Hi Alison,
looks like nobody else apart from Leona (thanks Leona - looked it up,
still none the wiser) wants 2 play.
Also looks as if i might have inadvertently written something meaningful
which is a worry;)
Perhaps it's a point that much (i hesitate to say all but *might* go there)
in poetry (the performances of the writing and dissemination) has yearning
for measures of openness as well as inevitably effects measures of closure.
Such yearning *might* be read as desire for 'things' to be other than they
appear to be and such yearnings can come both from the pit of despair (that
'being, close to tears') and the projections borne through joy.
Writing poetry in and of itself connotes possibility. If one were content
with things as they are one would have no need to say anything? Writing, as
production of both difference and differance (accented appropriately)
*might* betaken as a sign of yearning.
It's a little like the urgency which derives from disatisfactions with the
imperfect fit or the phantom pitch to which we hum - that Rennaissance,
what did they call it, something akin to 'stimmung' that we 'tune' ourselves
to through our work.
We never attain 'it', or even only rarely glimpse 'it'. Writing traces our
inividual and collective attempts to fly ever closer to 'it'.
something like that
I think those notes came in and around a reading by Will Rowe from the poem
'Corpses' by Nestor Perlongher which he himself translated.
this kind of thing start to tease 'it' a little . .?
love and love
cris
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