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Edwin Morgan, Opening the cage. 14 variations on 14 words — «i have nothing to say and i am saying it and that is poetry», 1966.

(arrangement of John Cage’s words)

source: from Concrete Poetry Britain Canada United States, a Tate Images collection. <https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/morgan-opening-the-cage-14-variations-on-14-words-i-have-nothing-to-say-and-i-am-saying-it-p80714>

transcribed:

i have to say poetry and is that nothing and am i saying it i am and i have poetry to say and is that nothing saying it i am nothing and i have poetry to say and that is saying it i that am saying poetry have nothing and it is i and to say and i say that i am to have poetry and saying it is nothing i am poetry and nothing and saying it is to say that i have to have nothing is poetry and i am saying that and i say it poetry is saying i have nothing and i am to say that and it saying nothing i am poetry and i have to say that and it is it is and i am and i have poetry saying say that to nothing it is saying poetry to nothing and i say i have and am that poetry is saying i have it and i am nothing and to say that and that nothing is poetry i am saying and i have to say it saying poetry is nothing and to that i say i am and have it

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gif images from Anna Christie, dir. Clarence Brown, 1930

yes, of course, a Garbo appreciation post.

Greta Garbo in Anna Christie (1930) directed by Clarence Brown

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Edvard Munch, The Bite, 1914 license: Public Domain

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Odilon Redon, Si par une nuit lourde et sombre license: Public Domain

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Katsushika Taito II, Sparrows ans wisteria,

ca. 1810–1853 license: Public Domain from the digitalised Warsaw National Museum collection

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Joanna Mueller

Człowiek — człowiek

bo w gruncie słowa na rzeczy mamy to samo bez znaczenia które z narzeczy porodzi poroni ten dialog mowa? tylko pozornie zależne (od niej) są nasze ciała a przecież 

mijamy się 

tam gdzie miały się spleść mój brak twoje dopełnienie 

ranki nie zabliźnione: 

są którzy wiedzą niewiele (są mocniej) są którzy nikną w cytatach (mowa mamroce pomrocznie) są także ci od przypisów (ratio vivens? ratio scripta?)

ugodzeni przygodnie odmienieni czasu przypadkiem (dwie styczne idiolektyczne) odnajdujemy siebie 

(tak wtedy jestem cała tak wtedy jestem cały tak wtedy jestem) 

nota licencyjna:

Ten utwór jest jest udostępniony na Licencji Wolnej Sztuki 1.3.

Zasób opracowany na podstawie: Joanna Mueller, Somnambóle fantomowe, Wydawnictwo Zielona Sowa, Kraków 2003.

Publikacja zrealizowana w ramach projektu Wolne Lektury (http://wolnelektury.pl). Reprodukcja cyfrowa wykonana przez fundację Nowoczesna Polska z egzemplarza pochodzącego ze zbiorów autora. Dofinansowano ze środków Ministra Kultury i Dziedzictwa Narodowego.

Opracowanie redakcyjne i przypisy: Paulina Choromańska, Aleksandra Kopeć, Paweł Kozioł, Jan Szejko.

Wydawca: Fundacja Nowoczesna Polska

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[sorry, there seems to be no translation to any language, anyways, if one wishes to get to know Poland, then yes]

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author: Irma Haselberger untitled, 2011 copyright holder: Irma Haselberger license: all rights reserved

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(Nathalie Lawhead, you and your team made a masterpiece. I'm too little eloquent to express my awe now in here.)

i love you so but sometimes wish to evaporate link content TW: anxiety, blood-ish graphics, bones, depression, death, suicidal thoughts, sexual abuse, sexual themes, trauma link CW: flashing images and colours, spiders, bones, skeletons

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dear god, when i'll never get to heaven

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Katharine Dudley (1922) by Alfred Stieglitz. Original from The Art Institute of Chicago. [Digitally enhanced by rawpixel].

license: Public Domain

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why am i up to cry and feel the almost overwhelming beauty of the ephemerity, volatility and frailness of the moment being in such places?

i sometimes have a dream where i wander through seemingly ugly, defective, distortional cityscapes. through old, soviet estates of eastern europe, them with their gray walls, shimmering windows with faint lights dancing inside, each in a different colour. estate squares with tall, half-burnt half-dry, brittle grass, paths of grainy, coarse, partly decayed concrete slabs.

there are them people somewhere living in these monumental buildings, their life signalised by well-cared flowery balconies, courtains and draperies inside the windows, the smell of cigarette smoke and sometimes laughter, coming from somewhere. and the swifts making cries from time to time, while flying in circles up above.

it's late evening, duskening, most people at homes. i wander there and feel i'll never know them and those i encounter will be forgotten. they live their lives, being pretty ordinary, leaving no tray but the memories of them their families and close ones bear. but then, give it two generations, there will be nothing. now is, sort of, everything. hard to accept. everything can be overdue. people too will expire.

yet, how funny, it holds some beauty inside, this silly little thing it is, which makes all these non-eulogy-worth snatches of everydayness this touching to the very bottom, to the very marrow. they'll be thrown, rejected, be it into the waste or the void or time forever and not to be recovered. they're not worth an eulogy. they don't need eulogy. we don't need any more eulogies. there is this, don't think, feel, be it subversive, i understand.

yes we don't need eulogies, now there's place for music, free verse, affective turn II and post-all-since-literateness. maybe there's no god and come in, bergsonism, come in, deconstruction. and not everything will be remembered or known and not everything will last.

[thank you motherland for Miron Białoszewski, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, Bolesław Leśmian, Krystyna Miłobędzka, Tadeusz Różewicz, Bruno Schulz, Wisława Szymborska (yes) and Krystyna Miłobędzka]

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Claude Monet (1840-1926, French) ~ Saules au bord de l’Yerres, 1876

[Source: LotSearch]

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