Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Art Toronto 2010

Art Toronto 2010, the 11th International Art Fair, was held at the Metro Convention Centre in Toronto between October 29th and November 1st 2010. 


Here are some moments from Art Toronto 2010 ->Art & Poetry: Art Toronto 2010

Sunday, December 12, 2010

What to give Jupiter

"Give the most beautiful music on earth to Jupiter, the master of the universe"...

...an injunction from the film "The King Dances"  ("Le roi danse") (2000) directed by Gérard Corbiau, a film whose cast includes Benoît Magimel, Boris Terral and Tchéky Karyo.

The subject of the film is the relationship between Louis XIV, the king of France and the composer Jean Baptiste Lully.

I've stumbled upon some scenes from the movie on youtube and I thought its images and music are simply breathtaking.

Here is why:

...and another incarnation of Jupiter in this video-poem by Diana Syder, included after reading Conrad's comment, whom I would like to thank for its discovery.

Friday, December 10, 2010


'Birbal', Akbar mused, 'how many crows do you imagine there are in my kingdom?'
'Jahanpanah,' Birbal replied, 'there are exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.'
Akbar was puzzled. 'Suppose we have them counted,' he said, 'and there are more than that, what then?'
'That would mean,' Birbal replied, 'that their friends from the neighboring kingdom have come to visit them'.
'And if there are fewer?' 'Then some of ours will have gone abroad to see the wider world.'

(From The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie)

Wednesday, December 08, 2010


                     "Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable
Zero summer?"

from Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot

Monday, November 29, 2010

A poem by Nichita Stănescu in translation

"Stained Glass Window" is the English translation of the poem "Vitraliu" by Nichita Stănescu.

             Stained Glass Window

                                        by  Nichita Stanescu (1933-1983)

Your shadow, bumping into walls
breaks into colored shards again.
Oh, and this is why you’ve seen me in the street
picking up its squared stones.

To sew it back together inside the midnight hour
I’ll fold them gently over your window -
green, blue, yellow and red -
mounted on the helmet of  lead lines.

When you’ll awake, harlequins of colored glass
glued to panes, will filter the sun through their see-through skins,
and let it slide,
half-filled with rays, into your arms. 


Le poème "Vitraliu" (Vitrail) par Nichita Stănescu – traduit en français. 


                                       par   Nichita Stanescu (1933-1983)

Ton ombre, s’écrasant contre les murs
se gare de nouveau dans des petits tessons.
Oh, c’est la raison pour laquelle tu m’as vu
dans la rue ramassant des cailloux taillés en carreaux.

Je vais la refaire, tard dans la nuit
sur tes fenêtres, en les posant avec soin
verts, bleus, jaunes et rouges
en heaume, entre les grilles de plomb.

Quand tu te réveilleras, des arlequins en vitre colorié,
cloués aux hublots, vont filtrer à travers eux-mêmes
le soleil qui tombera dans tes bras,
à moitié plié, entre deux rayons.  


Translated by Irina© 2010

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Six Reasons for Reading Poetry in Winter

1. A calligraphy of silence

Poetry is a form of art born out of stillness, a calligraphy of silence. Winter is a season of prolonged quietness & far-flung voids, a frozen expanse against which syllables take on a new resonance:

“And now that the moon who gives men glistening bodies
is in her exaltation, and can look down on the sun
I see descending from the ships at dawn
slim naked men from Cnossos, smiling their archaic smile
of those that without fail come back again”

from Middle of the World by D.H. Lawrence 

2. Melon hat, boa feathers and a rickety broom

Winter is a season of faint mystery – a mystery brought about by ice, hail and blizzards. Cold fosters eerie sensations. Stanzas are doors that open on empty rooms, whose inhabitants have long vacated the premises, leaving behind a melon hat, boa feathers and a rickety broom.

I awoke so far away
and strange,
wandering behind my face
as though I had hidden my feelings
in the senseless relief of the moon."

