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This blog has moved to lnoellemclaughlin.com.
Please see new menu for full list of editorial services offered.
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From An Anthology of Mysticism and Mystical Philosophy:
For Wordsworth, as Easterlin notes regarding “Tintern Abbey” especially, the essence of transcendent experience in nature lies beyond language’s ability to communicate that experience because “language is by nature approximate and human” and “inadequate to the description of the extraconceptual,” although “it is only through language that the significance of the extraconceptual can be recognized and, in some way, known.” Easterlin observes, for instance, that Wordsworth’s use of denotatively inappropriate modifiers in “Tintern Abbey,” as in “round ocean” and “living air” convey an impression of language short-circuiting under the strain of describing the infinity of God infused into finite physical nature.
I adore this short circuit language, the way that it breaks little holes through the walls of any small cell you may find yourself standing in.
You can see some examples of this in my lil “Black Cloud,” forthcoming from an anthology by Truth Serum Publishing.
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Surprised by Evening
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i can’t be half gentle enough,
half tender enough
toward you, toward you
inarticulate, not half loving enough
BRIGHTen
the cor
ner
where you are!
one favorite lil portion of ole w.c.w.’s paterson.
and from charles doyle: in the yale draft, III iii is titled ‘flood.’
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p. 245 the ghost of the unborn novel is a medusa-head. (in horror of it, frozen by it..)
p. 256 fox possession, fave dishes of magical foxes, from possession: demoniacal and other: oesterreich p. 94 on a certain day at four o’clock there were to be placed in a temple sacred to foxes and situated twelve kilometers away two vessels…
p. 270 writing is a religious act: it is an ordering, a reforming, a relearning and reloving of people and the world as they are and as they might be…it feels to intensify living: you give more, probe, ask, look, learn and shape this: you get more: monsters, answers, color and form, knowledge. you do it for itself first. (italics mine)
p. 272 god’s luminous fingernail, a shut angel’s eyelid (of the new moon on its back)
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From 100 Love Sonnets XVII No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva Te amo sin saber como, ni cuándo, ni de donde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
From Cien Sonetos de amor XVII I don ’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries I love you without knowing how, or when, or except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
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Separation
By W. S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
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From the Desire Field by Natalie Diaz
I don’t call it sleep anymore.
I’ll risk losing something new instead—
like you lost your rosen moon, shook it loose.
But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
fruit to unfasten from,
despite my trembling.
Let me call my anxiety, desire, then.
Let me call it, a garden.
Maybe this is what Lorca meant
when he said, verde que te quiero verde—
because when the shade of night comes,
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.
My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused,
hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion
beneath the hip and plow of my lover,
then I am another night wandering the desire field—
bewildered in its low green glow,
belling the meadow between midnight and morning.
Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising
and many petaled,
the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow.
I am struck in the witched hours of want—
I want her green life. Her inside me
in a green hour I can’t stop.
Green vein in her throat green wing in my mouth
green thorn in my eye. I want her like a river goes, bending.
Green moving green, moving.
Fast as that, this is how it happens—
soy una sonámbula.
And even though you said today you felt better,
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,
to say, I don’t feel good,
to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted—and tell it again
or again—
until I can smell its sweet smoke,
leave this thrashed field, and be smooth.
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I have some artwork in the latest issue of New Paltz De Facto zine. Pick one up at Inquiring Minds, Barner Books, or ll commissary! if you feel like it. All proceeds go to their local anarchist collective.
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