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Monomythic Memory

@daysondarksun

Writing Out My Rites
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januaryhoney
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venettaoctavia
Ezra Pound said he saw an apparition of faces in the Metro station. I know what he meant, I think. All ghosts go to live there. All ghosts are born there. The word ‘goodbye’ was born there. I left him on the train that day and looked into the window as it moved off, His face a blur. Apparition number one, I stripped you down to your teeth once and laid you out bare on the grass, butterfly at your throat. Knife and hunger: I remember. Apparition number two, I stumbled across your honey jar, leaned my head down to taste the comb, came up with eyes blazing and teeth sharp. You were transubstantiation, I was myth. After that, the skies came. After that, there was thunder and the sun. I saw everything in the stars and saw it repeated again in the rivers. I saw, I saw. Believe me, apparition number three, I saw. Ezra Pound said these apparitions were like petals on a dark, wet bough but I disagree. Pain is not art. There is no beauty to be found in the hazy mist of faces that keep you up screaming at night. Believe me, I know, I have lived where he has never gone.

Venetta Octavia, after Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” (via venettaoctavia)

lifeinpoetry
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poetsandwriters
Language, like people, can be perpetually in flux. That words are, in a sense, bodies moving from one space to another. Our very cells, too, are always moving. They are just overflowing, and dying, and being reborn. What is seemingly so static is actually constantly in motion.

Ocean Vuong (Divedapper, 2016)