Monthly Archives: Studeni 2013

Joanne Monte


The Betrayal

Today the drapes, for once, have been drawn and, at last, the sun has lit up the pine-dark interiors of that day you poured me wine at supper, I need now acknowledge.
I had failed to notice then, how subtly your fingers had lifted the knife to skin the lamb, how unconscionably you had cut through the leanest part of the bone, the precious flesh ripped open and steaming.  I had failed to notice how the table’s solid sheet of maple reflected the sharp glimmer of the blade and the rapid gutting, and how, afterward, you devoured the rare meat, wanting to strip everything clean, the wine spilling over like blood.  It was your last supper,
the room abandoned and the drapes drawn, but still clinging to the one ray of light in the window as though it could reach into those dark corners and deflect the desire for vengeance.

Elizabeth Barret Browning- How Do I Love Thee


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Salman Rushdie- The Ground Beneath Her Feet


Whenever someone who knows you disappears, you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as you were seen, as you were judged to be. Lover or enemy, mother or friend, those who know us construct us, and their several knowings slant the different facets of our characters like diamond-cutter’s tools. Each such loss is a step leading to the grave, where all versions blend and end.

The Ground Beneath Her Feet


For a long while I have believed – this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama’s belief in a fourth function of outsideness – that in every  generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity.

And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers’ seal of approval.

But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee.  And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book.  Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth.  The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.

Milorad Pavic- Dictionary of the Khazars


“It is not I who mix the colors but your own vision,’ he answered. ‘I only place them next to one another on the wall in their natural state; it is the observer who mixes the colors in his own eye, like porridge. Therein lies the secret. The better the porridge, the better the painting, but you cannot make good porridge from bad buckwheat. Therefore, faith in seeing, listening, and reading is more important than faith in painting, singing, or writing.’

He took blue and red and placed them next to each other, painting the eyes of an angel. And I saw the angel’s eyes turn violet.

‘I work with something like a dictionary of colors,’ Nikon added, ‘and from it the observer composes sentences and books, in other words, images. You could do the same with writing. Why shouldn’t someone create a dictionary of words that make up one book and let the reader himself assemble the words into a whole?”

William Shakespeare- Sonnet 99


The forward violet thus did I chide:

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair:

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both

And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

   More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.


Charles Bukowski- The Miracle Is the Shortest Time

you know
it was very good
it was
better than

it was like
we could
pick up
look at
and then laugh

we were on the
we were in the
god damned moon,
we had it

we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit

never such a place
as that

it was deep
it was light
it was high

it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so

your laughter

I remember when
your eyes
said love

as these walls
so quietly

Charles Bukowsk…