cloud gatherer hold me down: there was no precise point of commencement

Saturday, 3 December 2011

there was no precise point of commencement

there was no precise point of commencement only the quiet rumbling of beginnings softly tearing the seams stitch by singular stitch. a living thread dreamed to life with instinctual inclinations towards the sacred act of acknowlegement in the preservation of personal truth.

8 comments:

demie said...: good morning my beautiful scottish poet...

i read in awe; 4 December 2011 06:59
Anonymous said...: really love thiS one! you Have A Degree of sensitivity that most people don't have...you should write a book.; 5 December 2011 14:46
demie said...: i thought i left a comment here yesterday...
and i believe it to be a good one...

now i cat come with anything else than your poems make me think. i mean i read them and the go on with my day, and suddenly the words come back and hunt me somehow...
" the sacred act of acknowlegement in the preservation of personal truth"

i like that; 5 December 2011 21:15
Anonymous said...: the crack of the mint echoes through the auditorium, alerting and bemusing; 6 December 2011 01:24
Anne Immelé said...: toujours heureuse de vous lire et de vous suivre... chère C.; 6 December 2011 19:43
Anne Immelé said...: Chère C.
C'est un plaisir de vous lire, jour, après jours, nuages après nuages...; 6 December 2011 19:47
Timo said...: early roots in garden
wild unwieldy words
early yule gift to you
wild garden of words
covered by leaves
tossing red words
snow on your tongue
in your garden of words; 9 December 2011 08:54
ellom said...: L o v e this.; 9 December 2011 13:00

when someone else speaks your heart

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes." ~ from song of myself - Walt Whitman

“I-I am going to be a storm-a flame-I need to fight whole armies alone;I have ten hearts; I have a hundred arms; I feel too strong to war with mortals-BRING ME GIANTS!” ~ Cyrano de Bergerac

"This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces…And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me."— the diaries of Franz Kafka

"I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain." — Catherine Breillat

"What should I do about the wild and the tame? The wild heart that wants to be free, and the tame heart that wants to come home. I want to be held. I don’t want you to come too close. I want you to scoop me up and bring me home at nights. I don’t want to tell you where I am. I want to keep a place among the rocks where no one can find me. I want to be with you."— Jeanette Winterson

“And we danced too wild, and we sang too long, and we hugged too hard, and we kissed too sweet, and threw our heads and howled just as loud as we wanted to howl, because by now we were all old enough to know that what looks like crazy on an ordinary day, looks a lot like love if you catch it in the moonlight.” — Pearl Cleage

I no longer wish to refrain from the errors of my fingers, the errors of my eyes. I know now that these errors are not just booby traps but curious paths leading towards a destination that they alone can reveal to me. There are strange flowers of reason to match each error of the senses. Admirable gardens of absurd beliefs, forebodings, obsessions and frenzies. Unknown, ever-changing gods take shape there. I shall contemplate these leaden faces, these hemp-seeds of the imagination. How beautiful you are in your sand-castles, you columns of smoke! New myths spring up beneath each step we take. Legend begins where man has lived, where he lives. All that I intend to think about from now on is these despised transformations. Each day the modern sense of existence becomes subtly altered. A mythology ravels and unravels." - from the preface to 'Paris Peasant' by Louis Aragon

"...But I have seen the beautiful. I know its contours and the rough guide it provides is blissfully specific: the hand that rides the ridge of the collarbone or moves along the brow, the perfect form of momentary light in this line or another. It’s what Blake saw at the top of the stair, the terrible earthquake at the root of the flesh we think of as delight. It’s what you see when you shut your eyes and see, the angel with the whip or a flaming sword that burns your eyes down to the spinal cord, the shit, blood, semen smell of mortality you get used to because it follows you everywhere and is both beautiful and true." - from 'rough guide' by George Szirtes

cloud gatherer hold me down

Saturday, 3 December 2011

there was no precise point of commencement

8 comments:

pieces of me

a trail of breadcrumbs..

thou shalt not steal

when someone else speaks your heart

wonders