/lit/ - Literature

>>15449337
2/2

Rodin/Claudel

Rodin:
A bit here and take some there.
I must chiseled. I must created.
spread your feet apart, like this wide and
with the hugeness of night standed
please stilled, my love, my sanguine love

Do you remember the evening in the gardens?
Where the statue of holly shaped shifted into the gates of heaven to me?
With you I pleased.
With you heaven was where I made it (the holly). And in the overture of our song
winds droned to trees, I saw the statue
I would soon forget was you.

Claudel:
A purple sky under the yew to share with.
A demure light speaking the blue to mountains.
A bird in flight and I take myself to
cower(...)I’m frighted.
A look from behind the metal that has become you.

;Oh how I love those looks peering
around your neck reaching to bending
to the torrent of burnished
skin your eyes empty;

A glistening of purpose.
A passage from Ecclesiastes broken by remembrance.
A shape of bodies like a pieced apart letter.
And then you will say “leave.”

Rodin:
Madness comes to me madder maddened,
hoped to be done with shaping the patterned. Here given to you the feeling
of created. First comes light, then the sun.
Lettered pages in cathedrals;
in heaven I shall know my place.
Madder for me. I’m against me the way it shall be. Light of you extinguished.
Dropped hammer and chisel
out of my worn hands and on the bottom
your feet will be spread to leave.

;Out out brief candle windows outlook to boughs uncombed I will comb the copper in front of my hands it will become Now became now Leave me leave me for the first time Your Imperfect strides that rip forth I hear the moss growing neatly beside your boots in the footwell From cold bathwater to the gilted proposition of my work Mad with as mad does not;

And I tried to cast them as Boccioni,
But you moved; stop saying what.
Claudel:
The streets are empty to my wandering.
Melody in the leaves make love
to the smooth falling of rhododendrons green. And you said. And I abided.

A Gibson, please.

Life itself seems to have become redundant to the point of pedanticism. I graduated uni a few months ago, and still haven’t found a job. For some reason I quit my old job at a library, which was very comfy. I find the idea of working in business a bore no man should endure, as it is deleterious to a basic human love of life. Moreover, I abandoned my gf, the only person who I could be honest with—and even then it was difficult. Still, I’m seeing a progression in my poetry, and my love of life is still competent, though if I can’t produce change soon enough I think it will start to drop down with the drips of time. The bars aren’t opened yet here in Knoxville; there is something comforting about my local bar, sitting there with my head lowered, as all others are too lowered who go in at 3:00 pm. I think I would be better if I had money, because doing nothing except reading and writing and drinking with strangers in strange light seems to befit my ideas of removing oneself from culture enough. Yet I find myself growing old without the experiences of age. Days knock the coming winds. I’m too pious to be an alcoholic, though times I wish I could forget about the hang-ups of what makes the person good. My laziness produces the regrets of days long forgotten except for their feeling of emptiness. I can’t will myself into a depression, just a melancholia if Spirit. I thank people for music and art, everyday, wishing to be among them and to produce within me a visage of success that I know is only caused by such insipid pride.