Sunset

(under Wild Iris collection, by Louise Glück, b. 1943 -)

My greatest happiness
is the sound your voice makes
calling to me even in despair; my sorrow
that I cannot answer you
in speech you accept as mine.

You have no faith in your own language.
So you invest
authority in signs
you cannot read with any accuracy.

And yet your voice reaches me always.
And I answer constantly,
my anger passing
as winter passes. My tenderness
should be apparent to you
in the breeze of the summer evening
and in the words that become
your own response.

Faith, It does mean

What it is never there if?
never meaning of entry, a slight mention
bound at being unfound,
imagine. Any possibility of such dread.

The heart, looms within the mind its 'real'.
What it claims to have tangibility
is engaged as does a fisher
on lifeless lake with an undisturbed
choice to stay, fishing for sights instead
knowing that 'that school' will
in time right come. For is everything it
so becomes: patience,
even the boat's name. Going off
watch of things to keep,
the view; the water, feels clear as
sky on its face, and equally
reasons don't baffle the fog, they're the ends
perceived enough during the trek
drawing the fin-backed answers closer
to real seeing, and touching.

Where it's preordained is this and oft,

heads warn, much as they wear
asking why -- another why --
and seems good why nothing at all. 'Cause
tiresome millions of it spread.
At the point of nothing, lost.
Fast, fasting goes: the impatient wait.
It is snatched. 'Way it is, the fire, snatched.
Contoured mystery, that which the universal
expanse yon hides, loosens grip;
figures one to himself: 't has been hard
--will itself let go, disown after
being kept years of. For anon, eyes must see;
the body, too soon must touch.

So are, what makes the painful world, these.
Only moment of believing thought
is hastening tempted by. Along, bitter
glimpses cave in, stalked from all which,
on rest should have lain. Trust hangs on
barely, then recurs! Forward -- gifts worth
their history, the forgotten: restored to gluttons
for truth, and therefore beauty. The instant
when shoots uniquely, graft in. Sacred

after long and tedious, seeking toil. Brain ceases
to be unbelief, earthly -- whereupon pours
an apologetic gain. Not that there remains
tropic conviction, but those daredevil
senses of it fill out the cry, the fondness that is:--
love. Meanings in the core refreshed have they
when a traveler to a land promised, has been told:

It's not bad to stop once in a while as you trip down the good road. Stop,
to satisfy your curiosity of something that catches you by the 'weak'
(which is, one tool unready in time) so that, if you decide to walk on again,
you'd be able to see that the road is like a lovely maiden. Splendid. You'd
apart from the ordinary, even say: "I made the exquisite choice."

Life (by Jo Shapcott, b. 1953 - )

My life as a bat				My life as a frog			My life as an iguana
is for hearing				is for touching			is for tasting
the world.				other things.			everything.
If I pitch it right				I'm very moist			My tongue is very fast
I can hear				so I don't get stuck			because the flavour
just where you are.				in the water.			of the air is so subtle.
If I pitch it right				I'm very moist			It's long enough
I can hear inside your body:				so I can cling			to surprise
the state of your health,				onto your back			the smallest piece of you
and more, I can hear				for three days			from extremely
into your mind.				and nights.			far away.
Bat death is not listening.				Frog death is separation.			Iguana death is a closed mouth.

Second Acclaim

'Nobody's fault but mine. Time is all I need to overcome myself. Be reconciled after which, with the old necessary norm that should have continually bound us. In the name of friendship.'

Wishing the way of acknowledging defects then were as wonted as needed. I recount it was therapeutic to have watched 'American Psycho'. It shifted my paradigm. I thought I knew I had only to understand thrill in the common meaning of 'suspense' or so hold every climatic intensity under breath for that sole purpose yet, even more so, I empathized.

There endured supreme control Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) could never himself outdo, and for which he'd been fully conscious, keeping journal of the fine details. Exceedingly accurate for the sort he is, the constant, ingenious evil wasn't inside of him. Rather he in it. So immense that it lurked, got in and out, making iniquities and self-realization alternate his deeds. Beneath the circumstances designed by the hands of deception, he was being natured upon which he hopelessly and psychopath-etically coped with. Life he lived to full measure of perfection but a price must be paid for getting weary of it: starving for murders, so madly done at ease, piled, and hidden. As though having annexed one to the other is nothing more than relief of stress by an exerciser.

