Sunday, December 18, 2011

No matter how thin and flimsy / On Samuel Beckett


for Jonathan Jones

Sometimes a single phrase or a word, the whorl of a letter, a word grain, an image. A single moment in language, a single moment, the apprehension of something ‘true.’ Real in a rhizomatic way. Like suddenly seeing a single molecule of something. A thing no matter how thin and flimsy. Humans made out of these thin and flimsy things. Human thought.

When something ‘speaks’ to us, it is a fragment. A quick flash of something. A single leaf in a forest of otherwhere. Or everyhere. A consolation. An encouragement. A confirmation.

Imagination, memory, experience, compassion. The human. Rhizomes. 


between the snowflakes
Samuel Beckett

space for a whole forest
of Becketts


Samuel Beckett
falls from above

with an open mouth
fills with sky

a Samuel Beckett
that has no face

is filled with sky
a body’s worth


a Samuel Beckett
with a thousand fingers

feathers reaching to the sun
begin at the beginning and stay there


what does it mean to be Samuel Beckett
when you are a bird

a thousand Samuel Becketts in a swarm
a transforming liquid of solid flight


sandra said...

so long, so long
looking for something buried

when it was there
all the time

just small

Eccentric Scholar said...

I love your line, "When something ‘speaks’ to us, it is a fragment."

Pearl said...


thought you'd like this: