Two Poems by Hannah VanderHart
|April 19, 2013|
Rock & Water
In modern English, Scylla is the ‘rock,’
Charybdis the ‘hard place.’ When they are
framed this way they ease the mind—
simpler terms for trouble than any location
between a six-headed rock & a gasping
mouth in the ocean’s face. The rock goes in
the right side pocket, the hard place in the
left. Uncannily, Charybdis leaks. The next
time your mother says ‘you are lost,’ tell her
that between the heads & mouth you go singing.
That ‘sleepless’ is ‘wakeful,’
that deprivation is gain
in the right refrain.
A law sleeps
when the people
overlook its being.
time to sleep is in
the darkness of night.
Do all laws sleep at night
and do we agitate in beds
because of it.
A question may sleep,
a weapon may sleep,
For to be awake
at all hours
The dead, the careless,
the inattentive or
The text sleeps,
wrapped in its
But the top
rests in movement
About the Author:
Hannah VanderHart lives by the Severn River in Annapolis, MD. She is a graduate fellow at Georgetown University, where she works with the Lannan Center for Poetics and Social Practice. She has poetry published across the US, to include Prick of the Spindle, Rock & Sling, Measure, and also in the UK (1110).
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.