly great poem, my one shot at being a real poet. How could I not take it?"
"Well, I hope you're satisfied. Because it's the end of your career as a writer."
"You don't mean that!"
"I'm sorry, Hal, but that's the way it is. Starting tomorrow, you're going to disappear. There's nothing I can do about it."
"I see. Will you at least let the poem go?"
"Well, it's already been published, so there's not much I can do."
"But what about republication? In anthologies, for example."
"I don't know. I don't see how it could hurt. The damage has already been done. If anything, getting it more circulation may help throw off suspicion - make it seem more legitimate, that sort of thing."
"So you'll let it go."
"I'll think about it."
"I guess that's the best I can hope for. Shall we go now?"
"If you're ready."
[with bonus points for getting the Fay Grim connection]
"I had to."
"Had to?"
"It was a beautiful poem."
"It wasn't a 'poem', Hal, it was a coded message."
"Yes, but it was beautiful."
"So you sent it in to the Kenyon Review."
"Yes."
"Knowing it contained sensitive government information."
"Yes."
"You realize that's treason?"
"Oh come on, nobody's going to know. It's a lit journal, for Christ's sake - hardly anyone even reads the thing. Certainly not anyone capable of cracking an obscure cipher."
"You can't know that for sure. You have no idea who may be reading it or what they may or may not be capable of."
"But..."
"So the information is now compromised. And it isn't just the information. You realize the kind of attention this is going to draw? One day you're an obscure English professor in a dead-end state college no one has ever heard of and the next day you're in print next to John Ashbery. We can never use you for anything again."
"'In print next to Ashbery'. Don't you see? That's the whole point! All those years collecting rejection slips, knowing I was no good, only managing to get 'published' by signing up to be a government agent. And then one day I'm sitting there wrestling with the code book and suddenly I turn out exactly the kind of poem I've always dreamed of writing, the kind of poem I've spent a lifetime training myself to recognize, a truly great poem, my one shot at being a real poet. How could I not take it?"
"Well, I hope you're satisfied. Because it's the end of your career as a writer."
"You don't mean that!"
"I'm sorry, Hal, but that's the way it is. Starting tomorrow, you're going to disappear. There's nothing I can do about it."
"I see. Will you at least let the poem go?"
"Well, it's already been published, so there's not much I can do."
"But what about republication? In anthologies, for example."
"I don't know. I don't see how it could hurt. The damage has already been done. If anything, getting it more circulation may help throw off suspicion - make it seem more legitimate, that sort of thing."
"So you'll let it go."
"I'll think about it."
"I guess that's the best I can hope for. Shall we go now?"
"If you're ready."
[with bonus points for getting the Fay Grim connection]
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Sadness
Why is it that sadness weighs so little? Like the light from a candle in a room where shadows dance, their bones growing longer with every song.
Why is it so hard for the violins to belong?
Why is it so hard for the violins to belong?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Hunger
(for Space Bar - because this is as visual as I get)
Did I mention that I just got back from the Philadelphia Art Museum's Cezanne and Beyond exhibition? (NY times slide show here)
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Break-up
With all the things you did wrong in our relationship, why did you have to do the breaking up right?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Drinker
Three months of steady drinking and his brain started to take the edge off the liquor. That was when he knew he was in trouble.
Pretty soon he was spending his evenings in bars, telling anyone who would listen that he was choosing to stay sober, that he could get drunk any time he wanted. The others looked at him with pity, their eyes bleary with drink.
The night he got back to his apartment at five in the morning, stone cold sober, and found no one waiting for him, he knew he couldn't go on. They found his body the next day. He had injected a syringe-full of cold, clear air into his veins.
Pretty soon he was spending his evenings in bars, telling anyone who would listen that he was choosing to stay sober, that he could get drunk any time he wanted. The others looked at him with pity, their eyes bleary with drink.
The night he got back to his apartment at five in the morning, stone cold sober, and found no one waiting for him, he knew he couldn't go on. They found his body the next day. He had injected a syringe-full of cold, clear air into his veins.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Fatalism
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I am dead to my own resignation.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I fear romantic resignation will be the death of me.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I am resigned to the death of romance.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I romance death with resignation.
Now I am dead to my own resignation.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I fear romantic resignation will be the death of me.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I am resigned to the death of romance.
***
Once I thought it romantic to be resigned to death.
Now I romance death with resignation.
Friday, March 06, 2009
A bookstore near you
Remember how I said the release of Shahid's Collected Poems was the best news I'd had all year? Well, thrilled as I am about that, there is one other publishing event that I'm even more excited about. That's the release of études, a collection of short fiction by my dear friend and occassional alter ego Aseem Kaul, now available - either in bookstores or online - to those of you in India. A book, needless to say, I strongly urge you to go buy (or at least find in your local book store and read the back cover of).Not that études is a great book or anything. There are days when I'm not even sure it's a good book. But it's different and fun and bizzarely imaginative and there are so many different pieces in it that you're bound to like something. Plus if you're sitting around reading this blog you're not exactly spoiled for choice are you?
