Category: one-col

The Vampire’s Wife: Stuff

Suzy Cave’s The Vampire’s Wife. Am indebted to her approach to beauty that plumbs artistic and dramatic strains across the universe, however curious, transgressive, or both.

Virginia Wolfe

Virginia has been much on my mind lately. Experimental way approaches her paragraphs — My LuLu du Lac loves how she starts to slip into passages with fingers running freely either side like its an open maze, where language funnels off and tunnels back in.

Sun through leaves breakaway breakaway open handed chasing seedpuffs that dehiscse on a hot day in Britian, Gorse bushes exploding pods sound almost like gunshots.

Unavoidable with participation, earnest interest, eagerness, shock, tenderness, injury, inquiry. Etc.

Clarice Lispector

She is an Angel for me. Influence very real even needy — but not nearly as traumatic. Startles yet brightens, exhilarates yet fights for it, reaches — as I reach, back for Clarice again and again —

“They would understand,” my LuLu equates out loud to herself. How must be able to work at peak intervals, engage with beauty — who as part of creation often dances with darker forces, battles “for real.” What leads body of hate back to surface of love. Sleeps tender with the undead. Tender yet monstrous, when love explodes with horror and light —

La Folie Charles Baudelaire

Vampire Poem, by Charles Baudelaire.

Leaves Open to Question

Les Fleurs Pensée sur l’Amour

Two books had super heavy influence on me very early on.

Ezra Pounds translation of Remy du Gormant’s The Natural Philosophy of Love. A later 1800’s serious tract about sexual instincts in animals. And translated with marked succinctness and intensity by the great Ezra. Loved it.

Also: The infamous In Praise of Folly. A satirical essay written by Erasmus of Rotterdam, first printed in June 1511. “Folly praises self-deception and madness and moves to a satirical examination of pious but superstitious abuses –” WIKI.

A comedy really. Found it a great relief to “wisdom” as heads in bible and prayers, scriptures that howled at my want of freedom — like an escaping thief. Who bothered to, dared.

Rouge et Noir

Soul, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.

Angels' breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.

Skunk Hour

by Robert Lowell

(For Elizabeth Bishop)

Nautilus Island’s hermit 
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son’s a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village;
she’s in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria’s century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season’s ill—
we’ve lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet’s filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler’s bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he’d rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull;
I watched for love-cars .
Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind’s not right.

A car radio bleats,
“Love, O careless Love. . . .” I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat. . . .
I myself am hell;
nobody’s here—

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes’ red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air—
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.