I hope never to feel completely fulfilled because then the point of the journey would be destroyed. You have got to have curiousity, hunger, and slight anxiety.
--Joanna Trollope
Showing posts with label Hunger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hunger. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Never enough
You are
cool drink
and unquenchable thirst
you are
quiet satiety
and unapeasable hunger
you are
soft touch
and howling itch
the more I get of you
the more I want.
--Suzanne DeWitt Hall
cool drink
and unquenchable thirst
you are
quiet satiety
and unapeasable hunger
you are
soft touch
and howling itch
the more I get of you
the more I want.
--Suzanne DeWitt Hall
Saturday, October 3, 2009
He's built perfection out of hunger
The Rumi poem in the previous post from this morning echoes the theme of a separation between truth and love.
It reminds me of an exhibit I saw a few years ago at the Corning Museum of Glass; a collection of unbelievably lifelike plants, flowers, and fruit all made of glass.
They were in cases and could not be touched but were so incredibly real that in many cases you could not tell that they were not.
So there they were, these creations of man, mimicking the wonder of God's creative power, but lacking the softness, the scent, and the fruition of His work.
Beautiful imitations. Brittle and fragile and forced, like facts without love.
The poem below says it well (and even mentions peaches).
The Ware Collection of Glass Flowers and Fruit, Harvard Museum
by Mark Doty
Strange paradise, complete with worms,
monument of an obsessive will to fix forms;
every apricot or yellow spot's seen so closely,
in these blown blooms and fruit, that exactitude
is not quite imitation. Leaf and root,
the sweet flag's flaring bud already,
at the tip, blackened; it's hard to remember
these were ballooned and shaped by breath
they're lovely because they seem
to decay; blue spots on bluer plums,
mold tarring a striped rose. I don't want to admire
the glassblower's academic replica,
his copies correct only to a single sense.
And why did a god so invested in permanence
choose so fragile a medium, the last material
he might expect to last? Better prose
to tell the forms of things, or illustration.
Though there's something seductive in this impossibility:
transparent color telling the live mottle of peach,
the blush or tint of crab, englobed,
gorgeous, edible. How else match that flush?
He's built a perfection out of hunger,
fused layer upon layer, swirled until
what can't be swallowed, won't yield
almost satisfies, an art
mouthed to the shape of how soft things are,
how good, before they disappear
It reminds me of an exhibit I saw a few years ago at the Corning Museum of Glass; a collection of unbelievably lifelike plants, flowers, and fruit all made of glass.
They were in cases and could not be touched but were so incredibly real that in many cases you could not tell that they were not.
So there they were, these creations of man, mimicking the wonder of God's creative power, but lacking the softness, the scent, and the fruition of His work.
Beautiful imitations. Brittle and fragile and forced, like facts without love.
The poem below says it well (and even mentions peaches).
The Ware Collection of Glass Flowers and Fruit, Harvard Museum
by Mark Doty
Strange paradise, complete with worms,
monument of an obsessive will to fix forms;
every apricot or yellow spot's seen so closely,
in these blown blooms and fruit, that exactitude
is not quite imitation. Leaf and root,
the sweet flag's flaring bud already,
at the tip, blackened; it's hard to remember
these were ballooned and shaped by breath
they're lovely because they seem
to decay; blue spots on bluer plums,
mold tarring a striped rose. I don't want to admire
the glassblower's academic replica,
his copies correct only to a single sense.
And why did a god so invested in permanence
choose so fragile a medium, the last material
he might expect to last? Better prose
to tell the forms of things, or illustration.
Though there's something seductive in this impossibility:
transparent color telling the live mottle of peach,
the blush or tint of crab, englobed,
gorgeous, edible. How else match that flush?
He's built a perfection out of hunger,
fused layer upon layer, swirled until
what can't be swallowed, won't yield
almost satisfies, an art
mouthed to the shape of how soft things are,
how good, before they disappear
Saturday, September 26, 2009
On a hot summer night
I watched part of a rather depressing "documentary" which followed Meatloaf on his recent re-entry tour. Why such a thing was considered worth documenting I'm not quite sure.
It brought to mind the lyrics of one of his songs however.
It brought to mind the lyrics of one of his songs however.
On a hot summer night
would you offer your throat
to the wolf with the red roses?
Will he offer me his mouth?
Yes.
Will he offer me his teeth?
Yes.
Will he offer me his jaws?
Yes.
Will he offer me his hunger?
Yes.
Again; will he offer me his hunger?
Yes.
And will he starve without me?
Yes.
And does he love me?
Yes.
Yes?
On a hot summer night
would you offer your throat
to the wolf with the red roses?
Yes.
would you offer your throat
to the wolf with the red roses?
Will he offer me his mouth?
Yes.
Will he offer me his teeth?
Yes.
Will he offer me his jaws?
Yes.
Will he offer me his hunger?
Yes.
Again; will he offer me his hunger?
Yes.
And will he starve without me?
Yes.
And does he love me?
Yes.
Yes?
On a hot summer night
would you offer your throat
to the wolf with the red roses?
Yes.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Day 12: Yawning hunger
I wonder how the words "yawning" and "hunger" ended up going together.
It doesn't make sense, but at the same time the phrase "yawning hunger" feels so right.
It implies a vastness, a stretching achiness that fits a certain state of being. The one I'm in now, for example.
It doesn't make sense, but at the same time the phrase "yawning hunger" feels so right.
It implies a vastness, a stretching achiness that fits a certain state of being. The one I'm in now, for example.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
St. Augustine inflamed
"I have learnt to love you late, Beauty at once so ancient and so new! I have learnt to love you late! You were within me, and I was in the world outside myself. I searched for you outside myself and, disfigured as I was, I fell upon the lovely things of your creation. You were with me, but I was not with you. The beautiful things of this world kept me far from you and yet, if they had not been in you, they would have had no being at all. You called me; you cried aloud to me; you broke my barrier of deafness. You shone upon me; your radiance enveloped me; you put my blindness to flight; you shed your fragrance about me; I drew breath and now I grasp your sweet odour, I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am inflamed with love of your peace."
(Confessions, X, 27)
(Confessions, X, 27)
Monday, February 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Love is a hungry infant
How strange it is
to love a love that must be hushed
like a hungry infant
crying out in a place of silence.
--Chantelle Franc
to love a love that must be hushed
like a hungry infant
crying out in a place of silence.
--Chantelle Franc
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