rose-water

i've been trying to wrap my head around whats been going on, the growth, the ebb(ing) and flow(ing), the beauty and convulsiveness, the pain the joy the love the warmth, all of it. i want to relate in all truthful ways. in all honesty and rawness and with all undersides exposed to the light. the light, your eyes, your mind, your heart. i want to come to you as myself. mySelf, only. not myself in relation to you. not myself as influenced or scarred by recent wounds in our dynamic. i want you to know me as me; me with the holes- the punctures the sensitivities the inarticula-cies the inadequacies the strength the will the deep love and care that i am capable of coming to you with.

i don't want my responses to be influenced by the fragile voices that argue inside metal tunnels that have no beginning or end, no opening in sight, and our mere confusion about how we got there. i want to show you the blood that circulates around, draw you a map of its path, a diagram indicating probabilities of sensibilities- escapist routes- safe bases- hazardous zones- homeward sources. i want to Prove, with my arms baring every and any angst of bitter strength. baring line and pulse, tension, vibration. nerves, muscles, tendons, ligaments. pulling, urging, begging, wanting. i want you to know i am trying my best. i want you to know i am willing to be real. i want you to know i desire you in my life. to this degree. to that degree. to large and vast and immense degrees. i desire. i desire. i desire you. i desire you.


and with this exists pain. fear exists. i want to prove love, desire and will, by coming to you as a pure and wide open creature. i want and wish i could come baring my clean skin, untainted by an accumulation of having lived, of the weight that (That) brings. i will come to you with all i can possibly give and show and admit and promise. at this point. in my life with you. and in that, i will be honest and tell you that i am not perfect. i cannot even swoop down and lift you up higher than all this. all i can do is offer you my hand and possibly dream of doing some swooping and dipping at a later point after having walked and run and gently stepped around each other's lives together, hand in hand, coming to each other- deeply into each other's eyes- as what we can come to each other with.

i am not perfect. i am also very inadequately suited, and very suited and able to love and be loved. i am guilty and i am embarrassed, and yet in all of it i have been myself.

i do wish i could channel the hopeless-romantic character in my psyche- tell them to channel that accent and give you what you want to hear, promise you blood, roses, saliva, pellets of opiates lightly dissolved in sugar water... and although there are clues and clear truth in our alter egos, i still need to stand on this bone-dry ground and promise you with the blankest stare that there is actually warmth in my dark eyes, and that i am human ..afterall..
...
i want to be accepted for myself. i want to be understood and adored, as an imperfect creature, as one that gives what they can give and is solid and confident in the appearance and existence of their heart.

i want Not to create a ground for insecurity. i want Not to have my imperfection be mistaken as weakness.
i want to be understood as living and breathing and still, so still, trusting and loving as i know i am.

with you

your eyebrows are so distinctive. i can take myself up on them. can we take us to the top window. where birds only know the way the sky tilts from such an angle. where we can take ourselves to another mind, make it all sensefully ours, let oursleves breathe, take it up and let it go... i want to go... with you...


Liz Fraser from Cocteau Twins reads an English Translation of Paul Valery's "Le Cimetière Marin" (The Graveyard by the Sea). Background music is Lazy Calm.

from a different translation:

Paul Valery

Translated, from the French, by Charles Guenther

The Cemetery by the Sea

My soul, don't look for vague immortal things,
Exploit instead what your experience brings.

--Pindar, Pythian Odes III

This roof where dovelike sails go and come
peacefully trembles near each pine and tomb;
high noon appeases with a brilliant flame
the sea, the sea, the sea renewed forever;
what a prize here for the intellect's endeavor
as gazing on a peace the gods proclaim!

What clean fine craft of radiance is spent
on diamond drops of foam in their ascent,
and with what harmony is all imbued!
When over the gulf the sunlight climbs to pause,
O pure results of an eternal cause,
time glitters and in dream lies certitude.

Minerva's simple temple, stable treasure,
calm visible resources without measure,
proud ocean, single eye where untold piles
of sleep lie sealed beneath a flaming stole,
O silence, edifice within the soul
vaulted with gold in countless sparkling tiles!

