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Month: June 2012

Silence and Mortality

Silence and Mortality

No more words! A funny thing for a writer to demand. Not for an artist or a composer, necessarily. But it’s a strange call coming from an author, who obviously depends on words for his/her brick and mortar.

 

Silence. The fear of. The desire for. The demand, the scream, the crying out loud. Stop!!!

    “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”

    — Ludwig Wittgenstein

    “The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.”

    — Blaise Pascal

When asked the fourteen unanswerable questions, the Buddha remained silent.

 

Chatter. Is it an escape from mortality? Do we talk, write, think in language to avoid silence? And do we associate silence, consciously, unconsciously, with death?

If we remain silent, and do everything we can to avoid thinking in language, but still hear other humans, we can not avoid thinking in words. But we can take a break, and extend that as far as our strength carries us, if we … Click to continue . . .

Happy Bloomsday 2012

Happy Bloomsday 2012

County Clare, near the Cliffs of Moher. 2003
County Clare, near the Cliffs of Moher. 2003

It’s that day again. And there have been so many since 1904. Well, that makes it, what? One hundred and eight years now? Molly and Leopold Bloom. Molly, Bloom and Stephen. Molly and Blazes Boylan. James and Nora. Sam and Diane.

Ulysses, the greatest novel in the English language, and perhaps the greatest novel of obsession ever written. The obsession was with the novel itself, with its possibilities, with the haunting, nagging, agonizing sense that Joyce could be at all places at one time, cubist, in his head and on the page. He could be back in the Ireland of 1904, with Nora Barnacle, and also all the days that led up to its publication in 1922, a year that saw one of the most amazing outpourings of literature, philosophy and Comparative Myth in the 20th century. Aside from Ulysses, that year brought us The Waste Land, by T.S. … Click to continue . . .

Pre-Bloomsday News and Notes

Pre-Bloomsday News and Notes

 

Great website for festivities this week. From the James Joyce Centre in Dublin.

Shows a listing for events all over the world. If you’re lucky enough to be in Ireland this week for the celebration, and would like your photography displayed on the web, please drop us a line, or two, or three.

 

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On a somewhat related note . . .

The Celtic Twilight
Was more than a dark ruse
More than a way
To craft an independence of mind

And spirit

Free from English dominance
And Big Houses

And colonial rule

It was a way to remind the British
That their land had once been
A Celtic Twilight too

And that another imperial power
Had once done what it could to crush
The life out of druid and muse
In the land of Stonehenge

Eternal Rome!

It was a way to remind
All imperial powers
That they once were
On the other … Click to continue . . .

Upon Further Reflection

Upon Further Reflection

We have new poetry from several excellent writers for our June issue. Donal Mahoney, Corey Mesler, Isaac Black, William Doreski, Ricky Garni and Steve F. Klepetar. They’ve each added a spark to Spinozablue and expand its history.

 

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Pathways have always intrigued me. Especially deep pathways that go on forever, with tall thick woods all around that deepen as you go further in. They should scare you just a little bit and make you question why you started in this direction, wondering if you’ll ever get out. But at the same time, they should be green and thick and verdant enough to make you not care one way or another. Should you make it back out or not . . . should you ever see the light of day again, your home sweet home, your girl, your trusty steed. Of course, there is always the dragon in the center to find. Or the pot of … Click to continue . . .

Donal Mahoney: Sadie Says

Donal Mahoney: Sadie Says

 

Pedro, Pablo and Little José

 
I have spent an hour
lying in the sun
on Joe Brickle’s farm
waiting for Pedro and Pablo
to fetch Little José

with his sickle and scythe
to cut down the high grass
so Pedro and Pablo
can gun their mowers
over the cowlicks.

After Joe Brickle died
the grass on his farm
soared to the sky.
His goats ate it all
till his son flew home  

and trucked all the goats
to the slaughterhouse.
At Sadie’s Cafe in town
old friends of Joe declare
goats bring a good dollar.

I have not wasted my time
lying in the sun today.
I’ve been watching
two doves on the ground
walking in circles

waiting for a sparrow
to land and dance on
the rungs of the feeder
Joe Brickle hung  
in his Dogwood.

The doves need the seed
the sparrow will scatter.
Joe Brickle named goats
after prophets in the Bible.
He might be happy … Click to continue . . .

Corey Mesler: Brickfulness

Corey Mesler: Brickfulness

 

Wake, My Hand

 

    “My hand is dreaming…”
        –Charles Simic

 

Awakened by incubi
of rot
I resurface, strung upon
viscera. I
want my body to want,
but today
I am bone and shudder. I
lift one
finger and point with it
toward
a new way to write, or
waking, a
new way to wake, vigilant.

 

 

Steal this Love

 

O
spunky
little
fast-paced
noir,
with your
com-
forting
women and
your
loose-lipped
gunsels
and your
capers
gone wrong,
gone wrong,
I
love you
with my gray,
way-
laid heart.

 

 

I am an Open Brick

 

The news of my life
has been greatly exaggerated.
The lineup is all
friends of mine from a past
I disown.
The women—and we must
always speak of the
women—are as
beautiful as we let them be.
I was told to wait
here inside the reign of saints.
The news of my life
is about as interesting as the… Click to continue . . .

Isaac Black: Restoration

Isaac Black: Restoration

 

Only My Heartbeat

 

I had no intention of dying, but I knew
everyone died, and my time was near.
I made elaborate preparations, figuring
that my future–whatever that might be–

 
would depend on the tiniest measurements,
perfect timing. The Egyptians were the wisest,
I can tell you. But only to an extent. I didn’t need
a pyramid, any elaborate costume, trinkets or

 
rituals– only my heartbeat, a stethoscope, my
mirrors angled just so, a tub of water, and a few
other items I don’t dare mention here. Tip:
Fat people putrefy too fast. No, I didn’t tell

 
anyone I’d figured it all out, how the next day
after I’d flat-lined I’d be up and around, lifting
barbells, with a better heart, low cholesterol,
blood flowing to my groin like a geyser.

 
Blood pressure: 120 over 80. There’s not a gray
hair. No, you won’t be reading any boring obituary
about me in the NY Times. Not yet. No … Click to continue . . .

William Doreski: No Thru Traffic

William Doreski: No Thru Traffic

 

The Dead-End of Main Street

 

Main Street ran through my living room
until I shut and locked both doors.
I don’t know or care how traffic
detours around my house but
I resented the threat to my cats.

A heavy black girder bridge spans
the gap between this town and that one.
I wouldn’t drive or walk across it
for fear that the massive girders
would bend satirically, dumping me
into a vale of thorns and nettles.

You, of course, cross daily, driving
your mauve Porsche with élan.
When that engine winds up Main Street
the cats dodge to their beds and crouch
to spring on whatever creation
threatens to evolve in their presence.

When you step inside, breathing
like the average carnivore, we all
relax in a cross-species sigh.
When you drive me to the hospital
for my shift as a volunteer
we avoid the huge black bridge

by choosing the ridge road where trees
bend in … Click to continue . . .