As a matter of fact, regular readers of this blog may find significant similarities between the writing on this blog and the work in études. It may even, at times, be hard to tell the two apart. This is not, however, reason to type 2,569 indignant blog posts and put them up on DesiPundit. The writing seems similar not because Mr. Kaul has been stealing my work (nor because I've been stealing his - how dare you even suggest such a thing!), but because the two of us think so much alike that sometimes it's as though we have a single extremely demented mind between us.
What this overlap in styles does mean is that if you enjoy reading this blog you're almost certain to enjoy études, and should go out and buy it without a moment's further hesitation. Not only will you get a nicely bound collection of classic Falstaff-like pieces that you can pass on to your grandchildren, you'll also get to read 16 brand new (Never seen before! Untouched by hand!) stories that cover such diverse topics as deviant omelet recipes, kinky sex, a retelling of the Orpheus myth as a Fernando Meirelles short and the horrifying secret behind Facebook. Plus that way you can enjoy the blog / website that goes with the book with a clear conscience. And if enough of you buy the book it will restore light and hope to my world so that I won't kill myself out of sheer depression and may even go back to writing posts that are more than two sentences long [1].
Those of you who live outside India are, I'm afraid, going to have to wait before you can get your hands on the book - I'm told the book will eventually be available on Amazon, but I can't say when / if that will happen. I did manage to get hold of a few copies myself, but shall be distributing those to people who:
a) will sign off on my dissertation
b) will do my taxes
c) are sleeping with me
d) have slept with me
e) would sleep with me if they didn't have this rare, little-known medical condition
f) are liable to beat me up if I don't give them copies (hi MR!)
in that order.
The rest of you can either be good dutiful children and buy the book the next time you're in India, or watch this space for further information on availability, while hopefully whetting your appetite for the book by reading about it on the site.
Happy Reading!
[1] and with footnotes
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Melon
You slice open the top, scoop out the tangled mess of brains, and all you're left with is the sweet, green skull.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Gunpoint
When he came to, he could no longer feel the gun at his temple.
After a moment, he moved his head a little. Nothing. He lay still for a bit, listening, then turned over. No one there. What had happened? He must have fainted. But why hadn't they shot him anyway? Had they never meant to execute him at all? Had it all just been a joke?
He felt cheated.
After a moment, he moved his head a little. Nothing. He lay still for a bit, listening, then turned over. No one there. What had happened? He must have fainted. But why hadn't they shot him anyway? Had they never meant to execute him at all? Had it all just been a joke?
He felt cheated.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Under the table
He writes that way sometimes. Notebook pressed up against the unvarnished wood, pencil in hand because the pen won't work.
He knows his poems don't amount to much but he writes them anyway.
Trying to capture what lies beneath language. Trying to negotiate with his other, more sober self.
He knows his poems don't amount to much but he writes them anyway.
Trying to capture what lies beneath language. Trying to negotiate with his other, more sober self.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
The girl with the headphones
I don't know what she's listening to, coming down the street, head bobbing almost imperceptibly to the beat in her ears.
Whatever it is, it makes her smile at strangers.
***
A smile too is a kind of music.
Yours, for instance, could fill a stadium.
The traffic, the security, the restless crowd. The sudden hush as you walk out on stage. The faces flickering to life one by one, as the audience starts to smile along.
Whatever it is, it makes her smile at strangers.
***
A smile too is a kind of music.
Yours, for instance, could fill a stadium.
The traffic, the security, the restless crowd. The sudden hush as you walk out on stage. The faces flickering to life one by one, as the audience starts to smile along.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The coolest one
She keeps money in the refrigerator. Not a lot, you understand, just a few twenty dollar bills tucked away in the egg rack.
She says she got the idea from watching The Seven Year Itch.
Sometimes, on summer nights, she'll order herself a pizza, then use the money from the fridge to pay for it. She loves the look on the delivery man's face when she slips a crisp, freshly chilled note into his sweaty, human palm.
She says she got the idea from watching The Seven Year Itch.
Sometimes, on summer nights, she'll order herself a pizza, then use the money from the fridge to pay for it. She loves the look on the delivery man's face when she slips a crisp, freshly chilled note into his sweaty, human palm.
Believing is not seeing
The problem with faith is that it makes a lack of self-doubt a virtue. Certainty is cruel because it is blind.
Hesitation makes us vulnerable, yes, but being vulnerable is not the same as being weak.
Hesitation makes us vulnerable, yes, but being vulnerable is not the same as being weak.
Friday, February 27, 2009
A reply
If you really loved me you would not have written this letter, could not have sent it.
There are so many things I could say in reply. I have written each one down and sent it to a different person, none of them you.
To you I send only the silence, so you can read between its lines.
There are so many things I could say in reply. I have written each one down and sent it to a different person, none of them you.
To you I send only the silence, so you can read between its lines.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Undying
So much gratitude. The house suffocating under its weight.
I lie awake at night and hear how thankful the silence is, and there is nothing I can say, no words to deny my responsibility, to say it is nothing, nothing, which is true, but a betrayal.
I keep trying to give it away but no one will help.
I fear it may outlive me. I fear I may have to let it.
