draining

draining

Source: Waring, George E. Draining for Profit, and Draining for Health. New York, NY, 1867. 

draining
a condition, more or less clear,
always unmistakable

sometimes standing
dark wet streaks
when dry sometimes
a fluttering distress
curling, cracking, feeble
spindling, shivering

winter stretched its crown
the quarantinerank growth
dank miasmatic fogs

recognize these indications
of the drainer
remove the causes

thomas bernhard poem

Beyond this black forest
I stoke this fire of my soul
flickering with the breathing of the cities
and the blackbirds of fear.
With bare hands I kill these flames
that climb the air into my brain
and shiver in my name.
My heart drifts as a cloud
over the rooftops
along the rivers,
until I return, a later rain
deep in the fall.

—Thomas Bernhard, In Hora Mortis / Under the Iron of the Moon (p. 103)

[My review of this book]

georg trakl

On The Marshy Pastures

A man who walks in the black wind; the dry reeds
            rustle quietly
Through the silence of the marshy pastures. In
            the grey skies
A migration of wild birds move in ranks
Catty-corner over dark waters.

Insurgence. In the collapsing houses
Decay is fluttering out with black wings;
Crippled-up birches breathe heavily in the wind.

Evening in empty roadhouses. The longing for home
            settles about
The delicate despair of the grazing flocks,
Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.

—Georg Trakl, Twenty Poems of Georg Trakl

erasure published

Hi.

My erasure text, part of a larger work-in-progress called Book of Thoughts, was published the other day at Ink Sweat & Tears, a U.K.-based poetry and prose webzine, whose “tastes are eclectic and magpie-like.” I like that.

Goodbye!

every morning

[click image to read]

© 2012 S. D. Stewart Erased from Chapter XIII of Nerves and Common Sense (1925) by Annie Payson Call

possibility of foam

If buried all but traceless in the dark in its energy sitting, drifting within your own is another body—Anne Carson, “Seated Figure With Red Angle (1988) by Betty Goodwin”

There is something about living in a city, and it has to do with the surroundings being artificial, constructed by humans. Here we sever ourselves from real nature. Here what nature there is persists under duressit may even seem to be a thriving minority, but it will always be the minority. The muted signs of seasonal change vagulate. The constant reminders of the hubris of so-called civilized people swarm in smothering tones. Callousness blankets us. The automobile serves as master and slave. I am concerned.

There is another body inside of my body.¹ And it is drifting. And it is all but traceless in the dark. Whose body is it. Is it mine. Or does it belong to someone quite different.

It is an unfortunate thing to recognize that you are not one who is meant to live in such close proximity to other humans. And yet here you are, aren’t you.

John Stabb from Government Issue sang:

In that comfortable rut again
Goals for the talking man
Outside lies a presence
But a lonely spirit’s walking rut

And he can’t get out
Man in a trap

Deeper things getting direct
Empty social life’s a wreck
Weather and insects tonight
Happiness in black and white

And he can’t get out

Sometimes we come to embody the lyrics we listen to in our youth. This is neither here nor there. It is life. I think we’re all a little bit surprised when we get there. Or here.

Let’s find more creative ways to fail. And write about those ways in more creative ways.

Anne Sexton wrote:

The silence is death.
It comes each day with its shock
to sit on my shoulder, a white bird,
and peck at the black eyes
and the vibrating red muscle
of my mouth.

Anne reminds us that silence can be as menacing and intrusive as noise. A reminder that we are all out here flailing about. And some of us don’t make it. Like Anne herself. Some of us sink beneath the surface, our lungs filled with shards of the little brittle things in life. The ones that drifted beyond our reach, slow or quick, only to be breathed back in with fatal heaving breaths.

Recently I spent a fair amount of time writing up a review of a show I went to the other night but I lost interest. It suddenly seemed unimportant. Literally as I was writing it, I felt the words spelling out into nothingness. The only point of interest remaining when I finished was a question: What do we want from our rock stars? And do we even want them to be stars? I don’t go to see live music much anymore and rock music even less so. But this question startled itself into my mind and would not leave. Music once loved can be tainted. And how a band presents itself to its audience can either win me over or leave me cold. These are the lessons I learned. Outside the womb can be harsh.

There is foam² spilling out here. As winter prepares to wrap us in its icy sharp arms, I am awash with foam. And it may never dry.

___________________________________________________

1. See also: this post

2. For more on foam, see Anne Carson’s essay “FOAM (Essay with Rhapsody): On the Sublime in Longinus and Antonioni,” originally published in Conjunctions 37 and reprinted in the book Decreation (2006).

wonderland

[click image to read]

Who will remember
life beyond old age

We saw darkly— being
opposite reflections of ourselves

We knew an unnatural world
negative – passive – useless

Yet consider the possibility
of unreal life

Let us happen
in our own isolated
captivity

Some of us passed
into this fantastic
wonderland

human dust

[click image to enlarge]

© 2012 S. D. Stewart

Erased from Ch. XXVIII of Nerves and Common Sense (1925) by Annie Payson Call

Audio of reading:

the quiet, the quiet

© 2012 S. D. Stewart

Erased from Ch. VII of Nerves and Common Sense (1925) by Annie Payson Call

Some live in chronic time.
They do not find it,
they do not find it and they get ill.

It is really much the same,
keep a little stimulant
keep a bad habit.
We feel unnatural if we feel natural.
We are in it—but it is poison.

If a habit of
rocking or chattering
may feel unnatural and weird,
we wrench out these things
and yet the poisoning goes on.

When we are in a pretty bad way,
the worst know it.

I once lived in excitement,
dressed in excitement,
went to breakfast in excitement,
went about everyday excited.
Every event—little or big—was excitement.
Excitement over nothing.

We went deep in the woods and the mountains,
full of great powerful quiet.
When first there, excited about arrival,
excited about it,
but the night jumped in with torture.

I suddenly started up the trouble.
‘Oh, oh, the quiet! It is so quiet!’
Brain in whirl of excitement
felt pain when excitement touched it.

r___ed f__ling

© 2012 S. D. Stewart

Erased from Ch. III of Nerves and Common Sense (1925) by Annie Payson Call

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