Sunday Songs: O Hell

O Hell

To clear the drifts of spring
Of our forebear’s excrements
And bury the subconscious archives
Under unaffected flowers

Indeed —

Our person is a covered entrance to infinity
Choked with the tatters of tradition

Goddesses and Young Gods
Caress the sanctity of Adolescence
In the shaft of the sun.

— Mina Loy

So the above two photos pretty much have nothing to do with the poem except that they were taken during the summer by my boyfriend on his film SLR… and that has to do with the poem because of um the implications of the past and the sunniness of the photos. Yeah, I know. It’s a bit of a stretch but they’re good photos nonetheless.

Mina Loy was an early 20th century writer, recently canonized with the Modernists. She was heavily influenced by the Futurists in Italy until she realized that basically they were chauvinistic assholes. However, the influences are quite evident in the poem. Basically, the past of history, the past of ourselves prevents what truly is and truly could be. It laments the inability to simply erase the past with the new birth of spring, to cover tradition under  ‘unaffected flowers’. As many of the Modernists write, the past never stays in the past. It is as present as this very word you’re reading. The last part of the poem is a celebration of youth, not for it’s physical beauty but for it’s newness, the lack of a past and it’s consequences.

I just caught The Hunger Games last night and Oh. My. God. A book to movie has NEVER been so satisfying!!!!!!!!!! I really can’t recommend the trilogy and the movie enough. Having read the books, the movie does it justice and is far more satisfying than the Harry Potter movies ever were compared to the books. I highly recommend both the books and the movies. If you have a daughter, I’d urge you to indulge and discuss The Hunger Games. There aren’t enough strong female protagonists and Katniss Everdeen is a rarity for young girls to look up to. Otherwise, I’m just going to keep preaching about the gospels of Tina Fey’s Bossypants.

Sunday Songs: Recipes

At the dinner party the women
who intends to make love to my husband
tries to give me a recipe.
I have too many now, ones
I’ve saved for years from magazines
as if they’re messages
of love or wisdom
that will teach me how to live.

They spill from drawers,
from the pockets of my bathrobe,
the pages of my books. Still
she persists, reciting
the ingredients: smoked salmon,
a cup of cream, lemon,
green onions, garlic, and basil.
You’ll love it, she says,
and don’t hold back–
it’s the spices
that make all the difference.

Later when we’re home
exchanging stories about the party
before we go to bed,
he says her name out loud,
three times
in the course of conversation
as if he likes the sound of it,
as if he savours each
creamy vowel, each piquant
consonant on his tongue.

I am brushing my teeth.
I pretend I haven’t noticed.
At least, I tell my self,
I’ll know if he’s been with her —
the smell of garlic
where her fingers sweep across his belly
just below the novel
the oh so delicate taste of
basil on his skin.

— Lorna Crozier

I first came upon this poem a year ago in class and I loved the subtle accusations, the connotations, and the overall tone of the poem; so salacious. Also, Lorna Crozier is Canadian!

Sorry about the lack of posts. I’m finally into my Reading Break and pulled two all-nighters last week trying to get my papers in and studying for midterms. Hopefully it’ll stop raining so I can take some pictures this week! Hope you’ve all been more well-rested than me.

Here are some photos taken from my boyfriend’s personal film SLR, some of which are the last shots before his F-1 was stolen.

Perhaps I’m just a sentimentalist, but there really is something special about film photos.