"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


Anonymous said...

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

Julie R said...

well, i love you, kay.

Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

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
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

Anonymous said...


Julie R said...

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