All posts filed under: Transformation

Simone Weil, the quintessential outsider : women and mysticism

Simone Weil was an outsider, this she clearly stated in her personal letters and essays which are gathered in fragments or in small volume , such as in Waiting for God. Those meagre fragments that have been published are not really readily accessible save on the curriculums of theological colleges (in modular forms) and presented in a contextualised and safe manner. I do not think that her writings on mysticism are done justice in contemporary thought. Weil’s themes are of her intellectual alienation from Catholicism ( and her desire of it), poverty, philosophy, war, struggle and totalitarianism , ” A collective body is the guardian of dogma and dogma is the object  of contemplation for love, faith and intelligence, three strictly individual  faculties. Hence almost since the beginning the individual has been ill at  ease in christianity and this uneasiness has notably been one of intelligence, this cannot be denied” (I: 314) and yet , in further essays on education, philosophy and the need for frontline nurses , Weil rejects civil law as aberrant and only necessary to prevent …

A Saturday Woman Poet , Prageeta Sharma.

On Rebellion, by Prageeta Sharma. (for Katy Lederer) “It was not a romantic sentiment , nor self-determined; rather , it was embarrassing. My love of spearheading, from introvert to extrovert, from cowardice to consequence, from the enjambment to the unspecified dunce. It was a sabotage, a reckless moment : a purulent, tawny decree. All temptation puzzled me and drew me in. I dropped out of a large life, I flew over exams, I punched out breakfast teachers with lunch money, toiling over the idea of belonging rather than over upward mobility. I understood how power flung outward into the troves of the cursed ( I felt troubled or cursed all of the time). I wasn’t bearing oranges, limes, or even lemons. All of it blurred together so that a mere suggestion made by an outside force was something to be freely ignored. I could nod off, I could misinterpret, it could be reconfigured as a negotiation. The fog felt like an aphorism. Never lifting, always dull, always an added pull. The tribunal cloud judged below, …

‘A Work for Poets’ by George Mackay Brown.

To have carved on the days of our vanity A sun A star A cornstalk   Also a few marks From an ancient forgotten time A child may read   That not far from the stone A well Might open for wayfarers   Here is a work for poets – Carve the runes Then be content with silence. by George Mackay Brown   Lux Perpetua. A star for a cradle Sun for plough and net A fire for old stories A candle for the dead. Lux perpetua By such glimmers we seek you. I have two reading recommendations this sunny cold morning in Dublin,  Interrogation of Silence , The  writings of George Mackay Brown Rowena and Brian Murray. Publ. John Murray 2004. The Absence of Myth , by Georges Bataille Publ. Version (1994/2006).   I am sad to hear the John Hurst, proprietor of Rare and Interesting Books in Westport died this past weekend, he always got the exact book that I sought and I had put him alongside Charlie Byrne’s In Galway for his excellent  collection of books. Indeed I had …

Anne Sexton, The Art of Poetry No. 15 (Paris Review)

I just saw this interview link which has been released today by The Paris Review to celebrate Ann Sexton’s Birthday and I have added it to my Facebook page. I thought to add it through an excerpted paragraph and hyperlink onto the Poethead blog also. There is an existent link to Ann Sexton’s Transformations also available on the Poethead blog which will be carried at the end of this short piece, along with the Paris Review Interview on ‘The Art of Poetry No 15’ by Barbara Kevles. ” Until I was twenty-eight I had a kind of buried self who didn’t know she could do anything but make white sauce and diaper babies. I didn’t know I had any creative depths. I was a victim of the American Dream, the bourgeois, middle-class dream. All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children. I thought the nightmares, the visions, the demons would go away if there was enough love to put them down. I was trying my damnedest to lead a …

‘Cicada’ by Glenda Cimino.

Cicada For David Carson How beautiful the cicadas’ song How holy the insect voices Rise to heaven. How homely and comforting The steady trill of their choir In the dark night. Yet some say each cicada Is the restless, reborn soul Of a dead Poet – A spendthrift who did not respect The gift of his muse But squandered his inspiration. Till the poems died, nameless, While waiting to be born And the silence grew deafening. How with cicada’s wings He now fervently delivers His unuttered poems. He can never again be silent Even if no human understands His heart’s outpouring. How beautiful the cicada’s song How purely the insect voices Rise to heaven.  by Glenda Cimino Haiku wind in the long grass whispers of forgotten lovers under the trees. Both poems are © Glenda Cimino, with thanks, C.