Category: art

A MOMENT

i stand still, gently, silently
in measured quietude,
proportioned gratitude,
concentrated sharply on diffusion –
transport to another state,
another aspect, another day.

a voluptuous breeze slings by:
touching, caressing, inviting,
blending in lazy sunny ways
with little insistence on etiquette –
even-keeled and pleasant,
careless of its fluid seduction.

light enters into the cave,
a stranger in the cloud forest –
sliced, transmuted by giant fronds,
disembodied, unrepentant –
it tricks the eye, sheds bulky heat
to slyly mix with ribboned leaves.

i close my eyes and breath, deeply,
the rich verdant aroma of the forest,
the balmy breeze, the stunted heat,
the coqui’s song, shimmery and sweet,
i feel profoundly present, yet ethereal,
unbound by time-space coordinates

no mental maps, obsessive turns,
no skipping to predestined stops,
no clogged mind or arteries –
brain flushed of uneven thoughts;
clean, clean, clean and sparse
transfixed by a nascent star –

a concept, a prophesy,
caught in a fishing net, redeemed
from the spiral arms of galaxies,
the sheer folds of dusty dreams,
instinct a vestigial muscle no more
preens the feisty notion, attentively.

ah, i can breathe again,
yes i can truly breathe:
each gulp of air, squeeze of the lung,
each rise and fall, crest and trough,
timed to sweet perfection –
life is mysterious, magnificent.

connectedness, that weathered word;
brainwave to beating heart to ligament,
wind to tree, root to leaf, rich scented soil
to restless deeds and grounded feet –
absolved, absorbed and softly grieved,
maternal womb to earthy tomb.

connectedness, as sweet as cake,
muddies the water of time’s parade
the stagnant mix of past and present
holds court with future’s regal arc –
time dwells in synchronous bent,
a mobius strip of dawn and dusk.

if silence is the medium of poesie
then let me be fully soundless today
let me stand still in muted humility,
and partake of this soulful solitude
let me be one with the forest’s gravity,
i close my eyes to capture a moment.

one of my favorite writers – learned to write english from his short stories.

The motorcycle increased his status, gave him weight, so that people began calling him Uncle and asking his opinion on world affairs, about which he knew absolutely nothing. He could now range farther, doing much wider business. Best of all, now he could spend every night with his wife, who early in the marriage had begged to live not in Nawab’s quarters in the village but with her family in Firoza, near the only girls’ school in the area. Read complete short story here.

The waiting drove me mad… you’re finally here and I’m a mess
I take your entrance back… can’t let you roam inside my head
I don’t want to take what you can give…
I would rather starve than eat your bread…

Poems are not simply emotions – they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and things and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you have long seen coming, to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to childhood illnesses, to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to nights of travel, and it is still not enough.

The profound intimacy of lyric poetry makes it perilous because it gets so far under the skin, into the skin. “For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences,” Rilke wrote in a famous passage from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. I am convinced the kind of experience—the kind of knowledge—one gets from poetry cannot be duplicated elsewhere. The spiritual life wants articulation—it wants embodiment in language. The physical life wants the spirit. I know this because I hear it in the words, because when I liberate the message in the bottle a physical—a spiritual—urgency pulses through the arranged text. It is as if the spirit grows in my hands. Or the words rise in the air. “Roots and wings,” the Spanish poet Juan Ramón Jiménez writes, “But let the wings take root and the roots fly.”

There are people who defend themselves against being “carried away” by poetry, thus depriving themselves of an essential aspect of the experience. But there are others who welcome the transport poetry provides. They welcome it repeatedly. They desire it so much they start to crave it daily, nightly, nearly abject in their desire, seeking it out the way hungry people seek food. It is spiritual sustenance to them. Bread and wine. A way of transformative thinking. A method of transfiguration. There are those who honor the reality of roots and wings in words, but also want the wings to take root, to grow into the earth, and the roots to take flight, to ascend. They need such falling and rising, such metaphoric thinking. They are so taken by the ecstatic experience—the overwhelming intensity—of reading poems they have to respond in kind. And these people become poets.

Emily Dickinson is one of my models of a poet who responded completely to what she read. Here is her compelling test of poetry:

If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know. Is there any other way.

Dickinson recognizes true poetry by the extremity—the actual physical intensity—of her response to it. It’s striking that she doesn’t say she knows poetry because of any intrinsic qualities of poetry itself. Rather, she recognizes it by contact; she knows it by what it does to her, and she trusts her own response. Of course, only the strongest poetry could effect such a response. Her aesthetic is clear: always she wants to be surprised, to be stunned, by what one of her poems calls “Bolts of Melody.”

Dickinson had a voracious appetite for reading poetry. She read it with tremendous hunger and thirst—poetry was sustenance to her. Much has been made of her reclusion, but, as her biographer Richard Sewall suggests, “She saw herself as a poet in the company of the Poets—and, functioning as she did mostly on her own, read them (among other reasons) for company.” He also points to Dickinson’s various metaphors for the poets she read. She called them “the dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul,” her “Kinsmen of the Shelf,” her “enthralling friends, the immortalities.” She spoke of the poet’s “venerable Hand” that warmed her own. Dickinson was a model of poetic responsiveness because she read with her whole being.

One of the books Emily Dickinson marked up, Ik Marvel’s Reveries of a Bachelor (1850), recommends that people read for “soul-culture.” I like that dated nineteenth-century phrase because it points to the depth that can be shared by the community of solitaries who read poetry. I, too, read for soul-culture—the culture of the soul. That’s why the intensity of engagement I have with certain poems, certain poets, is so extreme. Reading poetry is for me an act of the most immense intimacy, of intimate immensity. I am shocked by what I see in the poem but also by what the poem finds in me. It activates my secret world, commands my inner life. I cannot get access to that inner life any other way than through the power of the words themselves. The words pressure me into a response, and the rhythm of the poem carries me to another plane of time, outside of time.

Rhythm can hypnotize and alliteration can be almost hypnotic. A few lines from Tennyson’s “The Princess” can still send me into a kind of trance:

The moan of doves in immemorial elms
And murmurings of innumerable bees.

And I can still get lost when Hart Crane links the motion of a boat with an address to his lover in part 2 of “Voyages”:

And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.

The words move ahead of the thought in poetry. The imagination loves reverie, the daydreaming capacity of the mind set in motion by words, by images.

As a reader, the hold of the poem over me can be almost embarrassing because it is so childlike, because I need it so much to give me access to my own interior realms. It plunges me into the depths (and poetry is the literature of depths) and gives a tremendous sense of another world growing within. (“There is another world and it is in this one,” Paul Éluard wrote.) I need the poem to enchant me, to shock me awake, to shift my waking consciousness and open the world to me, to open me up to the world—to the word—in a new way. I am pried open. The spiritual desire for poetry can be overwhelming, so much do I need it to experience and name my own perilous depths and vast spaces, my own well-being. And yet the work of art is beyond existential embarrassment. It is mute and plaintive in its calling out, its need for renewal. It needs a reader to possess it, to be possessed by it. Its very life depends upon it.

They turned up in thousands – men and women, old and young, gay and straight – with one aim: to get naked on the steps of the Sydney Opera House. It was all in the cause of art: the American photographer Spencer Tunick had come to the harbourside city to create his latest installation. Full article and video.

still love this.

Pakistani writing is currently in a boom period with authors such as Mohsin Hamid, Daniyal Mueenuddin and Kamila Shamise gaining international critical acclaim. Now Karachi, one of the country’s biggest and most diverse cities, is to host its first festival of literature on the 20th of March. Full podcast.