Yaïr
@nair
7000 (30.03.2024)
İstanbul/Beykoz
9 Haziran 1999
416 okur puanı
Mart 2018 tarihinde katıldı
Dylan ThomasŞiir
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking
Through the rotating shell, strong
As motor muscle on the drill, driving
Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled
Off from the creasing flesh, filed
Through all the irons in the grass, metal
Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly
A creature in my bones I
Rounded my globe of heritage, journey
In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel
Rammed in the marching heart, hole
In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled
Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest
Of hemlock and the blades, rust
My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing
My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second
Rise of the skeleton and
Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood
Spat up from the resuffered pain.
0-30p: Kontrollü okuyucu 📖
40-70p: Hafif bağımlı 👀
80p+: Geçmiş olsun, kitaplar seni ele geçirmiş 😅
But man a second shadow throws
Beyond the visible he knows:
The mind, untrammelled, can outfly
the nets of mutability
And shake the shade that hugs him close.
Deniz yüzmez
@denizyuzmez
·i
In a dark time, the eye begins to see.
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
ii
What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.
iii
A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.
iv
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
The Ethics of Memory
History, critical history, differs from shared memory in its reluctance to rely on closed memories, that is, in its commitment to looking for alternative lines that connect a past event to its present historical descriptions. In doing history, one makes an ontological commitment to securing the event which the memory is about; not so in the case of a traditional shared memory. Being a fundamentalist in a given tradition amounts to believing that the event-memories of that tradition are indeed memories of true past events. Being a traditionalist, on the other hand, amounts to suspending judgment as to the truthfulness of the tradition’s event-memories. For the traditionalist, the memory itself matters a great deal, while its veracity counts for less.