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“And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable”
―
―
“I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.”
― Dead Poets Society
― Dead Poets Society
“Because no matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas have the power to change the world.”
― Dead Poets Society
― Dead Poets Society
“The all-night convenience store's empty
and no one is behind the counter.
You open and shut the glass door a few times
causing a bell to go off,
but no one appears. You only came
to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe
a copy of yesterday's newspaper --
finally you take one and leave
thirty-five cents in its place.
It is freezing, but it is a good thing
to step outside again:
you can feel less alone in the night,
with lights on here and there
between the dark buildings and trees.
Your own among them, somewhere.
There must be thousands of people
in this city who are dying
to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,
to sit you down and tell you
what has happened to their lives.
And the night smells like snow.
Walking home for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable.”
―
and no one is behind the counter.
You open and shut the glass door a few times
causing a bell to go off,
but no one appears. You only came
to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe
a copy of yesterday's newspaper --
finally you take one and leave
thirty-five cents in its place.
It is freezing, but it is a good thing
to step outside again:
you can feel less alone in the night,
with lights on here and there
between the dark buildings and trees.
Your own among them, somewhere.
There must be thousands of people
in this city who are dying
to welcome you into their small bolted rooms,
to sit you down and tell you
what has happened to their lives.
And the night smells like snow.
Walking home for a moment
you almost believe you could start again.
And an intense love rushes to your heart,
and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable.”
―
“Seven Versions"
1. The Kiss
Massive languor, languor hammered;
Sentient languor, languor dissected;
Languor deserted, reignite your sidereal fires;
Holier languor, arise from love.
The wood’s owl has come home.
2. Beyond Sunlight
I can’t shakle one of your ankles
as if you were a falcon, but
nothing can prevent me
from following, no matter how far, even
beyond sunlight where Jesus becomes visible:
I’ll follow, I will wait, I will never give up
until I understand
why you are going away from me.
3. A Man Wound His Watch
In the darkness the man wound his watch before secreting it under his pillow. Then he went to
sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing. You who comprehend the repercussions of the faintest
gesture—you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. What else is there?
4. For Which There Is No Name
Let me have what the tree has
and what it can never lose,
let me have it
and lose it again,
blurred lines the wind draws with the darkness
it gets from summer nights, formless
indescribable darkness. Either
give me back my gladness, or
the courage to think about how it was lost to me.
Give me back, not what I see, but my sight.
Let me meet you again owning nothing
but what is in the past. Let me inherit
the very thing I am forbidden.
And let me continue to seek,
though I know it is futile, the only heaven
that I could endure:
unhurting you.
5. The Composer
People said he was overly fond of the good life and ate like a pig. Yet the servant who brought
him his chocolate in bed would sometimes find him weeping quietly, both plump pink hands
raised slightly and conducting, evidently, in small brief genuflective feints. He experienced the
reality of death as music.
6. Detoxification
And I refuse to repent of my drug use. It gave me my finest and happiest hours.
And I have been wondering: will I use drugs again?
I will if my work wants me to. And if drugs want me to.
7. And Suddenlty It’s Night
You stand there alone, like everyone else, the center of the world’s
attention,
a ray of sunlight passing through you.
And suddenly it’s night.
Franz Wright, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Vol I Issue I . (May 15th, 2011)
The individual sections of “Seven Versions” ia based, loosely—some very loosely—on poems by Rene Char, Rumi, Yannis Ritsos, Natan Zach, Günther Eich, Jean Cocteau, and Salvatore Quasimodo.”
―
1. The Kiss
Massive languor, languor hammered;
Sentient languor, languor dissected;
Languor deserted, reignite your sidereal fires;
Holier languor, arise from love.
The wood’s owl has come home.
2. Beyond Sunlight
I can’t shakle one of your ankles
as if you were a falcon, but
nothing can prevent me
from following, no matter how far, even
beyond sunlight where Jesus becomes visible:
I’ll follow, I will wait, I will never give up
until I understand
why you are going away from me.
3. A Man Wound His Watch
In the darkness the man wound his watch before secreting it under his pillow. Then he went to
sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing. You who comprehend the repercussions of the faintest
gesture—you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. What else is there?
4. For Which There Is No Name
Let me have what the tree has
and what it can never lose,
let me have it
and lose it again,
blurred lines the wind draws with the darkness
it gets from summer nights, formless
indescribable darkness. Either
give me back my gladness, or
the courage to think about how it was lost to me.
Give me back, not what I see, but my sight.
Let me meet you again owning nothing
but what is in the past. Let me inherit
the very thing I am forbidden.
And let me continue to seek,
though I know it is futile, the only heaven
that I could endure:
unhurting you.
5. The Composer
People said he was overly fond of the good life and ate like a pig. Yet the servant who brought
him his chocolate in bed would sometimes find him weeping quietly, both plump pink hands
raised slightly and conducting, evidently, in small brief genuflective feints. He experienced the
reality of death as music.
6. Detoxification
And I refuse to repent of my drug use. It gave me my finest and happiest hours.
And I have been wondering: will I use drugs again?
I will if my work wants me to. And if drugs want me to.
7. And Suddenlty It’s Night
You stand there alone, like everyone else, the center of the world’s
attention,
a ray of sunlight passing through you.
And suddenly it’s night.
Franz Wright, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Vol I Issue I . (May 15th, 2011)
The individual sections of “Seven Versions” ia based, loosely—some very loosely—on poems by Rene Char, Rumi, Yannis Ritsos, Natan Zach, Günther Eich, Jean Cocteau, and Salvatore Quasimodo.”
―
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