Tuesday, October 5, 2010

e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

since feeling

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

it may not always be so

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be, i say if this should be-
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

Hanne Darboven

This is the Hanne Darboven project. You must see this!!!


Hanne Darboven (born 29 April 1941 in Munich, died 9 March 2009 in Hamburg) was a German conceptual artist. She became best known for her large scale minimalist installations consisting of handwritten tables of numbers.

Hanne Darboven grew up in Rönneburg, a southern suburb of Hamburg, as the second of three daughters of Cäsar Darboven and Kirsten Darboven. Her father was a well-to-do businessman in Hamburg.

From 1962 to 1965 Darboven studied art with Willem Grimm and Almir Mavignier at the Hamburg Hochschule für bildende Künste. From 1966 to 1968 she lived in New York City, at first in total isolation from the New York art scene. In the winter of 1966/67 she met Sol LeWitt and Carl Andre, representatives of Minimal Art. Soon afterwards her first series of drawings on milimeter paper with lists of numbers, which resulted from complicated additions or multiplications with calendar dates, hours and days of the week.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The inky fingered clerk

His dumb ill-fitted glasses
Slide down his narrow nose
Quickly catching her profile
Bent in still repose
But as she turns toward the window
He sees her tiny smirk
And the way that she looks down on
The inky fingered clerk
The inky fingered clerk

He follows her as the sun sets
As the day turns into night
He counts all of her footsteps
Getting every detail right
As he creeps upon the ledge
And to his deadly work
He knows no one would suspect
The inky fingered clerk
The inky fingered clerk

As the blood drains from her face
And her skin turns into chalk
She hears one last stroke
Of her mother’s carriage clock
Then finally she is still
After one last feeble jerk
Cradled in the arms
Of the inky fingered clerk
The inky fingered clerk

The cops had only her body
Her hands and feet unbound
Not one single clue
Or evidence was found
No trail of blood leading
To where inky fingers lurk
Only treachery and cunning
And the inky fingered clerk
The inky fingered clerk

Sunday, September 5, 2010

A Lecture Upon The Shadow by John Dunne

Stand still, and I will read to thee

A lecture, love, in love's philosophy.

These three hours that we have spent,

Walking here, two shadows went

Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.

But, now the sun is just above our head,

We do those shadows tread,

And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.

So whilst our infant loves did grow,

Disguises did, and shadows, flow

From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so.

That love has not attain'd the high'st degree,

Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noon stay,

We shall new shadows make the other way.

As the first were made to blind

Others, these which come behind

Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,

To me thou, falsely, thine,

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

The morning shadows wear away,

But these grow longer all the day;

But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing, or full constant light,

And his first minute, after noon, is night.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

…and why do I hate her

…and why do I hate her?
She’s got the pinched face of a traitor
A liar
A fraud
She bleeds brown from the corners of her mouth
which wraps around her chalky skull filled with cobwebs connected to cunning
threads pulling her eyes this way and that
I hate her and I always will
And I will not hold onto it
This hate
As some have said
I simply will
I simply always will
Hate her
But not simply
I will hate her for all my days
I will give great parties in the name of my hate
And people
Will come to these parties and love me in spite of my hate
They will pity me for my hate
My friends
Pity me for my hate
…and why do I hate her?

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Wine and Groucho Marx

I really wouldn’t
I really couldn’t
I really shouldn’t
But here I am
With my glass raised aplomb
Feeling quite dignified in my reasoning
Why it was God who gave it to us was it not?
Of course following that logic, did not he, the inventor of hunger, sickness, death and war
Also have his hand in the making of summers and Groucho Marx?