Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You’re farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I’d love to kill you ?
— Alejandra Pizarnik, The Galloping Hour: French Poems

Here’s another poem, like all others before and after, dedicated

Here’s another poem,
like all others before and after,
dedicated to you.
There isn’t anything left to be said
but I will spend my life
trying to put you into words.
You who is every goodness,
every optimism
and hope.
Your love is a better fate for me
than anything I could wish for.
If you are a part of me,
then you?re the best part.
And if you’re separate from me,
then you are my destination.
But I?ve become a weary traveller,
so please,
let us never be apart.
— Kamand Kojouri

For me, you are fresh water that falls from trees when

For me,
you are fresh water
that falls from trees
when it has stopped raining. For me,
you are cinnamon that lingers
on the tongue and gives
bitter words
sweetening.
For me, you are the scent of
violins and vision
of valleys
smiling.
And still,
for me, your loveliness never ends.
It traverses
the world
and finds its
way back to me.
Only
me.
— Kamand Kojouri

When he was in college, a famous poet

When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet’s company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of. It would be a monologue of sorts, the self-contemplation of a student on a summer afternoon who is reading Euphues. The poem itself would be a subtle series of euphuisms, translating the heat, the day, the student’s concerns, into symmetrical posies; translating even his contempt and boredom with that famously foolish book into a euphuism.

The poet nodded his big head in a sympathetic, rhythmic way as this was explained to him, then told him that there are two kinds of poems. There is the kind you write; there is the kind you talk about in bars. Both kinds have value and both are poems; but it’s fatal to confuse them.

In the Seventh Saint, many years later, it had struck him that the difference between himself and Shakespeare wasn’t talent – not especially – but nerve. The capacity not to be frightened by his largest and most potent conceptions, to simply (simply!) sit down and execute them. The dreadful lassitude he felt when something really large and multifarious came suddenly clear to him, something Lear-sized yet sonnet-precise. If only they didn’t rush on him whole, all at once, massive and perfect, leaving him frightened and nerveless at the prospect of articulating them word by scene by page. He would try to believe they were of the kind told in bars, not the kind to be written, though there was no way to be sure of this except to attempt the writing; he would raise a finger (the novelist in the bar mirror raising the obverse finger) and push forward his change. Wailing like a neglected ghost, the vast notion would beat its wings into the void.

Sometimes it would pursue him for days and years as he fled desperately. Sometimes he would turn to face it, and do battle. Once, twice, he had been victorious, objectively at least. Out of an immense concatenation of feeling, thought, word, transcendent meaning had come his first novel, a slim, pageant of a book, tombstone for his slain conception. A publisher had taken it, gingerly; had slipped it quietly into the deep pool of spring releases, where it sank without a ripple, and where he supposes it lies still, its calm Bodoni gone long since green. A second, just as slim but more lurid, nightmarish even, about imaginary murders in an imaginary exotic locale, had been sold for a movie, though the movie had never been made. He felt guilt for the producer’s failure (which perhaps the producer didn’t feel), having known the book could not be filmed; he had made a large sum, enough to finance years of this kind of thing, on a book whose first printing was largely returned.
— John Crowley, Novelty: Four Stories

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