As long as there are rivers, there will be libraries

 

For as long as there are rivers, there will be bridges across them.

For as long as there are bridges, there will be neon lights illuminating them.
For as long as there are neon lights, there will be moths orbiting them.
For as long as there are moths, there will be walnut orb-weaver spiders catching them in their orb-webs.
For as long as there are nuctenea umbratica, there will be entomologists fascinated by them.
For as long as there are entomologists, there will be Latin names to denote them.
For as long as there are Latin names, there will be encyclopedias to gather them.
For as long as there are encyclopedias, there will be books to explain them.
For as long as there are books, there will be libraries.

No rivers, no libraries.

And rivers are running dry.

 

Remember Ithaca

Keep Ithaca in your mind, audacious sailor,

for if the long stretches of horizon

from port of call to port of call

draw dreams and sighs alike

for if the destination is hazy

as a distant phlogistoned oasis

only a blink of an eye exists

between you and beloved Ithaca

Many before you have flocked to see her shine

to drown their senses in whirlwinds of spices,

many have thought her worthy of a sacrifice

and a promise which tides tried to break.

Remember people have died for Ithaca

knowing they should never come back.

Ithaca has become a name more enduring

than the Laistrygonians',

more legendary than the Cyclops'.

Flatten then the map with the palm of your hand

mark the place with a red cross like a treasure

remember that history, sailing and writing

are always achieved at an angle

the pen aslant across the lines

as if bent by the wind

as the ship unyielding through tempests

men carving unmatched paths on the sea

wild things of straw and bones in a firestorm

Remember Ithaca's taste of savoury figs

her smell of dark incense, her sound of oud

the touch of her dark, velvety skin

Remember Ithaca dwells on dreams

feeds on departures and arrivals at break of day

remember Ithaca harbours adventures the mind yearns for

remember Ithaca because one day, audacious sailor,

she will greet you like her conquered king

and you shall forget every other Ithaca.

 

A light through the darkness

Killarney, Co. Kerry, Ireland

Foundations

She is buried deep in grave thoughts,
her mind aflare with consciousness —
there are no more ifs, no more oughts,
at long last came clear-sightedness.

Like the tearing of a dark veil,
a haunting doubt finally interred —
glaring at her as chalk on shale
is the unshrouded truth made word.

She is enwreathed with bated breath
in a moment frozen in time —
restless, her vision’s boundless breadth
pierces through ghosts, grief and grime.

Out of the ashes she found peace,
in the cold furnace of her heart —
that which obtained in quietus:
the deathling secret at depart.

Wisdom

 

“When I have ceased to break my wings 
Against the faultiness of things, 
And learned that compromises wait 
Behind each hardly opened gate, 
When I can look Life in the eyes, 
Grown calm and very coldly wise, 
Life will have given me the Truth, 
And taken in exchange -- my youth.”

Sara Teasdale, American poet (1884-1933)

 

The battles within

“Kind words, kind looks, kind acts, and warm hand-shakes, - these are means of grace when men in trouble are fighting their unseen battles.”

John Hall, pastor (1829-1898)

Green shores

Soon I shall cross the sea
to the land I call home.

Following butterflies
gliding across the storms.

Palming the charming stones
which long ago touched me.

Breathing cat’s paw spindrift
an air like no other.

Treading a hallowed ground
locked by an eerie bond.

Soon I shall be listening
to a daunting language.

Probing ancient wonders
watching gripping sunsets.

Unearthing parts of soul
I didn’t know I had.

Sealing a betrothal
which needs no Claddagh ring.

Soon, at last, I shall be
back where I left my heart.

Finding a home

I tried to find a home

in novels nobody read

in books no one got

I got lost in stories

I longed to live

when I realised I wouldn't

find my story in any tome

I started writing my own

I tried to find a home

in the drugs everyone took

and I got hooked

I got lost in realms

nobody ever heard of

and nobody ever would

when I realised I was alone

I tried to find another home.

I tried to find a home

in booze and blackouts

drinking games in which

I lost speech and movement

I got lost in hazy nightmares

which I knew not to hate or to love

when I emerged from this foam

I walked out into the unknown

I tried to find a home

in the loudest music

in the weirdest concerts

my body absorbed sounds

and vibrations till it was lost

when I danced till

I broke all of my bones

I tried to find a new home

I tried to find a home

in all types of food

I starved and stuffed myself

till I could no longer eat

to then eat and hunger again

when nothing more existed

which could be grown

I decided to go roam

I tried to find a home

in sex and pain

I got lost in pleasures

in body-arching agony

thrilled by likely irreparable harm

long it lasted but when I had

no sins left for which to atone

I tried to find a different home

I tried to find a home

in places and things

I loved too much for my own good

in the process dying several times over

always looking in all the wrong places

seeking myself where I couldn't be

I realised happiness needed to be sown

to be reaped, and this would be home.

 

All peace and quiet

"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man's nirvana. And if some poor nasty minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."

Raymond Thornton Chandler, American-British novelist and screenwriter (1888-1959), in "Writers in Hollywood" (Atlantic, November 1945), reprinted in Gardiner D., and Walker, K.S. eds., Raymond Chandler Speaking, London, 1962.

Sunset à la Turner

Click to enlarge ;-)