Stories and poems

"The metaphoric image of 'orphan lines' is a contrivance of the detached onlooker to whom the verbal art of continuous correspondences remains aesthetically alien. Orphan lines in poetry of pervasive parallels are a contradiction in terms, since whatever the status of a line, all its structure and functions are indissolubly interlaced with the near and distant verbal environment, and the task of linguistic analysis is to disclose the levels of this coaction. When seen from the inside of the parallelistic system, the supposed orphanhood, like any other componential status, turns into a network of multifarious compelling affinities.'
Roman JAKOBSON, "Grammatical Parallelism and its Russian Facet", Language, 42/2, 1966, pp. 399-429, p. 428-429

Thursday, August 18, 2011


This morning there was a grasshopper on my curtain. I was flattered he mistook my apartment for the out of doors; maybe it was all the plants or the rabbits. I tried to put him outside, but he jumped very high up, and seemed to fall behind the dresser. I couldn't find him, but I left the window open so he could find his way out again.

Summer is a time for bugs. Perhaps because I am alone a lot, I enjoy speaking to them in my mind. I think of Dahl's James and the Giant Peach, and wonder what it would be like to have a conversation with one. Here is a poem I wrote for a moth: 


Wasps, ticks, spiders,
bees, houseflies,
gather round,
now is your time.

Settle in,
make it brown
or black
with the sounds of your wings.

You are drawn to my heart,
my breath like light
but soon again, move off,
say a prayer for me.

Leave me silent,
moths in the night,
sit tight on white

Fly off now,
sticky residue
of black burnt
feet, stubble, wing.

Sleep now,

Reflections on insects hide my desire for focus and motivation. I like to think the grasshopper will bring me luck and help me finish the chapter I am working on, but only I can summon that. I don't always like what I read. Can I make true statements? True for myself, or being true to myself, that is what writing is. When I leave myself, it is sleep, or daydreaming, the lives of all the infinitely small beings around me. Perhaps I could draw them: all that infinity makes spacious unity. 

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