Temple of time restored by just a breath,
I climb here, gazing round, above, beneath,
wholly encompassed by the ocean's scene;
and there I send the gods supreme oblation,
scattered beyond in jeweled scintillation
over the depths, disdainful and serene.

Just as a fruit that vanishes in joy,
changing its absence in delights that cloy
the thirsty mouth, and formless evermore,
here I have breathed the essence I'll inherit
and heaven sings out to the consuming spirit
the shifting features of this altered shore.

Bright heaven, true heaven, look at this changing me:
after such pride and singular lethargy,
a lethargy that's powerful all the same,
I fling myself into these luminous spaces,
over the homes of the dead my shadow races,
under its fragile motion I grow tame.

My soul laid open to the zenith's torch,
I hold you, unrelenting rays that scorch,
justice of noon with pitiless arms displayed;
I render you to your original lightness:
look at yourself! . . . Yet the return of brightness
implies that there's an equal part of shade.

O for me, to me and within this me,
close to the heart, the source of poetry,
between the void and the absolute event,
I await my inner greatness' echoing knell
out of this bitter, dark, sonorous well,
sounding a hollow future sentiment.

Do you, illusory captive of the wood,
corrosive gulf these gaunt rails have withstood,
know all the secrets my closed eyes survey?
What body lures me to its idle state,

what brow invites to share that bony fate?
There my soul thinks of those who've passed away.

Holy and closed and filled with matterless fires,
this earthly place given to the light inspires,
this fragment where the lofty cypress looms,
which gold and stone and somber trees compose,
where shadows fall by trembling marble rows;
the faithful ocean sleeps there by my tombs.

Chase off the idolater, magnificent hound!
When, a lonely herdsman on the pasture ground,
I graze at length those calm, mysterious sheep--
my great white flock of scattered stones--remove,
destroy and shatter there the prudent dove,
the curious angels and vain dreams we keep.

The future here is only idleness;
the fine insect scratches the rottenness:
all things are burned, are wasted, lost in air,
into a harsh mysterious essence cast . . .
Intoxicate with absence, life is vast
and bitterness is sweet, the spirit fair.

The dead are sealed below this ground to rest,
which heats them, dries the mystery in their breast.
Motionless noon above in contemplation
reflects alone in proper harmony . . .
Head fully rounded, crowning perfectly,
in you I am the secret transformation.

For you have only me who will contain
your fears; all things I doubt, regret, restrain
at once comprise your massive diamond's flaw;
yet in their marble-heavy mysteries
a vague race nourishing the roots of trees
already has dissolved into your law.

Into intricate absence they've dissolved,
a whole white race in this red soil resolved,
their life in blossoms yielded by the dead.
Where, of the dead, are the familiar phrase,
the personal art, the individual ways?
The worms are crawling now where tears were shed.

Teased and excited girls with piercing cries,
the teeth, the tearful eyelids and the eyes,
the charming breast that tempts and plays with fire;
the blood-red glistening in the lips that yield,
ultimate pleasures, outstretched hands that shield--
all join the game below and soon expire.

Do you, O noble soul, wait for a dream
without that gold and blue delusive gleam
which sun and sea create in mortal eyes?
And will you sing when you have gone to dust?
All vanishes! My presence holds no trust,
being porous; even my pious longing dies.

Frail black and gilded immortality,
O consolation crowned atrociously,
believing death maternal in their guile--
the sacred artifice and lovely lie.

Who does not know them, who does not deny
that empty skull and that eternal smile?

Deep-vaulted fathers, you with vacant mind,
who under the weight of many clods consigned
become the dust and mingle with our feet,
in you who sleep there gnaws no more the tooth
of that voracious worm, consuming truth;
it feeds on me, on those whose hearts still beat!

Is it in me perhaps self love or hate?
Its gnawing is so deep and intricate
that it's appropriate under any name.
What matters? It can see, want, dream and touch,
glory in the flesh even as I lie, so much
that being and my own life are both the same.

Zeno of Elea, cruel Zeno, did
your winged arrow pierce me as it slid
tremblingly off the bow but would not glide!
The sound gives birth to me, the arrow slays;
O sun! . . . Soulward what tortoise shadow plays,
Achilles standing still with a giant stride!

