Posts tagged Poetry

Arthur Rimbaud - 1854

I say that one must be a seer, make oneself a seer. The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational disordering of all the senses. Every form of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and keeps only their quintessences. This is an unspeakable torture during which he needs all his faith and superhuman strength, and during which he becomes the great patient, the great criminal, the great accursed – and the great learned one! – among men. – For he arrives at the unknown! Because he has cultivated his own soul – which was rich to begin with – more than any other man! He reaches the unknown; and even if, crazed, he ends up by losing the understanding of his visions, at least he has seen them! Let him die charging through those unutterable, unnameable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where he has succumbed!

“After a poet is dead, his letters are the windows to his soul — or perhaps just the cellar doors. These two volumes detail Eliot’s struggle to find a career and to shoulder his way into the London literary world, a school of sharks where writers reviewed their friends and publishers reviewed their authors.” - W. Logan

(Full Text Of Review Here)

I’m a big TS Eliot fan, have been for a long time. I believe I would find these books very insightful. But at almost 800 pages each. Wow. That’s a lot of letters. Still, perhaps one day. A bit of Anti-Semitry running about in those letters. Disappointing but not surprising.

Tahar Ben Jelloun - 1944

I write about wounds, the eternal treasons of life. It’s not very funny, but it’s sincere. My commitment is to sincerity.

Sharon Olds - 1942

“I’m not sure that the benefit - as a writer and as a citizen - that I would get from reading at least the front page of the Times every day or every other day would outweigh the depression.”

Dahlia Ravikovitch - 1936

An orange did love   The man who ate it.   A feast for the eyes   Is a fine repast;   Its heart held fast   His greedy gaze.   
A citron did scold:   I am wiser than thou.   A cedar condoled:   Indeed thou shalt die!   And who can revive   A withered bough?   
The citron did urge:   O fool, be wise.   The cedar did rage:   Slander and sin!   Repent of thy ways   For a fool I despise.   
An orange did love   With life and limb   The man who ate it,   The man who flayed it.   
An orange did love   The man who ate it,   To its flayer it brought   Flesh for the teeth.   
An orange, consumed   By the man who ate it,   Invaded his skin   To the flesh beneath.
- The Love of an Orange trans. Chana Bloch

I know it’s philosophy day, but I found the text of this poem while looking for Roethke quotes and it just … 

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

… hit me like a brass pipe in the chest. “This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.” Oh god, I should know. And I don’t feel bad posting this on philosophy day.