Literature

[Lit] The Daggers of Jorge Luis Borges

/ Rudy Carrera

Michael Greenberg of The New York Review of Books writes on the ever-magnificent Jorge Luis Borges and his fascination with blades, that most macho piece of fighting machinery, and what it meant to his vision of criollo Argentina.

The book reviewed is Professor Borges: A Course on English Literature
by Jorge Luis Borges, edited by Martín Arias and Martín Hadis, and translated from the Spanish by Katherine Silver, available for purchase here.

[Short Story] Jorge Luis Borges – Argumentum Orinthologicum

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

HT: The Floating Library

I close my eyes and see a flock of birds. The vision lasts a second or perhaps less; I don’t know how many birds I saw. Were they a definite or an indefinite number? This problem involves the question of the existence of God. If God exists, the number is definite, because how many birds I saw is known to God. If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because nobody was able to take count. In this case, I saw fewer than ten birds (let’s say) and more than one; but I did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds. I saw a number between ten and one, but not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc. That number, as a whole number, is inconceivable; ergo, God exists.

A slightly surrealistic short story by the genre’s master, Jorge Luis Borges. His point? God is not only in the details, but between them, in those crevices in time and space which we cannot comprehend, apparently.

[Poem] Paul Celan – La Rose de Personne

/ Rudy Carrera

Avec toutes les pensées je suis sorti
hors du monde : tu étais là,
toi, ma silencieuse, mon ouverte, et —
tu nous reçus.

Qui dit que tout est mort pour nous
quand notre œil s’éteignit ?
Tout s’éveilla, tout commença.

Grand, un soleil est venu à la nage, claires,
âme et âme lui ont fait face, nettes,
impératives, elles lui ont tu
son orbe.

Sans peine,
ton sein s’est ouvert, paisible,
un souffle est monté dans l’éther,
et ce qui s’est nué, n’était-ce pas,
n’était-ce pas forme, et sortie de nous,
n’était-ce pas
pour ainsi dire un nom ?

[Poetry] ‘Letter to Marianna Kijanowska’ by Volodymyr Bilyk

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

I don’t get to run into much that would, at least where I live, be termed ‘hipster poetry’, but thanks to my Facebook colleague, Ukrainian poet and musician Volodymyr Bilyk, I have a chance to sample a taste:

Not sure if it really means something
But i have to write this:
you are in some way almost shriekingly anti-strange
and it dissappoints me so much that it makes me curious in a scientific way
and i think i’m having not-so-over-the-top insulting stroke of faux faith in complexity
all because of you

Ask me “why” before you’ll ask me “what”

Well…
I have no clue how to explain it
i know nothing about that
so let it be the poem
at least on that terms it seems to be coherent

shriekingly as screamingly but with the double entendre and ox breath on the corner after a fight
anti-strange as friction but in terms of knowing
curiosity as brave attempt and scientific just to kill-off rampart interest of instinct

and please dont laugh at it

not-so-over-the-top insulting stroke is the stroke as usual but only when you get used to them –
althrough it remains the same in every form it gets.
faux faith is like old-age faith, it even fools you in the same manner as encyclopedic explanation of faith fools its natural understanding

my faith in complexity happened
because i dont believe that it cant be so simple. You cant be like an early records of Einstuerzende Neubauten. You can’t be just like you are and nothing more. You can’t not hide something in the very deep of you. you cant have no second bottom. It’s impossibly ridiculous
and even if you laugh and answer me so clever i will say you “cool” i just think that it happens like that all the way through.

and still it makes me wonder insultingly
but what exactly?
but i have written what already
maybe the second of one which is second one

But i think i just had written it to be misunderstood
in a world-weary way of course

So let it be the letter
And let it be my pay-off for the mad ununderstandung
And still i havent quoted Cohen’s song.

So long…
and be THRAKATTAK

Anyone who references King Crimson in poetry is okay in my book.

[Video] Paul Bowles – An American in Tangier (1993)

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

Paul Bowles, the legendary wandering scribe who introduced America to the pleasure of 1950s Morocco in all its splendor, mystery and decadence, is given a wonderful documentary tribute. The video is directed by Mohamed Ulad-Mohand, and is hosted by the ever-wonderful UbuWeb, which houses many of the experimental and avant-garde world’s treasures.

Bidoun Magazine, a great resource covering art, music and culture from the Middle East and the Ummah in general, contributed mightily to hosting this video.

Click here to view the video.

[Poem] ‘Water’ by Ellen Conserva

/ Rudy Carrera / Leave a comment

I’m blessed to know quite a few friends who are quite good at writing. Here’s my dear friend, Ellen, touching her inner Neruda:

Your banks are dry and brittle
Deep grooves in the bed
Sticks and stones
Dusty alone
Lifeless leaves spread
 
Your wind is hot and yellow
It blows from east to west
Cloud and dirt
You sting, you hurt
In skin you press
 
Your vessel fallen on its side
Nothing there to slake
Hollow and hard.
Throat charred
Thirsty ache
 
In my flowing tears
Surging spring
My rain, my wet
Sweet sweat.
Fullness I bring
 
I fill your cracks
Your deep grooves
And empty spaces.
In all those places
I meander and move
 
I fill your clouds
And breath
And wind
With mist.
And kiss
Your death
 
I empty myself
To fill you up
I take your shame and shape
Redeem the rape
Become the cup
 
When I am present
Your wind is gentle rain
Your chalice full
Ripe for a pull
Your self I will sustain.
 
Invite the water
Beseech the swell
That pours you over.
No seeking cover
Drown in my well.