3. Moment’s forest 

If it’s true that spring is a season of exultation and budding love, then winter is the season of objectivity and clarity – a heart’s needle:

“I imagine this midnight moment’s forest.
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move”

4. Contrast

Contrast. Everything in winter is about contrast – every hue is a counterpoint to the snow’s  whiteness:

"What is this dark and silent caravan
that being nowhere, neither comes nor goes;
that being never, has no hour or span;
of which we can say only that it flows? "

5. A blue egg is laid

Winter is a season of dull hypocrisy: we are hardly at ease, hardly ever ourselves, quaint animals tucked away  inside a shell of gloves, scarves, boots and jackets.

"…Solitude! the blue egg laid by a great sea-bird, and the bays at morning all littered with gold lemons! – Yesterday it was! The bird had taken off!"

from Anabasis by Saint-John Perse 

6. The describable season
Winter is a describable season, whose tenets are easy to nail down. Autumn -  diffuse, sonorous and glittery -  makes for a complex slithering  into melancholy. Winter is the simple, straight-forward season par excellence:

"The sun is spent, and now his flasks
    Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
            The world's whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph."

Monday, November 22, 2010

The Everyday Mythistorema - A Marble Head

George Seferis’ Mythistorema is a cycle of twenty-four poems, whose title could be translated as “novel. “

The poems form an expedition inside a Helladic, archetypal universe on the outskirts of promontories, archipelagoes and arid landscapes haunted by mythical projections: heroes of happenings that might have taken place, somewhere, sometime, in our collective memory.

As is the case with great poetry there is no need to be familiar with the cultural context that lurks beneath the surface, in order to take in the enigmatic air of Seferis’ poetry. 
Its white, incantatory beauty reaches us directly:

         “I woke with this marble head in my hands:
         it exhausts my elbows and I don’t know where to put it
         It was falling into the dream and I was coming out of the
         so our life became one and it will be very difficult for it to
         separate again.”

The article “Love and the Symbolic Journey in Seferis’ Mythistorema” by C. Capri-Karka
makes for a every enjoyable annotation to the cycle of poems whose full version can be found here.

The translated "Complete Poems" which includes Mythistorema  is a book of afterglows:

“There, you see, at last I love these mountains with this light
their skin wrinkled like an elephant’s belly
when his eyes shrink with age”

(From "Fine Autumn Morning")

Friday, November 19, 2010

Auto-fiction & the Art of the Novel: Nicolas Fargues

 The French writer Nicolas Fargues, born in 1972, is the author of several  novels (Demain si vous le voulez bien, Le tour du propriétaire, Rade terminus, One Man Show, J’étais derrière toi, Beau rôle, Le roman de l’été). 

His novels continue to be in the limelight of literary rentrées, and to be popular with readers at home and abroad.


The novel "I Was Behind You" (J’étais derrière toi), published in English by Pushkin Press,  is a page turner. 

Awarded the Saint Valentin prize in  2007, the novel can be described as, its author suggests in an interview posted on Youtube, an exercise in auto- fiction



Beyond any literary cataloguing however, this is a prose into which a reader
ventures forth with confidence, within a myriad of thoughts and gestures, narrated with gusto and masked sincerity.

The novel is an X-ray of the dissolution of a couple adrift, whose raw turbulence we witness first hand.

The tone of the novel is that of an incessant confession – a mimed dialogue between writer and reader:

“ In a way, this has also been, more or less,  my issue with women, my issue with the others, in general: to make recurrent amends in order to hide my lack of feelings.”
(page 127 from the French paperback).

“After by behavior with Alexandrine - the little adulterous husband – even if I take great care to not promise her anything, I sometimes feel as if I’m a cartoon character, a depressive fellow, the married lover who cannot make up his mind.”
(page 162, ibidem).

The dynamics of the couple, interesting and unpredictable in its predictable evolution reminded me of the novel "The Leash" (La laisse) by Françoise Sagan: the same vaporous escaping of a somewhat tormented male from a conjugal mechanism sans issue.  

In "The Leash" the couple’s disarray is depicted in a much more light-hearted manner than in "I Was Behind You", but both novels display a somewhat similar abhorrence of profound feelings – an  common literary reflex if you will:  irony and lucidity stifle any potential propensity for drama.

