Κυριακή, 1 Ιουλίου 2012

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1 σχόλιο:

  1. The Simple Line (Laura Riding Jackson)

    The secrets of the mind convene splendidly,
    Though the mind is meek.
    To be aware inwardly
    of brain and beauty
    Is dark too recognizable.
    Thought looking out on thought
    Makes one an eye:
    Which it shall be, both decide.
    One is with the mind alone,
    The other is with other thoughts gone
    To be seen from afar and not known.

    When openly these inmost sights
    Flash and speak fully,
    Each head at home shakes hopelessly
    Of being never ready to see self
    And sees a universe too soon.
    The immense surmise swims round and round
    And heads grow wise
    With their own bigness beatified
    In cosmos, and the idiot size
    Of skulls spells Nature on the ground,
    While ears listening the wrong way report
    Echoes first and hear words before sounds
    Because the mind, being quiet, seems late.
    By ears words are copied into books,
    By letters minds are taught self-ignorance.
    From mouths spring forth vocabularies
    To the assemblage of strange objects
    Grown foreign to the faithful countryside
    Of one king, poverty,
    Of one line, humbleness.
    Unavowed and false horizons claim pride
    For spaces in the head
    The native head sees outside.
    The flood of wonder rushing from the eyes
    Returns lesson by lesson.
    The mind, shrunken of time,
    Overflows too soon.
    The complete vision is the same
    As when the world-wideness began
    Worlds to describe
    The excessiveness of man.

    But man's right portion rejects
    The surplus in the whole.
    This much, made secret first,
    Now makes
    The knowable, which was
    Thought's previous flesh,
    And gives instruction of substance to its intelligence
    As far as flesh itself,
    As bodies upon themselves to where
    Understanding is the head
    And the identity of breath and breathing are established
    And the voice opening to cry: I know,
    Closes around the entire declaration
    With this evidence of immortality—
    The total silence to say:
    I am dead.

    For death is all ugly, all lovely,
    Forbids mysteries to make
    Science of splendor, or any separate disclosing
    Of beauty to the mind out of body's book
    That page by page flutters a world in fragments,
    Permits no scribbling in of more
    Where spaces are,
    Only to look.

    Body as Body lies more than still.
    The rest seems nothing and nothing is
    If nothing need be.
    But if need be,
    Thought not divided anyway
    Answers itself, thinking
    All open and everything.
    Dead is the mind that parted each head.
    But now the secrets of the mind convene
    Without pride, without pain
    To any onlookers.
    What they ordain alone
    Cannot be known
    The ordinary way of eyes and ears
    But only prophesied
    If an unnatural mind, refusing to divide,
    Dies immediately
    Of too plain beauty
    Foreseen within too suddenly,
    And lips break open of astonishment
    Upon the living mouth and rehearse
    Death, that seems a simple verse
    And, of all ways to know,
    Dead or alive, easiest.

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