Since everyone seemed virtually far, he'd nobody to look him inside. Clearly he needed someone at least with whom to deal the very delicate matter. His side of the world however was, understandably impossible, just to imagine the source of good or strength by which to live, nowhere in place had been. No room for genuine attachments definitely, no peace thereby. Though his was an open-ended story, who'd ever concede to vouch it would have convergence attain to his resolution?

He literally had everything but it's consolation on my end to have come to see with profundity that I'm not as ruined. One may correlate here that to feel shame on the person is to surpass one's self-pity. Tis Better off yourself, not wormed by having to perpetrate, calling into account the fact that, being somebody average or below par, you could to some extent make regrets go out. Even if only desperately.

I strayed from my usual course as only meaning to eulogize the art of Christian Bale in it (erstwhile made in 'The Dark Knight'). Nonetheless the while, it was worth. Bale's portrayal had been adorable, i come to wonder who else would communicate the heart of the leading role the way he sold it out. Perhaps his (not-so) striking semblance with Jim Caviezel (whose beautiful eyes compare to Christopher Reeve's--holistically penetrating to soul-purify) helped collect the fitting countenance, intact for the character. Prove it misleading. Whatever crap there is to say on 'Terminator Salvation', I'm sorry to excuse myself from. The story or the visuals may have brought unnecessary exaggerations somewhere, but he simply did not overact. I just can't yet surmise how watching him do supporting position for Johnny Depp in 'Public Enemies' would fare. This is not, of course, in any way to raise questions on the latter's ability, having known him since his debut by Wes Craven. It's just to put more hopes on an opportunity that Bale would be set apart to signify tasks which conspire with the promising twists, equally essential and haunting as those of the Wall Street's fancied psycho.

Captions

(under Tilt collection, by Jean Sprackland, b.1962 - )

We are described
in the language of rain on a train window--
not running down the glass, but lashed across it.

Awkward text, hammered out
against the direction of travel, almost
too jumpy, too broken to read.

Out there is where we meet,
two inarticulate ghosts on the screen of the night.
It's the only way we can look at each other.

The captions punch and stammer over us.
I watch you blink. I watch you watch me blink.

The Garment

(under Vita Nova collection, by Louise Glück, b. 1943 - )

My soul dried up.
Like a soul cast into fire, but not completely,
not to annihilation. Parched,
it continued. Brittle,
not from solitude but from mistrust,
the aftermath of violence.

Spirit, invited to leave the body,
to stand exposed a moment,
trembling, as before
your presentation to the divine--
spirit lured out of solitude
by the promise of grace,
how will you ever again believe
the love of another being?

My soul withered and shrank.
The body became for it too large a garment.

And when hope was returned to me
it was another hope entirely.

The Burning Heart

(under Vita Nova collection, by Louise Glück, b.1943 - )

"... No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy..."

Ask her if she regrets anything.

I was
promised to another--
I lived with someone.
You forget these things when you're touched.

Ask her how he touched her.

His gaze touched me
before his hands touched me.

Ask her how he touched her.

I didn't ask for anything;
everything was given.

Ask her what she remembers.

We were hauled into the underworld.

I thought
we were not responsible
any more than we were responsible
for being alive. I was
a young girl, rarely subject to censure:
then a pariah. Did I change that much
from one day to the next?
If I didn't change, wasn't my action
in the character of that young girl?

Ask her what she remembers.

I noticed nothing. I noticed
I was trembling.

Ask her if the fire hurts.

I remember
we were together.
And gradually I understood
and though neither of us ever moved
we were not together but profoundly separate.

Ask her if the fire hurts.

You expect to live forever with your husband
in fire more durable than the world.
I suppose this wish was granted,
where we are now being both
fire and eternity.

Do you regret your life?

Even before I was touched, I belonged to you;
you had only to look at me.