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About poetry - III"Now, expressing the difficulty, saying the difficulty of saying, isn't enough to get over it ; quite the contrary. First of all, it isn't saying from which language, from which speaking instance this difficulty is said. Who notices, who expresses the difficulty? It cannot be done in the unattainable and wild silence of madness, nor simply in the language of the jailer, that is to say classical Reason [...]" — Jacques Derrida, Cogito et Histoire de la Folie, in L'écriture et la différence.
When looking at a painting, a flat, black & white, impressionist painting, we never see a person that exists. Yet we accept the metaphor, so deeply that one comes to talk about that person as if she had emotions, to talk about this flat painting's shadows as if they had depths. Our imagination fills inbetween the brush strokes, we see that Kanizsa triangle. But the "triangle" isn't there. It simply doesn't exist.
One would make a terrible mistake if one thought Poetry
About poetry -- IIHaving a meaningless thought, that is to say in our intuition of things lacking the feeling of understanding it. It appears to us unfathomable, yet given, unquestionable. In all its thickness, we come to realize this foreign body isn't subject to the laws of language, and we cannot analyze it in terms of "who? where? why?" -- or rather, doing that is less about finding the explanation that making the whole thing up, fabricating something that would borrow the consistency of discourse but loose the very nature of what it claims to throw light on. The thought is, first, there, and by that we mean it cannot be ignored. Providing it with meaning, on a narrative level, amounts to building an idea that contains it. Reconnecting the idea with the story we made for ourselves, engraving Being in Time. Hence it is not understanding it -- only sketching around so as to forget its originality, its solitude, its true context. Appreciating this foreign in ourselves, embracing its alterity without at
About poetry -- IAll my stories are not sad ones. Don't ask me to explain them! I don't write poetry for the fun of it, rythm reveals the way I am shaken, wording betrays how the idea made its way through me, filtered and filtered again, as crystalline as it spent a long time in there, as raw as it violented me; jerky when hiccup seizes me, breaking what shouldn't be beautiful.
Poetry isn't meant to make sublime. I want to go beyond language to tell what language doesn't enable me to tell. In order to tell, to make visible how hard it is to speak. Feeling behind the broken style the unrest; in a short sentence, the matter of urgency; in a long sentence, asphyxia. Every verse starts with an aimless, vague word, a monster of a word; every rhyme awaits its sisters, or remains a suffering orphan.
Everything is thought-out.
Toutes mes histoires ne sont pas tristes. Qu'on ne me demande pas de
les expliquer ! Je ne cède pas à la poésie par plaisir, le rythme trahit la manière
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More