Spent

Snow's Fissures and Fractures

Just the other day I thought about dVerse community and how long it has been since I wrote a poem. It feels like waves crashed over me and kept me under water, barely letting me break the surface in time for another inhale. Maybe this old thing I revisited today might push me in the right derection.

Edward Atkinson Hornel - Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic 1881

Edward Atkinson Hornel – Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic, 1881.

Autumn is crashing his bones,
his heart a silent drummer.
Oh, how it drummed so loud
in his waisted summer.

He longs to cry once more,
but it seems his tears
have been used up
in his wasted years.

His hands have been broken
in one too many strife;
he crossed too many lines
in his wasted life.

If only he could feel
just for a moment, whole;
but there is no return
for his wasted soul.

The roots…

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Adult? Never Never

Adult? Never, never—like life itself,
which never matures, forever green
from splendid day to splendid day,
I cannot help but remain true
to the wondrous monotony of mystery.
This is why, when happy,
I’ve never given up on myself—and why
in my anguish over all I’ve done wrong
I’ve never felt any real remorse.
Forever equal to what is left unsaid,
at the origin of what I am.
*
It would be so easy to unveil
this light or this shadow . . . One word,
and the life that lives alone in me,
beneath the voices every man invents
to get closer to fugitive
truths, would be expressed at last.
But no such word exists.
If, however, in the din rising up
from the streets I hear a sound slightly
clearer than the rest—or if I inhale
among the season’s scents a sharper breath
of leaves, awash with rain, then,
by suggestion, my ineffable life
looms before me, for only an instant . . .
And I can’t bear it . . . But one day,
oh, one day, that sight will make me shout,
and my shout will be a revelation . . .

The Selected Poetry of Pier Paolo Pasolini

Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Notes for an African Orestes
Intellectual Responsibility and Imagination

The Detached

We die,

Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,

Stranglers to our outstretched necks,

Stranglers, who neither care nor

care to know that

DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We love,

Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,

Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,

Kisses that neither touch nor

care to touch if

LOVE IS INTERNAL

Blue of noon

Born of disreputable pain, the insolence that persists
in spite of everything started growing again : slowly
at first, then in a sudden burst that has blinded and
transfigured me with a happiness that defies all reason .
At this moment I am intoxicated with happiness .
Drunk with it .
I’ll sing and shout it forth at the top 0f my lungs .
In my idiotic heart, idiocy is singing its head off.
I HAVE PREVAILED!