Forgetlings

by Daniel Stephensen

Abroad:

Forgetlings.net

Anonymous said: Hey are you single?

I am multiple.

There Is No Outside

I carried silence to the limit of words.
​All the guests left, no one came to feed for them.
​And I lost the skill of reading lips and eyes,
​I died out just as I was, boiled and canned,
​Mocked by science. Emulsionless, fatuous,
​Automatic dialectical response.
​These last days went on and on. Please, take your time!
​I carried silence to the limit of taste.
​All words left. A planet ringed itself with ice.
​By and by I recognised the animals,
​By and by I recognised the machines, yes.
​I added the boundaryless birds to myself,
​One black stump on each shoulder, and they had faith
​For blood, they had faith. And I carried silence
​Through chambers of cancer and tormented spines,
​Past those who prowled for my sister body –
​I tore off their muzzy faces! I did not,
​No. I carried silence to a bladed cage.
​I sang over it and drew cards, handing them
​One by one to each black shoulder. The Great Things
​Of Life. I fed us from a compost shovel,
​The birds I trained to suckle at mudwater,
​And they left. I carried silence. I dragged it
​In the mud, I dragged it and we made a bed,
​And hot rain came and ran the bed a river.
​I sailed the frightened river to a dovecot,
​Weeping like a traitor. I carried silence
​To a basin and bathed it clean to a word,
​And flayed the clean word with meaning, with traffic,
​Stripped it to silence, frail as a sugared tooth.
​I made a bed in the dovecot with silence.
​There is no outside. I cowered not to hear.

A qui me louer? Quelle bête faut-il adorer? Quelle sainte image attaque-t-on? Quels cœurs briserai-je? Quel mensonge dois-je tenir? — Dans quel sang marcher?

/

To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies should I uphold? In what blood tread?

— Arthur Rimbaud, Mauvais sang / Bad Blood (trans. L Varèse)

It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds

So this bringing down of man to the level of the beasts … becomes here the challenge of the beasts to the poignancy of things, to a melancholy whose color I can give you by copying a few lines from Samura Koichi: “Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a disembodied wound.”

— Chris Marker, Sans Soleil

God listens to the star until it dies

God has denied me the angelic measure
That marks a poet in the world of thought.
Had I possessed it earth would become a treasure
But I’m a rhymer since I have it not.

Oh, my heart rings with heavenly zones of sound
But ere they reach my lips they break apart.
Men hear a clattering when I’m around
But day and night I hear my aching heart.

It beats against my waves of blood: a star
Rings in the vast blue whirlpool of the sky.
Men in their festive halls don’t hear so far:
God listens to the star until it dies.

— Zygmunt Krasiński (trans. J Peterkiewicz)

thistlemag:

There are still 27 days to go! Pledge $10 or more and you’ll get one of the eighty dream journals designed by Thistle’s manager, Erin Fassinger. These journals are filled with 50 pages of white, unlined sketchbook paper and trimmed with lots and lots of love and magic.
Visit our Kickstarter project by clicking below!
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/965720825/thistle-magazine


~
And this is Lex’s picture and she is Thistle’s writing editor ~ littleigor.tumblr.com and she has a stream of beautiful pictures on her Instagramme cutamoralex.

thistlemag:

There are still 27 days to go! Pledge $10 or more and you’ll get one of the eighty dream journals designed by Thistle’s manager, Erin Fassinger. These journals are filled with 50 pages of white, unlined sketchbook paper and trimmed with lots and lots of love and magic.

Visit our Kickstarter project by clicking below!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/965720825/thistle-magazine

~

And this is Lex’s picture and she is Thistle’s writing editor ~ littleigor.tumblr.com and she has a stream of beautiful pictures on her Instagramme cutamoralex.

Permalink

VI.
 
One
There is still one more
One I love more than anything in the world
I give my whole self to her like a pepsin because she needs a tonic
Because she is too soft
Because she is still a little fearful
Because happiness is a very heavy thing to bear
Because beauty needs a nice quarter-hour’s exercise every morning
 
 
VII.
 
We don’t want to be sad
It’s too easy
It’s too stupid
It’s too convenient
It comes up all the time
It isn’t smart
Everyone is sad
We don’t want to be sad anymore
 
 
—Blaise Cendrars, South American Women, 1924 (trans. R Padgett)

scottiehughes:

Well, folks, here it is.
My book Antlers is now available for purchase through MagCloud in both print and digital formats. It can be accessed here.
I’m so very grateful for everybody who helped out in the reading/collecting/editing/publishing/printing process.
Now to go write enough poems to fill another book…

~

At the end of a long haze, having been much adrift, I woke to the wonderful news of a dear friend’s work collected in print. I commend to you this poet, this volume, the weave of heart and mind and soul herein.

scottiehughes:

Well, folks, here it is.

My book Antlers is now available for purchase through MagCloud in both print and digital formats. It can be accessed here.

I’m so very grateful for everybody who helped out in the reading/collecting/editing/publishing/printing process.

Now to go write enough poems to fill another book…

~

At the end of a long haze, having been much adrift, I woke to the wonderful news of a dear friend’s work collected in print. I commend to you this poet, this volume, the weave of heart and mind and soul herein.

Permalink

Debris of sleep, wedges
driven into Nowhere:
we stay ourselves,
the steered-
round star
avows us.

— Paul Celan (trans. Ian Fairley)

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