if you've actually caught the last two blogs (which have been removed)--i should tell you that i've received a letter saying 'sorry, we didn't mean to send you a rejection letter, we're actually still considering your application and haven't come to a decision yet, but we really like you'
so not rejection....? emailing a person was a good idea, cuz they were like 'what?' and then emailed someone else who was like 'say what?' and then the sitch became clear---mistaken letter
as a result, i've taken off the last two posts, mostly for my own benefit (as i'm still kinda reeling, like 'wait, i'm not rejected? am i accepted? no, so...whahuh?)
but here's the poem from the one
the many deaths of imagination
tired of losing, he jumps out of windows
every morning. it awakens the sun
at least, pulls the sheets out from under
the world, who yawns, and shivers,
and shakes, and stares
at the blood splayed without order.
tired of losing, he helps
chinese river dolphins
jump out of sewer grates
with karate moves and a sense
of justice. he moves with gentle grace
through the soul-shattering space
of a city, a sewer
where naked apes live, and he cuts
reality from itself, leaves holes
for people to live in.
tired, he sleeps,
dreams of women with strong hearts
and hands of cold steel. they rip
the world asunder, reveal its tender graces,
the sun rising, the moon,
eclipsed by smog, the man who jumps
through windows and stares
wonderingly at the sun shining,
thinking, 'apollo in all his graces
still lies dead upon the sill'.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Monday, February 04, 2008
a quote from borges
"The poet spoke the poem. It was a single line...
'In the years of my youth,' said the king, 'I sailed toward the setting sun. On an island there, I saw silver greyhounds that hunted golden boars to their death. On another we were feted with the fragrance of magic apples. On yet another I saw walls of fire. On the most remote of all, there was a vaulted river that hung from the sky, and in its waters swam fish and sailing ships. Those were marvels, but they do not compare with your poem, which somehow contains them all. What sorcery has given you this?'
'At dawn,' said this poet, 'I awoke speaking words that at first I did not understand. Those words are the poem. I felt that I had committed some sin, perhaps that sin which the Holy Spirit cannot pardon.'
'The sin the two of us now share,' mused the king. 'The sin of having known Beauty, which is a gift forbidden mankind.'" (Borges, "The Mirror and the Mask" in The Book of Sand)
'In the years of my youth,' said the king, 'I sailed toward the setting sun. On an island there, I saw silver greyhounds that hunted golden boars to their death. On another we were feted with the fragrance of magic apples. On yet another I saw walls of fire. On the most remote of all, there was a vaulted river that hung from the sky, and in its waters swam fish and sailing ships. Those were marvels, but they do not compare with your poem, which somehow contains them all. What sorcery has given you this?'
'At dawn,' said this poet, 'I awoke speaking words that at first I did not understand. Those words are the poem. I felt that I had committed some sin, perhaps that sin which the Holy Spirit cannot pardon.'
'The sin the two of us now share,' mused the king. 'The sin of having known Beauty, which is a gift forbidden mankind.'" (Borges, "The Mirror and the Mask" in The Book of Sand)