"I Was Behind You", I am convinced, will continue to summon numerous readers around it, who will  continue to discuss Nicolas Fargues’ writing with enthusiasm.


Wednesday, November 17, 2010


"Chantre" (Cantor) is a one-line poem by Guillaume Apollinaire.

The poem is part of the volume Alcohols; it makes for an interesting poetic counterpoint inside the expanse of a page.

 "Chantre" (Cantor) is also one of the shortest poems in French.

Here is its translation:


And the singular string of marine trumpets


Et l'unique cordeau des trompettes marines  

Monday, November 15, 2010

An Article on Luca's Monumental Painting in "Niagara This Week"

Another article on "Reverberations", the monumental painting created by Bogdan Luca - a painting that is now installed at Brock University, Ontario, Canada.

The article, signed by  Rebecca Mattina, has appeared in "Niagara This Week" on November 15th:

We have followed along in the creation of "Reverberations" on this -->blog.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

"Reverberations" by Bogdan Luca- Inaugurated at Brock University, Ontario, Canada

Bodgan Luca's monumental painting - "Reverberations" - whose genesis we have followed here - was inaugurated at Brock University. 

An article and an interesting video clip about this event have appeared in  The St. Catherines Standard: 

                         "Reverberations" by Bogdan Luca - a detail

More on the creation of this work of art here: http://pictopoems.blogspot.com.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

"Thirty Years in the Rain”, Sparrow Moon and on Why Taygetos Is Not a Mountain

“Thirty Years in the Rain” is the title of a poem by Nikiforos Vrettakos and the title of a poetry volume – a selection of Vrettakos’ poems published by Sommerset Hall Press (Boston, MA) in the translation of Robert Zaller and Lili Bitta. Several pages from this book are available at  google books.

The dimensions of Nikiforos Vrettakos’ poetry are those of a poetic cosmogony: an inventory of the universe, of the divine presence and of chimerical states of mind:

"Poised like an eagle,
I stand above the world
- one claw in the snow,
the other in the clouds –
immovable, white."
                - from An Eagle

The poetry of Vrettakos is steeped in a grandiose and Romantic poetic discourse found at the crossroads of self & universe tempered by a realist vein, that brings, in an icy sheen, the metaphors back inside the ‘eye’s cold quarantine”:

"“I have nothing to give you” you said. “ Nothing.
My hands are empty as a sieve.”
You could hardly bear the weight. You could  hardly
plant your step.
            Your hands,
laden with stones
quarried from the sun."
                - from  II The Perforated Hands
An intriguing theme that pervades Vrettakos’ poetry is blossoming; its poetic extension yields a plethora of associations.
Blossoming is a difficult poetic theme in my opinion. Here is how Vrettakos deals with it:

"The apple tree sows its blossoms
in the wind: you fetch
rainwater in your apron
light from the wheatstalks

a moon of sparrows."
                   - from Without You

And the conclusion of this post? “Taygetos isn't a mountain.

Taygetos, the mountain in Sparta, in whose proximity Vrettakos was born, is celebrated in his poems:

“                First off
Taygetos wasn’t a mountain.
            It was the first poem
I read as I opened my eyes,
my first friend, haloed with light.”
              - from Evening Confessions.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

"Delphic Emphasis"

                         The sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi, Greece 

“Delphic emphasis” – two words borrowed from John Keat’s poem Endymion.

I have taken these words out of their poetic context in an attempt to summarize what can be construed as the puzzling nature of the poetic art. 

On one hand, poetry carries within it a sense of oracular enigma, the type of utterance that might have been made by Pythia in the depths of the sanctuary of Apollo (the god of poetry, among others) at Delphi.

Such utterances bring us closer to events situated beyond the realm of reality, suspended in the rarefied atmosphere of a dream.

Just like a minor Pythia, someone who endeavors to write poetry attempts to convey a message of a far away and faceless god from the vague of the surrounding harmony.

The mechanics of the poetic art reside in the effort to sift through syllables, meaning and sensorial clues, in a haze of faint euphonies that can ultimately distill into a ‘narrative’:

"High on a windblown hedge. Ocarina earth.
Three listening posts up on a some hard-baked tier
Above the resonating atmosphere."

