Poetry remakes and prolongs language; every poetic language begins by being a secret language, that is, the creation of a personal universe, of a completely closed world. The purest poetic act seems to re-create language from an inner experience that … reveals the essence of things. — Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. (Princeton… Continue reading Mircea Eliade
After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence. — Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair, (University Of Chicago Press,1996)
Any and all water is the color of drowning. — Emil Cioran, All Gall Is Divided: Aphorisms. (Arcade Publishing August 25, 1999) Originally published 1952.
Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn. We drink what somebody brewed neither I nor you nor a third; we lap up some empty and last thing. We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and… Continue reading Paul Celan
Corona Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk: then time returns to the shell. In the mirror it’s Sunday, in dream there is room for sleeping, our mouths speak the truth. My eye moves down to the sex of… Continue reading Paul Celan
Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be. — Emil Cioran, The Book of Delusions. (1936)
I want to write a poem as simple as a glass of water or as a piece of bread abandoned on the table by a child A poem transparent like a window light like a winged ingot of lead and yet heavy like butterflies among city lorries A poem wrought… Continue reading Stefan Baciu