The Empires of the Future are the Empires of the Mind: Jean-Luc Godard’s “Alphaville”

The Empires of the Future are the Empires of the Mind: Jean-Luc Godard’s “Alphaville”

Alphaville

Director: Jean-Luc Godard

Writer: Jean-Luc Godard

Stars: Eddie ConstantineAnna KarinaAkim Tamiroff |See full cast and crew »

“Sometimes reality is too complex, for oral communication. But legend embodies it in a form which enables it to spread all over the world” -Jorge Luis Borges, and the opening words of “Alphaville”

At the midpoint of Jean-Luc Godard’s brilliantly weird “Alphaville,”…

View On WordPress

Dream Song 14

BY JOHN BERRYMAN

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.   
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,   
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy   
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored   
means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no   
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,   
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes   
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.   
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag   
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving            
behind: me, wag.
Some light lunchtime reading. #bronx #nyc #poetry  (at Bronx County Hall Of Justice)

Some light lunchtime reading. #bronx #nyc #poetry (at Bronx County Hall Of Justice)

The Leaving

  by Brigit Pegeen Kelly

My father said I could not do it,
but all night I picked the peaches.
The orchard was still, the canals ran steadily.
I was a girl then, my chest its own walled garden.
How many ladders to gather an orchard?
I had only one and a long patience with lit hands
and the looking of the stars which moved right through me
the way the water moved through the canals with a voice
that seemed to speak of this moonless gathering
and those who had gathered before me.
I put the peaches in the pond's cold water,
all night up the ladder and down, all night my hands
twisting fruit as if I were entering a thousand doors,
all night my back a straight road to the sky.
And then out of its own goodness, out
of the far fields of the stars, the morning came,
and inside me was the stillness a bell possesses
just after it has been rung, before the metal
begins to long again for the clapper's stroke.
The light came over the orchard.
The canals were silver and then were not.
and the pond was--I could see as I laid
the last peach in the water--full of fish and eyes.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15236#sthash.l2yI1VNu.dpuf

What the third draft of a poem looks like #nyc #brooklyn #poetry

What the third draft of a poem looks like #nyc #brooklyn #poetry

The Purpose of Ritual  
by Melissa Broder 
 
When you fled I disappeared
into the abscesses of my brain.
We are both impulsive humans
and perhaps my disappearance
was premature. To reappear
I had to grow younger. I began
consuming images of boys
at a very rapid speed, never
their bodies just reflections.
I distorted all the mirrors
in mucus, oil and blood.
When I say that I consumed
I do not mean that I ate the mirrors,
only that I stood beside the boys,
dowsed the glass and incanted.
I chanted you love me you love me
to 3000 boys but none said yes.
What does it mean to be so sick
with want that you create rituals
which lead nowhere? Only to be
human, I think, and less ok
than animals. I don’t want
to be human anymore
so I have covered the mirrors
in blankets. You returned to me
but never uncovered them.

e.e. cummings - in time of daffodils(who know

thethreejewels:

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

Here’s to first drafts of shitty poetry. #poetry #nyc #brooklyn #literature #firstdraft (at Starbucks)

Here’s to first drafts of shitty poetry. #poetry #nyc #brooklyn #literature #firstdraft (at Starbucks)

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken. - Louise Glück

"it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world."

Mary Oliver (via rarararambles)

Reblogged from poetfire with 723 notes / Mary Oliver Poetry 

apoetreflects:

“He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home.  He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife.  But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves.  At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.”

—James Joyce, from “Little Cloud” in Dubliners (Grant Richards, Ltd., 1914)

Quiet Friend

Sonnets to Orpheus, Part Two, XXIX

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell.  As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Rainer Maria Rilke ~

A Myth of Devotion by Louise Gluck

image

A Myth of Devotion

 by Louise Glück

When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.

Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness

Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.

A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn’t everyone want love?

He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.

Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns—

That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there’d be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.

Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn’t imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.

He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
Persephone’s Girlhood.

A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you

but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you’re dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.

"How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song."

Rainer Maria Rilke, “Love Song” (trans. Stephen Mitchell)

Reblogged from litverve with 67 notes / rilke poetry 

"Our lives are spinning out
from world to world;
the shapes of things
are shifting in the wind.
What do we know
beyond the rapture and the dread?"

Stanley Kunitz, from “The Abduction” (via proustitute)

Reblogged from proustitute with 117 notes / stanley kunitz poetry