The corpse I am become
lives in pure counter-
poise, between weight and
weightless tidal flow, its breath
osmotic, its pulse subsumed. Here
is death beyond fear, without
want of resurrection, unyoked
from hate or any spur to forgive,
where all the masks of God
melt into irrelevant silences.
Here the body surrenders all
tethers to the past, its crowns
and cups of woe, and hope’s
a stain absolved of any future,
where the only present is presence,
a nothing that is everything stillness
yearns to inhabit, that lights
no way to or fro. Dark bliss!
Yet give me back, for now,
my stuttering heart, staccato air,
the buzzing contagions of the world.
– Richard Foerster
Postscript:
Savasana, as I’m sure you know, is the rest-meditation-rejuvenation period in yoga sessions. It’s translated as the corpse pose or the dead body pose. During this time, practitioners try to let go of things, step away from things, and be present.
This is an evocative description of the pose, what it entails physically and mentally to stay in it, and the poet’s drawing back with a little jerk to stay very much in and of this world.
You can read more about Richard Foerster here and about his latest collection and his recently winning an NEA fellowship here.
Tagged: death, mystic, philosophy, Richard Foerster
- Published:
- July 13, 2012 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments:
I’ll make love to you
in all good places
under black mountains
in open spaces.
By deep brown rivers
that slither darkly
through far marches
where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle —
northern father’s western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.
I’ll make love to you
in narrow side streets
with shuttered windows,
crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town —
discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
on concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed
with cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle —
northern father’s western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.
– Ian Anderson
Postscript:
I know I’ll be told how it’s heresy to try to separate Jethro Tull’s music from the lyrics, but it definitely qualifies as poetry imo.
You can hear the song here.
You can read more about the album here and about the band here.
Tagged: desire, Ian Anderson, imagery, Jethro Tull, love poetry, melancholy, song lyrics
- Published:
- July 12, 2012 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments:
Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires for you
that glowed plainly in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice—and some
chance obstacle made futile.
Now that all of them belong to the past,
it almost seems as if you had yielded
to those desires—how they glowed,
remember, in the eyes gazing at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
– C. P. Cavafy
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
Postscript:
Love, beauty and remembrance.
We’ve run another poem by Cavafy, Ithaka, here.
You can read about Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis here and here. This is a longer article about his work and his life in the New York Review of Books.
You can see this translation, and links to other translations at the Cavafy Archive.
Tagged: C.P. Cavafy, desire, Edmund Keeley, Greek, love poetry, memory, Philip Sherrard, translation
- Published:
- July 11, 2012 – 08:00
- Author:
- By Madhu
- Categories:
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- Comments: