Cixous, Helene. First Days of the Year. Trans. Catherine A.F. MacGillivray. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998. [Originally published as Jours de l’an 1990.]
“Writing had returned, the stream, the slender silent stream with its singing arms, the blood flow in the veins between the bodies, the wordless dialogue from blood to blood, with no sense of the distances, the magic flux full of silent words flowing” (3).
my life force my calling forth from shadows.
come calling and I come and answer the door. a night lock. a quarter of hair slipped under the door in the half light of a moon prance.
human time but woman’s time too.
We do not write. We haunt along.
I make my best flight under the auspice of a broken book. a bad dessert. desertion.
dawn cracks an egg on the horizon of my lost two gallon soup-pot.
it is enough today to take an outstretched hand.
promises wait and undo love. I would settle for the hero’s mask. the weight of off-white daffodils.
I am in an oceanography exhibit.
I am in that word as well.
the author, a word that makes me shudder cold.
over the rest I cast a spell with hopes of dalliance and falling stars.
the essential range of a rainy Saturday waits at my white-washed ledge.
I had invented sad sickness. unwearable weight of thebody.
how to say it?
what we have seen. truth.
True. Translation. Torment of the unnamable ghost.
Already everything. My own time. Behold a shell will burst into baby eyes. Tenuous. Limestone. Awaiting the birth of blades of glass.
the wake of my last sleep slipping into sound. often the awareness of the nasty light will function as enough.
the bird like death of backward looking. the tulip feet. the face that can never say no/young/you/or already-enough.
my gray cat right foot left hand. a stroke survivor sits alive in her satellite dish. this boring promenade. the prom. this poem. oh holy kite.
one thigh upon the morning lyre I cannot think of sleep but turning over in my mourning bed of flowers I wake to purple sheets.
a text by skillfull duress duress decision.
turning around under navy sly of a vast chrome kitchen.
to love a fish breeds flesh of satis-fiction.
dressing fear. clown then crown it. twist around it. burning bow.
I do not love this fear; I do esteem it. I do not love this world but fling myself brashly to it.
We are ten years old, entirely body. We are twentyfive, the age of science fiction.
When wanted to play the role of other, I respond no to the speaking subject’s yes. In this alien knowing, we unite our low ceiling crash of epistemic frames.
Crushing my horse-prince over and over against the gated tower, I find on my tongue an inscribable ending. my purely satin knowing.
“Writing had returned, the stream, the slender silent stream with its singing arms, the blood flow in the veins between the bodies, the wordless dialogue from blood to blood, with no sense of the distances, the magic flux full of silent words flowing” (3).
my life force my calling forth from shadows.
come calling and I come and answer the door. a night lock. a quarter of hair slipped under the door in the half light of a moon prance.
human time but woman’s time too.
We do not write. We haunt along.
I make my best flight under the auspice of a broken book. a bad dessert. desertion.
dawn cracks an egg on the horizon of my lost two gallon soup-pot.
it is enough today to take an outstretched hand.
promises wait and undo love. I would settle for the hero’s mask. the weight of off-white daffodils.
I am in an oceanography exhibit.
I am in that word as well.
the author, a word that makes me shudder cold.
over the rest I cast a spell with hopes of dalliance and falling stars.
the essential range of a rainy Saturday waits at my white-washed ledge.
I had invented sad sickness. unwearable weight of thebody.
how to say it?
what we have seen. truth.
True. Translation. Torment of the unnamable ghost.
Already everything. My own time. Behold a shell will burst into baby eyes. Tenuous. Limestone. Awaiting the birth of blades of glass.
the wake of my last sleep slipping into sound. often the awareness of the nasty light will function as enough.
the bird like death of backward looking. the tulip feet. the face that can never say no/young/you/or already-enough.
my gray cat right foot left hand. a stroke survivor sits alive in her satellite dish. this boring promenade. the prom. this poem. oh holy kite.
one thigh upon the morning lyre I cannot think of sleep but turning over in my mourning bed of flowers I wake to purple sheets.
a text by skillfull duress duress decision.
turning around under navy sly of a vast chrome kitchen.
to love a fish breeds flesh of satis-fiction.
dressing fear. clown then crown it. twist around it. burning bow.
I do not love this fear; I do esteem it. I do not love this world but fling myself brashly to it.
We are ten years old, entirely body. We are twentyfive, the age of science fiction.
When wanted to play the role of other, I respond no to the speaking subject’s yes. In this alien knowing, we unite our low ceiling crash of epistemic frames.
Crushing my horse-prince over and over against the gated tower, I find on my tongue an inscribable ending. my purely satin knowing.
posted by Monica @ 7:33 AM
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