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At the doorway of sleep lies an abyss, ripe for the falling. Careful,
now! The ledge is slippery. Soundlessly, a pebble slips over; barely
seen, now gone forever. Down below, we see the moon and the stars,
spinning light through autumn trees, pets long dead, the faces of loved
ones; our advancing peril.
58963 impromptu nº1
I might have as well called this cabin fever, but I decided against it.
In our confinements, the mind may wander off to strange corners of the
soul, or simply turn outwards and put common household objects to new
uses. This impromptu arose from a whim involving a clothes drying rack
and two unmatched contact microphones.
58952 a poem for burning
A small trusted circle would … memorise each other’s works and circulate
them only by oral means. She tells how Akhmatova would write out her
poem for a visitor on a scrap of paper to be read in a moment, then
burnt in her stove. … “It was like a ritual,” Chukovskaya wrote. “Hands,
matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.”
58818 nocturnes ~
(album) How heavy the blackness is, yet how easily pierced by light. The
night reluctantly recedes from the advance of electricity; a grid of
incandescent windows, the shreik of a bright advertisement, the swinging
beams of a passing vehicle. The fragments of night scuttle off in all
directions, to hide in the glades, and collect the in dark corners, the
lightless caverns of the imagination.
This anthology draws acousmatic portraits of reveries or direct
experiences of the night, whose interchange with the day forms one of
the most fundamental dichotomies of human existence.
- night poem 8 m
- milky way 10 m
- passage 18 m
nocturne 15 m
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