Cubed by Steven McCabe
Sugar
You are a jigsaw puzzle
Each piece
Melting in my mouth
from Hierarchy of Loss – Ekstasis Editions – 2007
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Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary. Often posting 1st drafts and editing in (almost) real time.
Month: December, 2012
December 25, 2012
Thunder Under by Steven McCabe
The craziness of the Tutankhamen project
…a staircase destination
Tombs whistling through the Red Sea
Rising from the golden headdress smooth
As a calf’s haunch
Your calves kicking
Legs splayed
Below the fire–ferned sky
…the night raining papyrus
You’re sorry
Inking your name on a stick to poke the fire
…bells stringing your ankles
Shoehorn the slippery forest drinking an
Aroma
Rest your head — forget everything
…fit the night into a seashell
from Hierarchy of Loss – Ekstasis Editions – 2007
December 18, 2012
Exercise 8 (or On Longing) by Pierre L’Abbé in response to Plein verre, Pierre Reverdy, (May 1940)
As I walk the corners of the line square
line square
I realize there is somewhere “I might live
that is already lost to me”
It may lie outside this plane
On days when my heart circumscribes the straight
wall line
On days when my heart precedes me
circumnavigating the straight
It is the celebration of this summer
on the lateral
while my body an orifice drinking through winter
so I go my heart before me
possessing it
and suckle on the end of the line
that divides me from myself
where if only I were to make it to the end of this line
before the line
so would I watch its own application
evaporate as it goes before me
curling itself into flat spheres that are these points
of line for to be always
receding
before me
aaah
I know where I am and where this place is
that may allow me to be
It is of course the journey of the line
that joins them to me
that is unknown
It is. It is that it eludes me
were that all my longing would resolve into joy
were it a path to be found
Pierre L’Abbé has translated Pierre Reverdy and is currently responding to Reverdy’s poetry.
December 16, 2012
On Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
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