Saturday, January 03, 2009

Bataille, pale genius of the perverse, visits not

Bataille, pale genius of the perverse, visits not
In dreams, but in thought-pegasi, things that are not.

Earth: a sacred temple, godless and unbuilding,
Cooking consciousness into something it is not.

Happy-sad scholars exhale singularity,
This impossible, ordinary thing, or not.

Facticity is God, shouts tell-it-like-it-is,
Insisting on saying a thing saying cannot.

The profoundest temporariness of each thing
Is an unkissed kiss, sublime perfection and not.

Ancient stones also bathe daily in their own blood,
Bound by necessity to be what they are not.

The shock, the horror could not be greater, and still
Nicola finds breath, ecstasy where they are not.


scott wilson said...

Of Nicola's fab poem
not not about Bataille
I'll say nothing.

"Silence is a word which is
not a word and breath
an object which is not"
GB, IE, 16

The Sad Samurai

Capturing one's mood
in seventeen syllables
is very diffic-

Viva John Cooper Clarke!

Nicola Masciandaro said...

Thanks for the rad gloss, and for keeping me in touch with IE, which is haunting the borders of my desk these days. Don't follow the Sad Samurai reference though.

Here are some other couplets related to silence from other poems:

The big silence of the loud world is a small door / Yet immense, like the space between snow and snowing.

Now in silence I see my most terrible need, / A candor unveiling, killing every creed.

Civilization suicides to birth silence, / Hear this ancient cry of the unity of life.

Plus, will presently post a "silence" ghazal I wrote last year.