Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Wound at the Edge of the Heart...

I see well what limits my gaze; and it is precisely there, against those high insurmountable walls, that I like to get lost

To give a name to this joy would be to mislay itThese are approximations because the mystery remains whole

Writing. By tiny brushstrokes, tiny hard brushstrokes. Brevity, from the heart

Shadows that arise and lie down as evening comes on, lengthening shadows that cross the hills and that I watch until they disappear, with a final leap, beyond the last ridge where I know that they will continue to break up and fade yet where also, it seems to me, inexplicably, a kind of speech gathers them together...

The wound at the edge of the heart, the tireless night cricket, and the sculpting of the sky amid the crackling of the solar grass are all nourished by the same hope

Only the black and white magpie flies across the landscape as if it did not exist. The magpie becomes engraving, writing. It has absorbed the landscape

~ Text: Poem fragments from Pierre-Albert Jourdan

~ Images: from Eleanor Mikus: Shadows of the Real.

~ Sounds that remind me of Pierre-Albert Jourdan’s poetry:

Kulning (Swedish Herding Calls) * John Cage (Litany for the Whale, Postcards from Heaven, In a Landscape) * Gyorgy Kurtag (Message to Frances-Marie: The Answered Unanswered Question) * Valentin Silvestrov (The Messenger) * Frederico Mompou (Charmes) * Alexander Knaifel (Amicta Sole (Clothed with the Sun)) * Alfred Schnittke (Voices of Nature / Collected Songs Where Every Verse is Filled with Grief in the Complete String Quartets) * Franz Biber (Passacaglia, with Maya Homburger, Barry Guy, and Pierre Favre) * The Dowland Project (Lachrimae Tristes, Amantis, and Verae) * Thomas Preston (Uppon la, mi, re (Frans Bruggen)) * Arvo Pärt (Pari Intervalo, Manuel Zurria on flute) * Gavin Bryars (Sub Rosa) * Henryk Górecki (Kleines Requiem für eine Polka) * Ingram Marshall (Fog Tropes) * Charles Ives (The Unanswered Question - quiet parts especially) *

Understand that the other shore does not need you

But let us live for a single moment the truth of this branch.

At the far end of this waiting there is a sort of draft of air that sweeps all this waiting away