No, no, arise, into the following age!
Break, body, break this form that would be sage,
drink, breast, the newborn breezes that arrive;
a freshness that's exhaled from the sea
restores my soul . . . O briny potency!
Rush to the surf, leap into it alive!

Great sea that in a gifted frenzy rolls,
a speckled leopard, mantle filled with holes
where countless idols of the sun have shone,
blue-bodied serpent loosed to flash and flail,
consuming endlessly its sparkling tail,
continuous as pure silence in its tone.

The wind stirs: live, leave all but life behind!
My book is torn by that tremendous wind,
the splaying wave dares leap the rock at last;
vanish, bright pages, into the shining skies,
break, waves, break, joyous fountains that uprise
from this calm roof where sails came striding past!

From the French text in Poesies, Paris: Librairie Gallimard, 1942

A Note on Paul Valery and "The Cemetery by the Sea"

"Le Cimetiere Marin" was first published in La Nouvelle Revue Francaise on June 1, 1920, and was later included in Valery's volume Charmes (1922). The setting of the poem is the graveyard at Sete (Cette), France, the Mediterranean port where Valery was born on October 30, 1871, the son of a French father and an Italian mother. In 1884 his family moved to Montpellier, where he attended high school and later studied law at the university. There he wrote his first poems, influenced by Poe, Baudelaire, and others, and met Pierre Louys and Andre Gide.

While visiting Paris in 1891 he was introduced to Mallarme; he soon joined and was encouraged by the circle of poets who met on Tuesdays in Mallarme's flat. Although his early poems were well received, he soon abandoned poetry. After a brief stay in London he returned to Paris, where, in 1895, he published L'Introduction a la methode de Leonard de Vinci and, the next year, La Soiree avec Monsieur Teste, two prose works that won him early recognition.

For the next twenty years he abandoned writing, but studied science, mathematics, and poetic methods. He did not publish a book of verse until 1917, a long poem, "La Jeune Parque" (The Young Fate), which won immediate acclaim. This was followed in 1920 by a collection of odes, early poems, and "Le Cimetiere Marin." In 1921 "Le Serpent" appeared, and his poetic activity practically ended in 1922 with the appearance of Charmes.

In the last twenty years of his life Valery wrote and published many critical essays, including Poesie et pensee abstraite (Poetry and Abstract Thought), a 1939 lecture first translated and published in The Kenyon Review (Spring 1954). In his final work, Mon Faust (1940), Valery expresses a theme common to his poetry and prose, the conflict between art and philosophy, that is, between achievement and meditation.

As a poet, Valery took "a detour through symbolism," only to return to classical doctrine, and in fact established a neoclassicism in modern French letters. His poems, marmoreal in structure, resemble geometric solutions; involved yet clear, precisely and purely executed. "Le Cimetiere Marin" is ranked among his greatest poems and one of the most celebrated poems of the twentieth century.

After a life heaped with honors, including election to the Academie Francaise, Paul Valery died in Paris on July 20, 1945. He was given a state funeral and was buried in the graveyard at Sete, of which he once wrote: "This cemetery exists. It overlooks the sea on which we see the 'doves,' that is, the fishing boats drifting and pecking."

What if the Tower of Babel worked?

rely on words

lay on them trust they will hold our weight
what if the hand is too weak
the arm gives out
the muscle tires the lines fall to the ground,
and then they are form. less.
no beginning, end, nothing to distinguish them from point A point B and all of the pain that pulled and pushed in between...

i've given i've given
i've felt i've felt
i've asked i've asked
i've loved i've cried
i've worried i've waited
i've never ever imagined you cared
you showed no emotion
i could have ripped my heart out and given it to you, and you would have stared at me blankly- angrily- and thrown it back.

i am catching up with my feelings. my past wants, current, and future desires.
my memory of where i truly was in this. my knowledge of where i truly am in this.
i am trying to trust again just as you are also.
i am shocked that you care, but i feel it and its melting me to that similar formlessness but i need to pick up my bones and make myself bigger, i need to put my brain neatly back into my skull, i need to pick my heart back up and wash off the dry blood- shove it back into my chest where it belongs... and then ..............