The Peals of Laughter Heard from Afar

To know the fragility of the unicorn and yet be able to laugh!
Isn't that the secret of life?
Very necessary to know,
difficult though!
And the practice of it, the effort at it
is the whole of life.
And our whole life is a continuous effort.

And I am dancing barefoot
heading for a spin,
some strange music draws me in.

From the heart of darkness
to such light,
timeless behind the veil of Maya,
behind the silence
is the everlasting YES,
the affirmation that
I AM,
a stream of playful consciousness,
the fumes from the Delphic oracle,
all agree that I AM

Thanks, Anna Del Valle Marti for the image

Originally shared by Anna del Valle Martí

"Reverberation"
retentissement / reverberation

1. What echoes in me is what I learn with my body: something sharp and tenuous suddenly wakens this body, which, meanwhile, had languished in the rational knowledge of a general situation: the word, the image, the thought function like a whiplash. My inward body begins vibrating as though shaken by trumpets answering each other, drowning each other out: the incitation leaves its trace, the trace widens and everything is (more or less rapidly) ravaged. In the lover's Image-repertoire, nothing distinguishes the most trivial provocation from an authentically consequent phenomenon; time is jerked forward (catastrophic predictions flood to my mind) and back (I remember certain "precedents" with terror): starting from a negligible trifle, a whole discourse of memory and death rises up and sweeps me away: this is the kingdom of memory, weapon of reverberation—of what Nietzsche called ressentiment.

(Reverberation comes from Diderot's "unforessen incident which...suddenly alters the state of the characters": it is a coup de théâtre, the "favorable moment" of a painting: pathetic scene of the ravaged, prostrated subject.)

Roland Barthes. Fragments d’un discours amoureux, 1977.

Image: Annie Fargue de profil by Robert Doisneau, 1958.

#literarytheory #barthes #dictionary #photography #doisneau

THE TONE OF THE PACIFIC MOON

THE TONE OF THE PACIFIC MOON

A willow stooped over the waters
and on the branch sang a swallow
a song for the pacific moon.
The morning brought me a boat
and as the eagle watched we sailed from dawn to dusk and the fisherman toiled,
the housewife spread her washing to dry;
birds sought spaces
on dry branches with dried up  twigs.

Far away on another shore
a lone man dropped his fishing rod and stared
vacantly at the ripples.
Herons gathered and gave us a cheering note and I thought I almost saw on
the rippling dome of sky
 you gliding with butterfly wings,
 your parasol held like an air-balloon.

A temple dome rose in view in the sky
and we sailed under the shadow
between the cleft hills.
The craggy hills, scared and scarred with their barrenness
and the bird said it's ok; the way is clear and ahead is a brightness.
On the way back the pacific moon touched the sky, touched the waters, touched the minds,
a gentle tone , a simple word,
the day is done;
 it's night again.

DIVING DEEP

Diving deep
to reach
the reflections of stars,
the moon took quite a leap.
I stand here, staggering on the shore,
anxious to see her out again,
From here back to her spot in the sky
is the longest journey for me to behold.
so I stand here and wish her well,
the moon shivering in cold.

Pearls of Zen

Pearls loosely strung from the Life of the Zen Master Dogen

Vast is the robe of liberation,
formless field of benediction.

Being in the ocean and claiming to see no water,
is not seeing Buddha.
Seeing flowers in spring,
cuckoo in summer,
moon in autumn,
chilly snow in winter,
seeing things as they are,
is seeing Buddha.

On a full moon night,
go into the garden and look at the moon, magnificent in splendor,
pure, undefiled,
perfect, flawless
is the moon in the heart,
joyful, careful, universal mind.

From Another Shore

From Another Shore

Krishna, my love, I am weary.
I am weary of battling with yelling crowds,
I am weary of those who vie for the secret I hold,
the knowledge of what happens to a soul--
when touched by your silence it loses tongue, loses word,
loses script, loses the knowledge of existence.
Krishna, my love I am weary of the hysteria circling around,
the cymbals clashing and drowning love,
I am weary of the walls I need to build
to hide your treasure and the ancient lore.
Krishna, my love, my silence incarnate,
Tell me how to keep them away,
tell me how to sing
when your enchanting music drifts in from another shore.
Krishna my love, I smell your sword as much as I feel
the gentle feel of your peacock-feather on my skin.
How can I build a temple real
on this shore away, where you cannot reach?
Krishna, the alluring infinity, the tantalizing solitary dweller,
You never gave me enough of the strength
to fight battles of ambitions to claim the crown.
Lend me a voice that will ask
the right question that will open the way to the end of this weary pilgrimage.

When the evening falls will you stand by me and watch
the torches being lit across the shore, the lamps sparkle in the distant shrines?
They, I know, will be lighting a thousand lamps for you
and I will be watching from this shore, isolate, alone,
away from you lodged in those remote shrines?
In that hour of desolate night, will you hold my hand and watch
your own shrine from another shore, alone with the flickering lamp and me?

Sushama Karnik originally shared:

In came with a gust of the wind
all the letters you shredded once.
Maple leaves, strewn on the floor.
A street car honked outside
at an imagined horse standing stunned
in the middle of the road that led nowhere.
The night was long but we talked away
in the wee hours of the darkened room.
Your face was covered with all those letters you shredded once
and I was reading the ones which you never wrote.
In a surreal trance I watched
the demented ceiling fan whirling above;
the mind of someone I knew once
could be seen with an uncanny clarity
performing feats like an acrobat
on the wildly circling fan above.
As soon as the the day begins I will move out
to step into the corporate world
of walls rising to insane heights and wallpapers peeling off.

Thanks +Lise Wal for the surreal inspiration

Originally shared by Lise Wal

Collage class this week was surreal collage

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  Lise Wal

  +Sushama Karnik WOW!! So great! I see a bit of my collage in there too, Thank you 😍
  
  
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Reminiscent Of Lost Hours

The tolling of bells
reminiscent of lost hours.
A rooster seen atop the tree,
recalls the mornings in a lost village.
In a flash of lightning, the rooster sees
the coming of the rain.
A delayed rain
past a refrain,
come rain, fall again.
Something must grow
in the lost hours of the lost village.
The past when it collides with the moments now,
can water the seeds sunken in the ground.

The sound of water over the rock,
the sound of water rising in jets
of fountains singing in the dark,
and I look for the key I lost
as it slipped somewhere along the edge
of the rowing boat as it bounced in the wind and the storm.
The agony of the thunder when there is no rain,
the agony of the torch light falling
on empty spaces,
The agony of the call
where the prisons and palaces are all alike!
The sea is swelling in brisk tides.
They break and spread, forgetful upon the shore.