(From Squarings, by Seamus Heaney)

Aristotle once said that “from the point of view of poetry, the convincing impossible is preferable to the unconvincing possible” – where the word “convincing” takes us to the second attribute of poetry: emphasis.

After the protracted anxiety that goes with being on the prowl for the weird, disloyal and bizarre nucleus of a text - also known as ‘metaphor’ - the poetic art would have to assume the courage of emphasis.

Once persuaded of the “convincing impossible”, the reader/writer needs to hear the clearly articulated meaning of a poetic idea, a meaning which suddenly becomes for those who grasp it, the equivalent of a center of gravity.

A center of gravity, a potential center of the universe, as a reader that becomes captive to an idea may be oblivious to the external world, tightly wounding into a different dimension.

The uncertainty of Pythia’s message has turned into a clear statement, spoken on a distant scene, towards which our attention converges.

In ancient Greece, tradition situated the center of the world, known as ‘omphalos’ at Delphi.

Hence the thought that poetic emphasis can only be a “Delphic emphasis”.

                                                         Omphalos at Delphi.

Friday, October 08, 2010

A Translated Poem

Mr. Conrad DiDiodato, a poet from the Niagara Peninsula has done me the honor to translate one of my poems from French into English -->link

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

New Season at Théâtre Français de Toronto

A new season is about to start at Théâtre Français de Toronto. In its program - a delightful play: "The School for Women" by Molière.

The Théâtre Français de Toronto's website &amp and the introduction to the new season by Mr. Guy Mignault, its artistic director:

As well a pleasant reminder from the last season with Vincent Poirier :


Thursday, September 30, 2010

Rockhurst Review

 Rockhurst Review, " a fine arts journal" of literature and art is published through the English  Department at Rockhurst University in Kansas City, MO every spring.
In 2010 its twenty third edition was published - one of my poems is included in it.

The Genesis of A Work of Art: "Eye's Cold Quarantine"

Friday, September 17, 2010

The Genesis of a Work of Art...

..continues with a guest post from Weyman Chan, Governor General Literary Award Finalist -->link

Sunday, September 12, 2010

The Time and the Place: Niagara Peninsula

The ‘place’ of this monumental painting is the Niagara Peninsula, in Ontario, Canada.

In its early stages – a set of charcoal sketches –...continued here

Saturday, September 11, 2010

The Lad With The Knapsack

In the panel noted in the previous post, a few protagonists - soldiers marching on - are rendered with their  backs to the viewers, looking somewhere “ahead” & into the distance, whose contours we barely distinguish, but nevertheless intrigue us....

Thursday, September 09, 2010

The Blue Rider

Let’s step closer to a section of the painting (above).
This is perhaps the aftermath or the prelude of a battle, perhaps a march, with the British forces in red and the American ones in blue at the time of the War of 1812....continued here....link

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

"Artist's Studio" : Bogdan Luca and the Genesis of a Work of Art - An Invitation

I have started to write about the genesis of a work of art: a one of a kind, monumental painting currently in progress, created by Bogdan Luca, a Toronto area painter, who is working round the clock to complete this painting. 

It's also a one a kind artistic experience for the writer of this blog, and hence the invitation to follow along with me  and to share your thoughts on this work of art and on the creative process in general. 

Here is the -->link

 I look  forward to seeing you there!

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Where The Tollund Man Meets the Vitruvian Man

The Tollund Man by Seamus Heaney and Vitruvian Man by John Glenday are two memorable poems.

In The Tollund Man, by Seamus Heaney, a poetic commentary develops on the fate of a man whose mummified remains, dating from the Early Iron Age (400 BC), were found in a peat bog near Tollund, Denmark. 

The remains of the Tollund Man are housed today in Silkeborg Museum and a possible explanation of the Tollund Man’s death- ritual sacrifice? - is provided on this web site.
The circumstances of the death, and the findings associated with it are fascinating.

The poem The Tollund Man attempts to decipher the essence of the hanged man and of the possible events surrounding his death:

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
 A poetic forensic analysis, if you will, attuned to the dark movements of gods and goddesses lurking in the depths of the bog:

Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body

The depth of the bog, a realm of menacing but germinating forces, is possibly a proxy for a lyrical identity – one of peat moss, marshes and stubborn childhood memories steeped in enchantment and the vivid recollection of people and places.

The poem Vitruvian Man from the volume Grain by John Glenday, attempts to measure up “the circumference of the soul” using a Da Vinci compass (provided by the  famous drawing).

Thus, within the span of the poem we find a possible sizing of a poet’s ethos. 

A caveat, though. Leonardo’s commentaries included with the drawing are written in mirror writing

Such may be the case with the metaphors encasing John Glenday’s poetry – as words glide on shimmering coats of meaning towards a surprising and climactic finale.

Friday, August 20, 2010

On Mangurstadh, Poetic Geography & the Poetry of John Glenday

John Glenday (b.1952) is the author of the poetry book Grain (published in 2009 by Picador).  This book was short-listed for the 2010 Griffin poetry prize.

Grain is a book of serenity. 
The kind of serenity that is steeped in an acute sense of loss and a solemnity that appears to come to us from afar, from horizons rendered barren by flames and whose substance is now simply sheltered light and soot, blandly falling on syllables, in sepia tones.

The Glenday-ean poetic geography is taught on the map of the rhythm that pervades the verses – grave, balanced, caged within the boundaries of a lyrical disposition that wraps around each word like a Roman toga.

If I decipher these poems correctly, I believe that John Glenday’s poetry asks of us to let ourselves be swayed by its quietude and its meter:

This is my formula for the fall of things:
we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.
It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks

of corn and half blown sunflowers.

(The River)

Reading through the book I have taken in the briny air (or at least this is how I imagine it) of the shores of the Outer Hebrides, evoked by the title of the poem Mangurstadh.

Caught like a seashell in the palm of my hand was the perfume of old Norse words: Noust – the title of a poem in this volume which means “a place of shelter, either natural or man made, where a boat may be hauled out in bad weather”.

I would suggest that the subliminal effect of scattered Norse syllables is part of the state of apparent calm that inhabits the poetic space in Grain.

 A wonderful article on this book, by Stephen Ross, can be found here ->link

My favorite poem in the book is Vitruvian Man – (an allusion to Leonardo’s famous drawing). Here is a quote from the poem:

There was a time I tried picturing
the circumference of the soul
but the best I could manage

was a shimmery, milk-blue sun….
(Vitruvian Man)

But more on John Glenday’s “Vitruvian Man” and on another famous man from an area of poetic and geographic proximity in my next post. 

Sunday, July 18, 2010

OuLiPo, A Literary Trend And On Mice Who Invent Their Own Labyrinths

OuLiPo or oulipo (an acronym for ouvroir de littérature potentielle = workshop of potential literature) is a literary current, born in France in 1964.

OuLiPo continues to inspire new literary experiments, some of them of note, such as Eunoia (in 2002), which I mentioned in a previous post.
Started by the poet Raymond Queneau and the mathematician François Le Lyonais, OuLiPo has engendered literary creations that explore forms of art governed by self-imposed constraints. What are some of these constraints?

A long list of constraints can be found on the official web site of OuLiPo.
Here is one, called “Anaérobie”  (anaerobia) created by Luc Etienne.:

By setting the text in a condition of asphyxiation by removing all “R”’s  we obtain a new text which is called the anaerobia of the first. 

Molded by the corset of the oulipian constraints, several notable contemporary literary creations have sprung forth. 

George Perec published La Disparition in 1969, a 300 page lipogrammatic novel written without the letter “e”. This book was translated in English in 1995  by Gilbert Adair under the title A Void.

Other oulipian authors are Italo Calvino and Marcel Duchamp.

Oulipians like to define themselves, in a formula that is now part of the oulipian heraldry as “mice who invent their own labyrinths.”

Thursday, July 01, 2010

How to Fall In Love with a Vowel

The Canadian poet Christian Bök  (b. 1966) is the author of a singular book of poetry – Eunoia, a book  that was awarded the Griffin poetry prize in 2002.

