"Europa
No wonder you love
Europa.
You will never crack
the crust
of this blinding ice moon
and dredge its slush.
If its thin cold air
could ever fizz
in brave human lungs
you would still be the last
to breathe it.
You're happy
for Europa
to stay in its remote orbit
showering down
the odd twinkling tick
to squat in your skin.
So much easier
to scratch its itch
and laze
in enigma
than love
and render to
the drunk woman
in blinding distress
dirtying your street."
--Dorothy Featherstone Porter
"...a writer hang-glides all the time, out over that terrible whiteness. The abyss is you, your own life, your mind. It's a terrifying thing to exist at all, and an author with every creation tries to exist twice over; it is as when in poker you try to bluff a nothing hand through, and the dark face opposite raises, so you raise him back,. And the bookstores--there's terror there, especially this time of year, all those bright books of life fighting it out in their armor of embossed lettering, stacks of them being carted out to make room for the fresh contenders, all those sensibilities the educational system is churning out, dying to describe their parents, their seductions, they keep coming, wave upon wave, and the old sensibilities won't even die off, modern medicine is too good." --Hugging the Shore
No comments:
Post a Comment