More poetry (not mine)
“Camped-out super-butch” Kirsten sent along some second hand Valentine’s poetry (along with love). She wanted to know what those of us who are both the intellectual and the lover do… grand question indeed. (Gray spaces and all) I was just thinking this morning about how poetry will always get me…
The intellectual is always showing off,
the lover is always getting lost.
The intellectual runs away.
afraid of drowning;
the whole business of love
is to drown in the sea.
Intellectuals plan their repose;
lovers are ashamed to rest.
The lover is always alone.
even surrounded by people;
like water and oil, he remains apart.
The man who goes to the trouble
of giving advice to a lover
gets nothing. He's mocked by passion.
Love is like musk. It attracts attention.
Love is a tree, and the lovers are its shade.
(Rumi)
The question is, my dear, do we revel in the liminality of our beings, rubbing up against the gray until we break the skin? Do we give up or do we just give in? Do we renounce the unthinkable, the unlivable, solely for its impossibility? Or do we dig deeper, until our hearts are threadbare and heady, drunk on sin?
The intellectual is always showing off,
the lover is always getting lost.
The intellectual runs away.
afraid of drowning;
the whole business of love
is to drown in the sea.
Intellectuals plan their repose;
lovers are ashamed to rest.
The lover is always alone.
even surrounded by people;
like water and oil, he remains apart.
The man who goes to the trouble
of giving advice to a lover
gets nothing. He's mocked by passion.
Love is like musk. It attracts attention.
Love is a tree, and the lovers are its shade.
(Rumi)
The question is, my dear, do we revel in the liminality of our beings, rubbing up against the gray until we break the skin? Do we give up or do we just give in? Do we renounce the unthinkable, the unlivable, solely for its impossibility? Or do we dig deeper, until our hearts are threadbare and heady, drunk on sin?
posted by ilana at 3:32 p.m.
2 Comments:
most certainly the later. miss salt and i have decided that we are the romantic fools, debauched revelers whose motto is "both at once". fuck the era of compromise. my only limits are those pesky middle class morals, at which i chip away with a cold chisel and 3# hammer. vive la vive!
both at once sounds kinda nice;)
fuck compromise indeed, unless of course we are talking about compromising positions, in which case...
feminine transgression...mmmmm. makes me all giddy inside.
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