The word eunoia, of Greek origin,  is the shortest word in English that includes all vowels and its meaning, as defined by Christian Bök is “beautiful thinking”.

The book Eunoia is divided into two parts.
The first part of the book, also called "Eunoia", is made up of five chapters, each one dedicated to a vowel: Chapter A, Chapter E, Chapter I, Chapter O, Chapter U.

Each of these chapters encapsulates poems  in prose, in a play of words made up with only one vocal,  excluding all other consonants, and the letter Y.

Eunoia opens with a dedication to the reader:

for the new
ennui in you

which harkens back, in subtle bilingual alliterations,  to themes from Baudelaire’s poetry.

The second part of the book, “Oiseau” takes its title from the shortest French word that contains all vowels.
In this section, I found a brilliant translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s poem Voyelles (Vowels) that belongs to the author.

The poetry in Eunoia hovers over a terrain of linguistic experiments and its poetics, openly displayed, but hard to imitate, resides in the  juggling of constraints in a jig-saw puzzle of improvised meaning  in its lipograms.

Here is a fragment from Chapter I:

“Minds grim with nihilism still find first light inspir-
ing. Mild pink in tint, its shining twilight brings bright
tidings which lift sinking spirits. With firm will, I finish
climbing, hiking till I find this inviting inn, in which
I might sit, dining. I thirst. I bid girls bring stiff drinks…”

The closing of section of the book sheds some light on the techniques used in architecture of  the book - some  “subsidiary rules”.
Here is a quote from these last pages:
“ All chapters must describe a culinary banquet, a prurient debauch, a pastoral tableau and a nautical voyage.”

And if someone were to ask me, at the end of this post -  with which of the vowels I  have fallen in love – it would be difficult to find an answer.
If however, I would be pressed for the answer – which fortunately enough no one is asking for – I would think that this vowel would be the vowel "o".

Another question would be: what vowel did you, the reader of this post, fall in love with recently – when and why?

Home - on Canada Day

Home, a poem by Al Purdy  is a poetic rendition of Canada. 

Here is a fragment:

"Ontario is trees 
the kind that meet from both
sides of of the road
and make a continual whisper"

and the poem's ending:

" and now I dream of islands
in a spring of wild roses
and write another poem
in this enchanted country"

Monday, June 07, 2010


"And how remote that bare and sunscrubbed room,
Intensely far, that padlocked cube of light
We neither define nor prove,
Where you, we dream, obtain no right of entry."

-  the ending of  the poem Dry-Point by Philip Larkin (1922-1985), quoted from this--> volume

Sunday, June 06, 2010

Sylvia Plath, Volcanic Ash and the Black Sun of Poetry

A new word in the vocabulary - the name of a volcano in Island that had turned upside down quite a few plans and even more fumes: Eyjafjallajökull.

I had been searching for poetic references to volcanic ash on google – and I couldn’t find anything worth noting.

Then the realization set in that the approach I had taken was pointless.

I should have formulated my expedition into ash with different parameters – what poetic universe is closer to eruption, annihilation, ash and darkness?

And Sylvia Plath’s poetry seemed a natural answer to this question.

Sylvia Plath, the brilliant student, who committed suicide at thirty and who continues to remain a lighthouse of poetic modernity.

The dance with death is one of the prevalent elements in Sylvia Plath’s poetry.

Death is a continuous presence, an antic choir which holds, in counterpoint, her poetic message, draped in black. 
But the dark shadows in her poems also have a dose of intimacy, as if death were a well-known character:

"I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet."
( Tulips)

Another salient feature in Sylvia Plath’s poetry  (in my view)
is the contrast of colors in obsessive associations: orange, bright carmine violently interlaced with black in an outburst that reminds us of volcanic lava. And after the onset of the eruption, we can begin to comb through the scoriae of words:

"The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on."
 (Winter Landscape with Roots)

Finally, a general note of hopelessness and the submersion into a void:

"The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things."
In this desolate universe, there is however one certainty: that the black sun of poetry will rise at dawn.

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