of sounds and something else

After the end of the world: Marcel Storr's imaginings for the post-apocalypse. 

salvadoranarthistory:

José Mejía Vides | 1903-1993 | Salvadoran
India de Panchimalco | 1935 | Oil 
I think it’s important to provide a little context about this piece and the other portraits and paintings that José Mejía Vides did. This portrait for example was produced by Vides a few years after the horrible   Massacre of 1932 in El Salvador that targeted indigenous/campesino people. It is an act of resistance at a time in Salvadoran history where the government was enacting a genocide against indigenous people in the country under president Maximiliano Hernández Martínez. Vides fought against the erasure that was systematically happening during the Martínez regime through his art works. They function as historical documents of campo/indigenous life during that time.-Óscar Diaz

salvadoranarthistory:

José Mejía Vides | 1903-1993 | Salvadoran

India de Panchimalco 1935 | Oil 

I think it’s important to provide a little context about this piece and the other portraits and paintings that José Mejía Vides did. This portrait for example was produced by Vides a few years after the horrible   Massacre of 1932 in El Salvador that targeted indigenous/campesino people. It is an act of resistance at a time in Salvadoran history where the government was enacting a genocide against indigenous people in the country under president Maximiliano Hernández Martínez. Vides fought against the erasure that was systematically happening during the Martínez regime through his art works. They function as historical documents of campo/indigenous life during that time.-Óscar Diaz

"Why do some forms of violence strengthen the psyche rather than disrupting it? Radical modernity requires something of me. It requires me to write aesthetically about violence. To write the larger scene. Every day I try to write the race drop for Ban, the moment that her knees hit the ground, but at night I simply dream this. I dream of exiting a London Underground stop at the interface a car would make with the M25. The commuters are processing around—what else?—a roundabout, their hands on imaginary steering wheels in V position, their wing-backed loafers shuffling on the Tarmac, the black road. They are playing a game. Evening editions of regional newspapers tucked sharply under their arms. The dream requires something of me. It requires me to acknowledge that my textual creature (Ban) is overwritten by a psychic history that is lucid, astringent, witty. No longer purely mine." Bhanu Kapil, from Treinte Ban.

"Why do some forms of violence strengthen the psyche rather than disrupting it? Radical modernity requires something of me. It requires me to write aesthetically about violence. To write the larger scene. Every day I try to write the race drop for Ban, the moment that her knees hit the ground, but at night I simply dream this. I dream of exiting a London Underground stop at the interface a car would make with the M25. The commuters are processing around—what else?—a roundabout, their hands on imaginary steering wheels in V position, their wing-backed loafers shuffling on the Tarmac, the black road. They are playing a game. Evening editions of regional newspapers tucked sharply under their arms. The dream requires something of me. It requires me to acknowledge that my textual creature (Ban) is overwritten by a psychic history that is lucid, astringent, witty. No longer purely mine." Bhanu Kapil, from Treinte Ban.

From “Trees,” in Padcha Tuntha-obas’ beautiful book trespasses

From “Trees,” in Padcha Tuntha-obas’ beautiful book trespasses

middleeasternpoetry:

The Earth is closing on us pushing us through the last passage and we tear off our limbs to pass through. The Earth is squeezing us. I wish we were its wheat so we could die and live again. I wish the Earth was our mother so she’d be kind to us. Where should we go after the last frontiers? Where should the birds fly after the last sky? Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air? We will write our names with scarlet steam. We will cut off the hand of the song to be finished by our flesh. We will die here, here in the last passage. Here and here, our blood will plant its olive tree. - Mahmoud Darwish

middleeasternpoetry:


Muslim woman covered the yellow star of her Jewish neighbour with her veil on the streets of Sarajevo in 1941 

Human beings are members of a whole; in creation of one essence and soul. If one member is afflicted with pain, other members uneasy will remain. If you have no sympathy for human pain, the name of human you cannot retain. - Saadi 

middleeasternpoetry:

Muslim woman covered the yellow star of her Jewish neighbour with her veil on the streets of Sarajevo in 1941 

Human beings are members of a whole; in creation of one essence and soul. If one member is afflicted with pain, other members uneasy will remain. If you have no sympathy for human pain, the name of human you cannot retain. - Saadi 
Read one with me.

Read one with me.

203 plays

afrosonics:

The planet is the way it is because of, the scheme of words. When you meet a man, you meet a scheme of words, patterns of concept. So if the scheme of words would change, then man and the planet earth would be different, from what it is today. 

"…It is not that the planet is wrong or man is wrong, it is just that the scheme of words are not possible to either man or the planet.”

from Mahmoud Darwish’s In the Presence of Absence

From the translation by Sinan Antoon. It must be quoted at length:

The lotus-eaters did not enchant you with the honey taste of forgetfulness. They safely slipped from their myth while you and your kin entered the labyrinth unprepared. You know exactly what you left behind: a past, not recorded in songs about the new Trojans, of whom nothing is told save what their enemies relate. But they did not kidnap Helen and cause the war. They were kind and peaceful, their only crime was being born on slopes that were compared to the ladders of God. They were courageous without swords, spontaneous without rhetoric, so they were broken before the rolling tanks, displaced and scattered in the wind without losing their faith that one day history’s wound would heal.

So who are you on this journey? A Trojan poet who escaped the massacre in order to tell the story, or a mixture of that and a Greek who lost his way home? The enchantment of myth makes you susceptible to choosing metaphors, so take what fits the rise of song to another end, deep enough for the lost voice of the Trojan victim and for the failure of the Greeks’ victory to restore youth to their warrior, prematurely aged by the yoke of home and road.

