Awake in light and without hurry, I wrote
while my students wrote of mornings. A rose
before the light, a perfumed chamber, alone.
Arose in cold darkness. How I wanted to look out
from a high place. Wanted the view, warm,
a hammock, a stack of books, no others,
my children (tight knot
in the rope) with me, in my sight,
playing, or maybe sleeping, out of harm,
not needing me.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.