I lie awake at night and hear how thankful the silence is, and there is nothing I can say, no words to deny my responsibility, to say it is nothing, nothing, which is true, but a betrayal.
I keep trying to give it away but no one will help.
I fear it may outlive me. I fear I may have to let it.
Weddings & Riots
It's got so I can no longer tell weddings from riots.
To be on the safe side I avoid both, watching from my window as the crowd runs shouting through the street.
Death and the bridegroom both ride a white horse.
To be on the safe side I avoid both, watching from my window as the crowd runs shouting through the street.
Death and the bridegroom both ride a white horse.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Something more comfortable
Now that we are home, there is no need to be formal, no need to pretend.
We can slip into masks, give our faces a rest.
We can slip into masks, give our faces a rest.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
War and Love
War is a machine for converting a single lie into a million truths. Love is a machine for converting a single truth into a million lies. All is fair in both because both make proportion impossible.
We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.
Afterwards, the names of the dead circle the city like vultures, searching for scraps of themselves.
We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.
Purple and silent, the bruises blossom in every house.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Turandot
This is how love dies. Faithful and easily forgotten, a frail creature, slain by its own hand.
Make no mistake - the stranger is Death, and fair Cruelty his bride. Together they are beautiful and terrifying, heartless because sublime.
And what of Justice, blind and in rags? It is no accident that he is not here, in this coldest of dawns; no accident that he walks alone in the darkness, hand in hand with Love, his true child, for whom all is unfair.
***
I am told that at the premier of Turandot at La Scala in 1926 (hard to believe the opera is less than a hundred years old - it certainly feels far more dated) Toscanini stopped the opera at the point where Liu dies, leaving the final scene unperformed. Which just goes to show how brilliant Toscanini really was.
The problem with that last scene isn't that it's no good; on the contrary, it is, in my opinion, some of the greatest music Puccini ever wrote (I should say that I'm not, in general, a big Puccini fan - give me Verdi any day). The problem is that what comes before it - Nessun Dorma, Liu's death scene - is sheer genius, so that the final duet, heard so soon after the pathos of Liu's death, feels like a betrayal. The composer is upstaged by his own music.
***
As you've probably guessed, I just got back from a performance of Turandot by the Opera Company of Philadelphia. A good performance all in all, with fine work by Francesco Hong as Calaf and Ermonela Jaho as Liu, both of whom more than made up for the fact that Francesca Patane as Turandot was decidedly mediocre.
And am I the only one who finds these stereotypical depictions of the Mysterious Orient annoying and borderline offensive?
Make no mistake - the stranger is Death, and fair Cruelty his bride. Together they are beautiful and terrifying, heartless because sublime.
And what of Justice, blind and in rags? It is no accident that he is not here, in this coldest of dawns; no accident that he walks alone in the darkness, hand in hand with Love, his true child, for whom all is unfair.
***
I am told that at the premier of Turandot at La Scala in 1926 (hard to believe the opera is less than a hundred years old - it certainly feels far more dated) Toscanini stopped the opera at the point where Liu dies, leaving the final scene unperformed. Which just goes to show how brilliant Toscanini really was.
The problem with that last scene isn't that it's no good; on the contrary, it is, in my opinion, some of the greatest music Puccini ever wrote (I should say that I'm not, in general, a big Puccini fan - give me Verdi any day). The problem is that what comes before it - Nessun Dorma, Liu's death scene - is sheer genius, so that the final duet, heard so soon after the pathos of Liu's death, feels like a betrayal. The composer is upstaged by his own music.
***
As you've probably guessed, I just got back from a performance of Turandot by the Opera Company of Philadelphia. A good performance all in all, with fine work by Francesco Hong as Calaf and Ermonela Jaho as Liu, both of whom more than made up for the fact that Francesca Patane as Turandot was decidedly mediocre.
And am I the only one who finds these stereotypical depictions of the Mysterious Orient annoying and borderline offensive?
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Best news I've heard all year
It's finally here - Shahid's collected poems. All 512 pages of it.
Now all I have to do is decide whether I want to be all snobbish and stick with the individual volumes (of which I have ALL), or fork out the dough to buy the collected works.
In other news, it turns out that the best book of 2008 was not Marilynne Robinson's Home or Bolano's 2666. I'm only 50 pages through it, but I suspect it's going to turn out to be the collected Jack Spicer.
Now all I have to do is decide whether I want to be all snobbish and stick with the individual volumes (of which I have ALL), or fork out the dough to buy the collected works.
In other news, it turns out that the best book of 2008 was not Marilynne Robinson's Home or Bolano's 2666. I'm only 50 pages through it, but I suspect it's going to turn out to be the collected Jack Spicer.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
59 Library Books
Fifty nine library books
on the floor by my bed;
books I keep planning to read but
end up renewing instead,
thinking I'll get to them next
semester (I never do).
Sometimes I think it's a good thing
we're mortal, don't you?
[based on a true story]
on the floor by my bed;
books I keep planning to read but
end up renewing instead,
thinking I'll get to them next
semester (I never do).
Sometimes I think it's a good thing
we're mortal, don't you?
[based on a true story]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