Taut, like a string drawn between yesterday and tomorrow, you know all you have lost and left behind. You cannot see what lies ahead clearly. But a horizontal gravity thrusts you into the thick of tomorrow, to an enchanting unknown into an unfinished poem you are about to begin. Then it will take charge of its course, for what is created overpowers its creator, and the newborn overpowers the mother. They called you a dreamer when you said that a Trojan does not surrender. They interpreted your dreams even before you had them. You said: I stepped away in order to be near. They said: This is how the nostalgic speak, do you regret this journey? You said: I do not know, because I am still at the beginning of the road.

You had to choose the margin to know where you stand. The margin is a window looking out on the world. You are neither in it, nor outside it. The margin is a cell without walls. The margin is a personal camera that selects the images it wants from the scene, so that the king is not the king and David’s slingshot is nothing but Goliath’s weapon. Is it true that the first one to write his story will win the land of the story? But writing requires claws to carve into rock.

They called you a dreamer when you drew the boundaries of your dream, which grasped your devotion to remembering your old name that stalks you like a mute shadow. As for me, I went to the streets to chant and bleed, to chant for the fall of pretexts and reasons until I thought I was free, had freed myself, and had atoned for the sins I had not committed. You would look at me from the margin because the distance between us, as you had told me, was a sieve and a mirror. In the evening we met, as usual, and you embraced me and patted my shoulder saying: I will go with you tomorrow, because the margin contemplates but cannot act.

The road rises and falls, undulates, zigzags, extends, and branches off into countless roads that meet back at the beginning. How many times must we start from the beginning? We survived much death. We defeated forgetfulness and you said to me: We survive, but we do not triumph. I said to you: Survival is prey’s potential triumph over the hunter. We persevered and much blood flowed on the coasts and in the deserts. Much more blood than what the name needed for its identity, or what identity needed for its name.

We searched for our national flower and could not find anything better than anemones, which the Canaanites called ‘the lover’s wounds.’ We searched for our national bird and chose the Sunbird, because its resurrection from the ashes was a good omen, and to avoid any confusion with the ‘Phoenician’ brethren. We searched for our national flag and our pan-Arab horizon guided us to the verse that showered the four colors with descriptions contradicting what was being described, but that incited zeal.

And so much blood flowed that tracking blood, our blood, became the enemy’s reassuring guide, afraid of what he had done to us, not of what we might do to him. We, who have no existence in ‘the Promised Land,’ because the ghost of the murdered who haunted killer in both wakefulness and sleep, and the realm in-between, leaving him troubled and despondent. The insomniac screams: Have they not died yet? No, because the ghost reaches the age of being weaned, then comes adulthood, resistance, and return. Airplanes pursue the ghost in the air. Tanks pursue the ghost on land. Submarines pursue the ghost in the sea. The ghost grows up an occupies the killer’s consciousness until it drives him insane:

Israel’s new king sits on the balcony of a psychiatric institute, looking out on the remains of Dayr Yasin, and hallucinates: Here, here is the beginning of my miracle. Here I killed them and saw them dead. I saw and heard them die. Here I heard the wailing of human beasts, which did not disturb my music. From here, to terrify the rest of the holy land, I scattered their voices northward. From here I spread fright among what remains of the bipeds … to make them begin the journey into the wilderness. No, no, ‘wilderness’ is not the appropriate word for their fate. Wilderness is my specialty. Wilderness leads to guidance. Wilderness leads to return. Wilderness is my monopoly, just as God is. The king takes tranquilizers and remembers: Were it not for my heroism, for what I did to Dayr Yasin, my kingdom would not have been established. Were it not for absence, their absence, I would not be present. For them not to be, is for me to be. Whence did they emerge when I did not accept them as neighbors or slaves, woodchoppers or water carriers? The king clenches his glass of water nervously and crushes it. A trickle of blood flows from his hand and he starts to hallucinate: I did not see the blood of the ghost that my army is pursuing in Lebanon, yet I see my own blood! I killed them and saw them dead here, so how did they cheat death and disobey my orders, when I am the one who bestows life and death? I am the king, the new king of Israel. How have the dead become ghosts and how can ghosts defy me? Is this a dream or a nightmare? Is there no balcony in the world looking out on a different end? Take Dayr Yasin away from me again, take the cries of these ghosts away, or take me away from them. For I cannot apologize to them, nor do I want to! O Hiram, Hiram, king of Tyre, save me! My people have become angry with me. They say that my war is a waste, that killing the ghost is a waste, that my peace is a waste. O Hiram, Hiram, save me, even if with a false peace, to numb my mind, my heart, and my people, and be cured of my sorrows. Do you not know me? Do you now hear me, you son of a dog! No one listens to the king secluded in his house looking out on the scene of his first crime. When he goes out leaning on a cane to visit his wife’s grave, he does not speak to a soul. The ghost is his sole companion, his enemy who will not leave him. His enemy who returns in his delirium and guides him to their first encounter: You killed me right here and buried me in this pit. He cannot ward them off. He collapses: the murderer falls into the grave of the murdered!

I asked you: what does this mean? You said to me: Meaning might need another time to ripen in the earth’s salt. It might need another poet free of Trojans and Greeks, a poet who gazes into an abyss from above without falling in, and the abyss becomes a lake. As for now, a hand waving from afar is meaning enough: We are still alive and capable of amending the Greek text. The last chapter, the ending, has endless possibilities!

Figurative language, metonymy, metaphor, allusion

are the shadows of speech

The object’s image is neither like the object, nor its opposite

It is poetry’s ruse in naming

And I have other aims in metaphor

such as letting the song

go at its gentle pace

turning east and west

leaping from sky to valley

and treating its aches

with some irony

verdugodiscos:

Fuck the San Bernardino city police.

verdugodiscos:

Fuck the San Bernardino city police.