Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Grumpy Nietzschean Cat speaks

 

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https://www.facebook.com/GrumpyNietzscheanCat/

Last night …

Last night I had one
of those dreams where
the main action has
already happened,
and you wander around
trying to work out
what has occurred,
and where everything
went,
like a bumbling
store detective …
 
… or like walking
into a home where an
argument still hangs
in the air, like a forgotten
helium balloon
from a fractious
party …
 
… trying desperately
to reconstruct
the past,
confabulating madly
like a man
who has ruined
his memory
with alcohol …
 
… but very like simply
being a human being,
wondering what all those
people in the past
could have been thinking
to leave behind
this curious mess.
—————-
———— (Julian O’Dea)

her heart fluttered

Cartoons by Raymond Peynet:

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her heart fluttered and
she clasped her breasts
as if they were gentle birds
about to leave their nests

(Julian O’Dea)

 

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Five rabbit haiku

warm night
the wild rabbits
are close

the colour
of the soil
wild rabbits

startled rabbits
brown white
brown white

in the tangle
of the landscape
rabbits

morning
the rabbits fade
into the ground

 

(Julian O’Dea)

Eternity

A verse, a poem,

its roots in eternity,

its fruit taken

daily, high, low by

groping hands,

tasting sweet hour

after hour, day

after day,

never sour.

 

(Julian O’Dea)

Francine Faure

Francine Faure was married to Albert Camus. Much as I admire Camus as a serious writer and thinker, it is hard to take him seriously as a moralist given his treatment of her.

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Francine Faure.

Francine Faure, a pretty if physically delicate mathematician from a provincial middle-class family in Oran.

“It is reasonable to think that these suicide attempts were related, at least partially, to the humiliation and disorientation that Francine may have felt because of Camus’s open marital infidelity.”

By the pool

By the pool
the lizards shed
the skin of time
and turn to stone.
 
Wallabies leap from
the dusty road ahead
and disappear.
 
While strips of bark hang
down like streamers
on a wharf when
the ship is gone.
 
And the sunstruck
bushman finds the final
place to lay his head.
—————– (Julian O’Dea)