The poets are wrong of course. … But then poets are almost always wrong about facts. That’s because they are not really interested in facts: only in truth: which is why the truth they speak is so true that even those who hate poets by simple and natural instinct are exalted and terrified by it.
William Faulkner (via introspectivepoet)
Muriel Rukeyser on the Root of Our Resistance to Poetry, What It Shares with Science, and How It Expands our Lives
"However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be
When after the Fall Yahweh asks Adam ‘Where are you?’ this question signifies that henceforth man can no longer be found or situated except in the place of the question.
Maurice Blanchot (via jacobwren)
“The hallmark of our contemporary culture is an active resistance to difficulty in all its aesthetic manifestations, accompanied by a sense of grievance that conflates it with political elitism.”
#art #suggestions #notsports #youreadingthiscalum?
Yesterday was the last day of the inspiring ride our April Poemathon has been! We had no idea it would be so much fun and produce so many exquisite poems. Congratulations and HUGE thanks to our 13 participating poets! And huge thanks also to all the donors who supported our poets and Tiferet. All the poems written during the past month are up on our website at www.tiferetjournal.com. They are oh-so-worth a look!
My sincere thanks to all of you who supported my efforts at Tiferet Journal (http://tiferetjournal.tumblr.com/) during this past month, National Poetry Month. I am humbled. Thank you for reading and considering the much needed Tiferet Journal. Be well and long live poetry!
I Also Want To Say or The Loose Ends of National
is a lesson:
“We are lost!”
Here and There
Yesterday I climbed a mountain
of stairs one thousand times, searching
for a sense of the strange neighbouring
sounds of here and there.
There: the air ends but not before purling
a blue and yellow smoke that must be
breathed in deeply to entrance. Bodies
must press and heave to become enthroned.
Unbidden prayers must be caught for their lift, roped
and grounded, woven into worldly petitions and demands.
All the while, wide mouths must chant both old and new songs.
Here: an assumption of airs rises with a concrete vault.
A cloud of dust clings to watchers-on during this drawn-out
day. The ark of atari is unsealed and outfits are ruined.
At night, by two lonely trees, patrols unearth its plainsong
and redirect the lost light. The sleeping dead roll to the pings
and bleeps of another age. There are tears. One of them cries
for home. Another, guarded in shadow, sings our recurring flaw.
Meanwhile, this morning I discovered a spot on the stairwell
where my echo bounces perfectly from wall to wall.