Herdis Maria Siegert | The Wave (Lofoten, Norway, 1999)

(via proustitute)

http://www.alligatorzine.be/pages/101/zine113.html

In the poem “Ode or Nearly There” from h.j.r. a line wrote itself: [To] “caravan / atoms into lines of flight.” The oddness of that line was brought home — wherever that may be, if ever caravans do get there, which is neither here nor there — when my French translator queried it. Though French certainly isn’t home either, as no language is, despite our desire to make it so. Language, even after the long trek through the dictionaries, remains the stranger, the other, we want to engage — and which always and irremediably so remains the outside.

Our outside we are building a future home in which we will never inhabit. We can only inhabit that which will disappear with us, that which does not survive us, i.e. ourselves. We are our home, this infinitesimal second — die Sekunde, diese Kunde (Werner Hamacher thus reads a line from Celan) — of presence to ourselves we imagine in retrospect to have been us present to ourselves when we / it is already too late, gone, a cadaver as we move into a here that, even before we can dot the I of our quasi-presence, has become a there.

Pierre Joris | from “St/range: An Uncertain Range” (1999), A Nomad Poetics: Essays, 2003

(via ahuntersheart)

(Source: books.google.com)

Val Britton | Celestial Viewing, 2010

Angelina Gualdoni | Transference in Aurora, Illinois

PJ Harvey | Goodnight (live April 15, 1995)

Erich Hobbing | Book Cover for Don DeLillo’s Point Omega

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

John Masefield | Sea Fever

Carry me away into a Portuguese boat of once,
Into an old and gentle Portuguese boat of once,
Into the stem of the boat, or if you wish, into the foam,
And lose me, in the distance, in the distance.

Into the yoking of another time.
Into the deceiving velvet of snow.
Into the breath of some dogs brought together again.
Into the weary gathering of dead leaves.

Carry me, without breaking me, into kisses,
Into breasts that raise themselves and breathe,
On palms covering them and their smile,
Into the corridors of long bones, and of articulations.

Carry me away, or rather dig me deep.

Henri Michaux | Carry Me Away

(via misstugui)