Definitely Not Lemmings #34

I’m back after a twenty-four-hour Internet blackout of Upper Messenias which kept me “in the dark” but now I see Andreas Andersson has jumped on board and I thank him for that. Andreas has two blogs—both worth investigating—here and here, do you hear?

Black As Only Loneliness Can Be

Mid-February

In our flowering solitary

Almond, one lone starling—

You don't know how black

Loneliness can be.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Where Ian Fleming Got the Name “Pussy Galore”

After reading  Mr. Zambaras’ latest Weekly Hubris column, I did some more investigation on the small, west coast town of Raymond, Washington, where Mr. Zambaras says he spent his formative years. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that even Ian Fleming was cognizant of the town’s raucous, raunchy, sinful past, primarily because (as knowledgeable sources are quick to point out), he was a great fan of Stuart Holbrook, and as such, is reputed to have read Holbrook’s classic, The Far Corner: A Personal View of the Pacific Northwest, New York: The Macmillan Company, 1952. Of course Fleming’s knowledge of the existence of that house of ill-repute par excellence in Raymond called “Whores Galore” explains where he got the inspiration to name his villainess and is a strong counter-argument against the one put forward by Wikipedia.

Moderator's comments: Jesus, the next thing Cinquor will try to prove is that Eric Burdon spent the night in "Whores Galore" waiting for the sun to rise! Mercy!

"The Cistern": Seferis and Coulentianos

 

Here in the earth a cistern has taken root

den of secret water that gathers there.

Its roof, resounding steps. The stars

don’t blend with its heart. Each day

grows, opens and shuts, doesn’t touch it.

The world above opens like a fan

and plays with the wind’s breath

in a rhythm that expires at sunset

flaps its wings hopelessly and throbs

at the whistling of a destined suffering.

On the curve of a dome of pitiless night

cares tread, joys move by

with fate’s quick rattle

faces light up, shine a moment

and die out in an ebony darkness.

Faces that go! In rows, the eyes

roll in a gutter of bitterness

and the signs of the great day 
take them up and bring them closer

to the black earth that asks no ransom.

George Seferis, poem one of the sequence “The Cistern”, translation by  E. Keeley and P. Sherrard.

Published in 1932, “The Cistern” marked Seferis’ abandonment of a rhymed, lyrical mode in favor of a more natural and freer one that is characteristic of all his later poems; the Greek sculptor Kostas Coulentianos (1918-1995) did some drawings for this poem which were first exhibited in Paris in 1950; in 1975 the Greek publishing firm “Themelio” issued a folio containing the drawings as well as the poem in Seferis’ own handwriting—exquisite—the poem seems to be chiseled onto the paper.

Of course I don't remember where/when I found this treasure but at least I know how much I paid for it because it’s penciled in on the last page: 300 drachmas then or approximately .80 euro now or about $1.08 as long as the US treasury lasts.

William Michaelian, eat your heart out!

The Form vs Content Thesis One Last Time

What shapes us remains

As much a form

Of communion

As a communion

Of forms

Every time.