Sunday, October 30, 2016

can we have a beckettian poetics of fuck it because here i am wide awake at 1:30 am and tho i have claimed the muse does not want to visit me can i instead return to my love of words without his blessings [if one believes in 'blessings', i don't] to write whatever the hell comes to mind since i can edit later and who is to define writing but for ourselves down the line in time because what one poet writes at 1:30 am is sufficient for the art of life


At 5:04 PM, Blogger John B-R said...

Wislawa Szymborska

The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
--three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living.

Translated by Magus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire


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