(yours, mine, ours)

Poetry, Thoughts

‘…your story begins the moment Eros enters you. That incursion is the biggest risk of your life. How you handle it is an index of the quality, wisdom, and decorum of the things inside you. As you handle it you come into contact with what is inside you, in a sudden and startling way. You perceive what you are, what you lack, what you could be.”

Sometimes, life makes happy accidents out of us. I chose a book, who mentioned a book, which was authored by a woman, who spoke about something, that grabbed me deeply, just when I needed to be moved.

Anne Carson; thank you. Thank you for eros the bittersweet. Thank you for grief lessons.

One line, and I knew exactly what I wanted to write, because it is something I have been wanting to say.

How to better get at what we are, and what this is. How to get at what it means to live a life (yours, mine, ours).

For the next two years, this is my project. Yes, I am actually getting paid to learn–and write about, something that I am deeply concerned with, and moved by. And I think that helps to get at it, or, at least, it must be a start.

An introduction to the big idea?

Desire as absence. And what that means for you (me, us).

Stay tuned, friends.
















I Remember


Rather fittingly,  a love poem from Anne Sexton. I read this fondly:

I remember

By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.

-Anne Sexton

On men


Olivia Laing says [and this is important]:

They hate art, women, the earth,

what the fuck do they like


— Oh, I hope it fills you

with indignation, the kind

that does not still


Because you remember the first time

you told her that you cared

-and you were both scared

and that was ok, because you meant it


And here was a way

for you to speak

what wasn’t meant for speaking

in a language that rolled

like honey

off a mother tongue sweet,

and strange


You knew soft-heartedness

and it fills you,

with indignation


In which case,

I would tell you,

we, are on the same side


Things that used to be safe


Things that used to be safe:

pounding smoke from warm asphalt, a body

sucking cloth like a bandage

turned white, turned clear, turned skin.


Holding myself like sand, when

the wind blew from the opposite direction

Touched pieces of me,

that my hands wrapped tight made

my skin forget

what fresh air felt like


a bare thigh plastered on cracked vinyl train seats.

Hands free to

press, on cold veiled windows

move a finger in circles

to draw, not will

my space to shrink

Axis is


As far as contemporary poets go, I think that Chris McCabe is quickly becoming one of my favourites. Following a short intro, McCabe goes into a wonderful reading of his poem, Axis is, which was written about the July 7th bombings in London. I was so impressed by the way that McCabe illustrated the issue of terrorism and dehumanization, made only more salient by his criticism of media reporting/representation. His ending is perfect, and closes with a headline from BBC News.

“Blasts won’t shake UK economy”

O Me! O Life!


O Me! O Life!


Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Source: Leaves of Grass (1892)

what time is it? it is by every star


what time is it ? it is by every star

a different time,and each most falsely true;

or so subhuman superminds declare


-nor all their times encompass me and you:


when are we never,but forever now

(hosts of eternity;not guests of seem )

believe me,dear,clocks have enough to do


without confusing timelessness and time.


Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell-

measure imagine,mystery,a kiss

-not though mankind would rather know than feel;


mistrusting utterly that timelessness


whose absence would make your whole life and my

(and infinite our ) merely to undie


-e.e. cummings