tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629935248254565924.post7943702080724049676..comments2023-06-25T11:49:34.055+01:00Comments on cloudgatherer hold me down: the sun arcs into evening and the moon grows fattercloudgathererholdmedownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09367513733859157300noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629935248254565924.post-69836908761696827082015-10-29T11:54:00.029+00:002015-10-29T11:54:00.029+00:00a rain of leaves to you from Dublin, I'm strol...a rain of leaves to you from Dublin, I'm strolling familiar-unfamiliar streets like one walking around inside himself like one walking inside a partially familiar old house like one walking around a Dublin on a first visit<br /><br /><i>“the poem though well able to duplicate the creation in words was never able to fuse the duplication into a unity, unable to do so because the seeming-reversion, the divination, the beauty, because all these things which determined, which became poetry, took place solely in the duplicated world; the world of speech and the world of matter remained apart, twofold the home of the word, twofold the home of the human being, twofold the abyss of the creaturely, but twofold also the purity of being, thus duplicated to unchastity which, like a resurrection without birth, penetrated all divination as well as all beauty, and carried the seed of world-destruction in itself, the basic unchastity of existence which came to be feared by the mother; unchaste the mantle of poetry, and nevermore would poetry come to be fundamental…”</i> -- H. Broch, <i>The Death of Virgil</i><br /><br />and things like that while I listen to the memories of faces on the streets, fingers touching grooves in stone constructions older than the distant pyramidstimohttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18417521839923597870noreply@blogger.com