|January 21, 2013|
by Eugenia Leigh
Jesus said, Do not worry about your life,
what you will eat or drink. Or about your body,
what you will wear. So you cleared
your cupboards. Lay naked on the shelf
where I found you. I mistook you
for a loaf I had prayed for. You let me
take you in my mouth and I binged
on your flesh. Both of us—unaware—
we should have prayed for love
instead of crumbs. —Still now, small
morsels of you on my tongue.
About the Author:
Eugenia Leigh is a Korean American poet and Kundiman fellow who holds an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poetry manuscript was a finalist for the 2011 National Poetry Series, and her poems have appeared in North American Review, The Collagist, Lantern Review and PANK Magazine, among other publications. Born in Chicago and raised in Los Angeles, Eugenia currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
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The hour changes time into other forms of desire. A woman needs no bra in summer. A kiss after a fuck. A way to depart. She spends her entire life preparing to leave, play with verbs and nouns and syllables but there is no language for what we can’t give. Lovemaking isn’t about love; it’s about making a noise or a rhythm, arranging a life, giving an order, the way we weep on a wish to wash it away.