\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The birds sang their blank melody outside.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153There is nothing staid, nothing
\nsettled in this universe.
\nAll is rippling, all is
\ndancing; all is quickness and triumph.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I would rather
\nbe loved,
\nI would rather be famous
\nthan follow perfection
\nthrough the sand.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I am this,
\nthat
\nand the other.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes;
\nI will reduce you
\nto order.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I am rooted, but I flow.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I am not single and entire
\nas you are.
\nI have lived a thousand lives
\nalready. Every day I unbury–
\nI dig up. I find relics
\nof myself in the sand that
\nwomen made thousands of years ago . . .\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The weight of the world
\nis on our shoulders.
\nThis is life.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I do not wish
\nto be a man who sits
\nfor fifty years
\non the same spot thinking
\nof his navel. I wish to be
\nharnessed to a cart, a vegetable cart
\nthat rattles over the cobbles.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I have reached
\nthe summit
\nof my desires.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I desired always
\nto stretch the night and
\nfill it fuller and fuller
\nwith dreams.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153There is no repetition for me.
\nEach day
\nis dangerous.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153. . . we are extinct,
\nlost
\nin the abyss
\nof time,
\nin the
\ndarkness.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153We have destroyed
\nsomething by our
\npresence . . .
\na world perhaps.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I, I, I.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153But if there are no stories,
\nwhat end can there be,
\nor what beginning?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It is strange
\nhow the dead leap out
\non us at street corners,
\nor in dreams.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Life
\nis a dream
\nsurely.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153For this is
\nnot one life;
\nnor do I always know
\nif I am man
\nor woman . . .
\nso strange is the contact
\nof one with another.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I said life had been imperfect,
\nan unfinished
\nphrase.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Life has destroyed me.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I begin now
\nto forget;
\nI begin to doubt the fixity
\nof tables, the reality of here
\nand now, to tap my knuckles smartly
\nupon the edges of apparently
\nsolid objects and say, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcAre you hard?\u00e2\u20ac\u2122\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It is strange
\nthat we who are capable
\nof so much suffering,
\nshould inflict
\nso much suffering.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It is death.
\nDeath is the enemy.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The
\nwaves
\nbroke
\non
\nthe
\nshore.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
After I finished reading The Waves by Virginia Woolf, I realized that I needed to meditate more on passages, the construction of prose vs. poetry, and my visceral connection with the text. The above are some of my favorite passages that I thought could work by themselves and with more fragmentation (of lines, spacing, etc.). Also, it’s national poetry month . . .<\/p>\n
May Virginia not roll over in her grave and topple my shore with waves of despair.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153The birds sang their blank melody outside.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153There is nothing staid, nothing settled in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I would rather be loved, I would rather be famous than follow perfection through the sand.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I am this, that and the other.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes; I will reduce you […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":68,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[604,15,602,605,502,603,420],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5222"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/68"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5222"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5222\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5224,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5222\/revisions\/5224"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5222"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5222"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/artsatmichigan.umich.edu\/ink\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5222"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}