His (Samuel Coleridge) dark senses were constantly in play, the frustration of them bringing illness. Weather and organic nature combined in a synaesthetic multi-media event, and this was the ground of all perception before it was divded up in daily living: the Primary Imagination giving way to the Secondary. Poetry was forever seeking a conscious return to this state, which existed all the time, whether he knew it or not.
There is also a third kind of madness, which is possession by the Muses, enters into a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyric....But he, who, not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of art--he, I say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman.
I’d say that most of these [poems in Jason Mashak's book SALTY AS A LIP] are just straightforward enough, but not entirely explainable or attributable to a single cause/effect, which makes them the kind of poems I want to read many times… “Salty as a lip” is my favorite. It’s so alive: strange and human / earthy and raw. Mysterious but grounded. Mashak has manifested paradox, it seems. Bravo!
A certain person wondered whya big strong girl like mewouldn't keep a jobwhich paid a normal salary.I took my time to lead herand to read her every page.Even minimal peoplecan't survive on minimal wage.A certain person wondered whyI wait all week for you.I didn't have the wordsto describe just what you do.I said you had the motionof the ocean in your walk,and when you solve my riddlesyou don't even have to talk.
It came to me on a winter day.Life so full and rich will fade.Though I wish it were not so,One cannot run from an expected fate.And as a steady gust of wind fell upon my face,It was then when I felt a chill and thus did then know;Though I wish it were not true, Life beautiful and sweet shall ripe and pass today. As a petal falls from a rose so shall she blossom and shed;Catching each falling tear, I will not leave a word unsaid.
FRANCESCAYou came in out of the nightAnd there were flowers in your hands,Now you will come out of a confusion of people,Out of a turmoil of speech about you.I who have seen you amid the primal thingsWas angry when they spoke your nameIn ordinary places.I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,So that I might find you again,Alone.
The Arrow and the SongI shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song?Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend.
What makes us leave what we love best?What is it inside us that keeps erasing itselfWhen we need it most,That sends us into uncertainty for its own sakeAnd holds us flush there until we begin to love itAnd have to begin again?What is it within our own lives we decline to liveWhenever we find it, making our days unendurable,And nights almost visionless?I still don't know yet, but I do it.
The WeaverMy life is but a weavingbetween my Lord and me;I cannot choose the colorsHe worketh steadily.Oft times He weaveth sorrowAnd I, in foolish pride,Forget He sees the upper,And I the underside.Not til the loom is silentAnd the shuttles cease to fly,Shall God unroll the canvasAnd explain the reason why.The dark threads are as needfulIn the Weaver's skillful hand,As the threads of gold and silverIn the pattern He has planned.
The FlightLook back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain--But what if I heard my first love calling me again?Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door--But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?
Laser technology has fulfilled our people's ancient dream of a blade so fine that the person it cuts remains standing and alive until he moves and cleaves. Until we move, none of us can be sure that we have not already been cut in half, or in many pieces, by a blade of light. It is safest to assume that our throats have already been slit, that the slightest alteration in our postures will cause the painless severance of our heads.
في الصباح لا يطربني صوت فيروزولا يعدل مزاجي كوب قهوةصوتك طربيوقربك مزاجي
Thinking has a quiet skin. But I feel the and of things inside it. Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assailAnd ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel-bits Singling and singeing where they fall. I feel the stumbling gait of what I am,The quiet uproar of undone, how to be hidden is a tempting, violent thing— Each thought breaking always in another.All the unlawful elsewheres rushing in.
Love is like the wild rose-briar;Friendship like the holly-tree.The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,But which will bloom most constantly?The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,Its summer blossoms scent the air;Yet wait till winter comes again,And who will call the wild-briar fair?Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,And deck thee with holly's sheen,That, when December blights thy brow,He still may leave thy garland green.
I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing.
