POETRY'S TOUCH
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.
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.
§
Comments
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
shit...!
Thousand hugs,
Søren
iti mai citesc si eu blogul din cand in cand. Sunt cam insomniaca in ultima vreme, imi prinde numa' bine niste analiza literara. :-)
C
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...
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.
Warmly,
james