A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the—surely not always strong—hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what?… Continue reading Paul Celan
If the birds were among us to be mirrored In the tranquil lake above our heads WE MIGHT UNDERSTAND Death would be a long and beautiful voyage And an endless holiday for the flesh for structure for bone — Tristan Tzara, from “The Death of Apollinaire (La Mort de Guillaume Apollinaire),” (1919) The… Continue reading Tristan Tzara
The Desire To Paint Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire. I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
He would say, “How funny it will all seem, all you’ve gone through, when I’m not here anymore, when you no longer feel my arms around your shoulders, nor my heart beneath you, nor this mouth on your eyes, because I will have to go away some day, far away…” And in that instant I… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
A Winter Dream In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriageWith cushions of blue.We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waitsIn each corner too. You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,Grimacing shadows of evening,Those snarling monsters, a crowd going pastOf black wolves and black demons. Then you’ll feel your cheek… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
Life is the farce we are all forced to endure. ― Arthur Rimbaud, Une saison en enfer; Illuminations; et autres texts/ A Season in Hell & Illuminations. Translated by Wyatt Mason. (Modern Library, August 9, 2005) Originally published 1873.
From out these wide black eyes which are your spirit’s vent, Heap fires less fierce upon me. O impenitent, I am no tireless Styx to gird you nine times nine, I am no lustful Fury to exhaust your lust, To break your vigor or to make you bite the dust Or in your bed’s hell… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
