For Blaise Pascal

Here comes Keats, who didn’t get to live the sexual revolution. Keats was into hands; hand-writing, and hand-touch. Keats couldn’t make himself say, ‘how about it?’ like a moron, after the sublime silence trespassed the embarrassing threshold of ‘how about it, then?’ Lo, the feminists had a point: if you can’t find someone worth fucking, go fuck yourself. Very good point. Keats, can you hear that? I hope you’re turning in your grave as I bend over it, passing some good feminism over to you. Here comes Keats, whose “Living Hand” instils in me visions of caressing balls, if that is what the man wants, however vulgar and much in vain. But poetry can make anything vibrate. Listen to this:

“This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d – see, here it is –
I hold it towards you.”

Halleluiah, I feel touched! I’m writing this to myself now. No one else. Norway, here I come, to fuck myself, and your sheep, and your provincialism, and your highest peak! Norway, I swear by your orgasm that although I can see that you don’t fall for all this piss that Keats is talking about, you can also see that this hand of mine will henceforth overcast and cancel all your Novembers.

“But if you’d try this: to be in my hand
as in the wineglass the wine is wine.
If you’d try this."

"wie im Weinglas der Wein Wein ist

– I go to bed drunk with Rilke under my pillow. I still know what I know.
It snows, but I’m not cold anymore.



Mekone said…
Am un nume nou pentru tine, nu știu să-l spun în engleză: Fericita dintre zăpezi!!!!!!!
Thomas said…
I like you Camelia.
Søren said…
Oi, Camelia, what a load of fucking well put satyrical poetic stuff you've made for
yourself there - or for other people and for other people's pleasure and pain (whichever
they prefer!). Great balls of fire! Pure rocket science! Tiresias is back in town,
talking back, talking backwards. God help those fucking idiots who cannot understand

Thousand hugs,
Camelia said…
Søren, I wouldn't be so worried about the 'idiots', as I'll never be 'after them', as it were. I'm sure that the feeling is reciprocal. As I don't like to waste my time with them, they won't find losing my interest in them detrimental to their lives or agendas either, if indeed it is idiots we're dealing with here. At the end of the day we all do what we've got to do. Against such claims, which are not always the most uplifting, I find that poetry is the only thing that has the potential to enrich our thinking continuously - if we should be so lucky to know how to appreciate it. So yes, give some five books, and the arctic, and I'll spare everyone for having to consider my existence.
Anonymous said…
iti mai citesc si eu blogul din cand in cand. Sunt cam insomniaca in ultima vreme, imi prinde numa' bine niste analiza literara. :-)

Camelia said…
Merci. La ore de insomnie, gindirea ia o alta intorsatura. Cum s-a sugerat mai sus, Regina Zapezii, daca fericita sau nu, cel putin gindeste la nivel condensat. La rece, si pe intuneric altfel se vad lucurile. Rationalismul ia o tenta care e mai putin mecanica, 'tedious,' si 'downright fucking boring.'
James said…
How wonderful to read another of your fragments of genius today! Thank you so much.

The image of you towering over poor Keats's grave is lovely. And, for reasons I can't explain, it moves me when you write, "you can also see that this hand of mine will henceforth overcast and cancel all your Novembers." Maybe it's the sublime, born of the raw vigor and sheer power of a sinuous intellect? Either way - it's beautiful. Thank you, again. Pascal would be proud...
Camelia said…
James, thank you for your comment, which is very apt and perceptive. And yes, I'm always glad to hear that the text moves. When I read poetry myself, I read for the movement, for that which catches me unawares and hits me in the gut. The sublime, yes, I always want that, even when I know better...
James said…
Your writing often inspires in me the experience of the sublime -- and not the sense of the merely beautiful, but in the profound and slightly frightening sense that Burke described.

I've been fascinated with Burke's conception of the sublime ever since first encountering it as an undergraduate. And since then I've found many of my most moving experiences -- of natural and artistic wonders as well as of personal relationships -- fall under that category. In some ways, I think, the sublime encompasses the thrilling and even the slightly dangerous. Perhaps it is what a towering waterfall, a striking work of art, and a ravishing villainess all share?

Your observation about prophets and oracles makes perfect sense and extends the notion beyond what I'd considered. (Your writing is not only sublime, but stretches your readers' minds as well! No wonder you are a professor -- and an excellent one at that.) Perhaps contemporary politicians, religious leaders, and demagogues all trade on the sublime in the way oracles and prophets once did.


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