16.11.07

"beauty is the impossible which lasts" ~francis ponge




"we have everything to say...and can say nothing; that is why we begin anew each day, on the widest variety of subjects and in the greatest number of imaginable procedures. we do not set out to write a beautiful text, a beautiful page, a beautiful book. absolutely not! we simply refuse to be defeated:
1) by the beauty or fascination of nature, or even the humblest object; nor do we recognize any hierarchy among the things to be said;
2) by language; we will continue to try;
3) we have lost all desire for relative success and all taste for admitting it. we couldn't care less about the usual criteria. only lassitude stops us. the monopolization of these criteria by a few hucksters has thoroughly disinclined us from any further sermonizing on measure or excess. we know that we successively reinvent the worst mistakes of every stylistic school of every period. so much the better! we don't want to say what we think, which is probably of no interest (as is evident here). we want to be unsettled in our thinking.

the silent world is our only homeland. we make use of its possibilities according to the needs of the times."





1. apple, 2. Winding Road, 3. le parapluie, 4. Adventures In Perspective, 5. IMG_0125, 6. Anagrams Embossed Edition No. 79

5 comments:

  1. Anonymous11:42 am

    yes! thank you. i love francis ponge, and i needed to hear what he had to say today.

    ReplyDelete
  2. well, i love you, kay.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Anonymous4:08 pm

    shucks.

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  4. Anonymous5:01 pm

    The snake,
    her body muscular and sensual,
    offered the apple again
    red flesh covered in droplets
    of shame
    I have a weakness for pythons and fruit
    and again I was banished

    I wandered that blank road
    and tried to remember a cold
    misted childhood game
    I hid behind a tree and
    the mist and fog seduced me

    I will not look back
    and my future will distort
    like wet trees growing upside down

    fall pretends to be delicate
    but when everyone is orange
    when everyone is burning
    thier eyes singed
    then fall hiss's like a snake
    and spits orange venom
    and everyone sleeps like children

    the table waits
    and waits
    and wakes the children
    with angry nursery rymes
    about snakes speaking in tongues

    I will use a made up language
    speak in pink tongues
    forked rymes for the little ones
    underground
    my scales will shimmer
    like mosaics on church walls
    they glimmer
    listen children watch my eyes
    undergound we dream and fly
    we float with words below rotting fruit
    and listen for fallen birds tangled in roots

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  5. i think you have invented a wonderful new mosaic genre of poetry....

    ReplyDelete