Na oficina de poesia...

... estivemos, na passada quarta feira a analisar um texto de Robert Duncan que acho que alguns de vós vão gostar:

SOURCE

Or: I work at the language as a spring of water works at the rock, to find a course, and so, blindly. In this I am not a maker of a way. For the way in itself. It is well enuf to speak of water's having its destination in the sea, and so to picture almost a knowing in the course; but the sea is only the end of ways - could the stream find a further couse, it would go on. And vast as the language is, it is no end but a resistance thru which a poem might move - as it flows or dances or puddles in time - making it up in its going aloneg and yet going only as it breaks the resistance of the language.
When I was about twelve - I suppose about the age of Narcissus - I fell in love with a mountain stream. There, most intensely for a summer, staring into its limpid cold rush, I knew the fullest pain of longing. To be of it, entirely, to be out of my being and enter the Other clear impossible element. The imagination, old shape-shifter, strecht itself painfully to comprehend the beloved form.
Then all windings and pools, all rushing on, constant inconstancy, all streams out of springs we do not know where, all rush of senses and intellect thru time of being - lifts me up; as if out of the pulse of my bloody flesh, the gasp of breath upon breath (like a fish out of water) there were another continuum, an even-purling stream, crystal and deep, down there, but a flow of waters.
I write this only to explain some of the old ache of longing that revives when I apprehend again the currents of language - rushing upon their way, or in pools, vacant energies below meaning, hidden to our purposes. Often, reading or writing, the fullest pain returns, and I see or hear or almost know a pure element of clearness, an utter movement, an absolute rush along its own way, that makes of even the words under my pen a foreign element that I may crave - as for kingdom or salvation or freedom - but ever know.

Roobert Duncan, Letters [1953-56]


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