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Channel Posts
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
George Herbert
| 2 |  No text... | 244 |
| 3 | The Feast of Nothing by Batzrov | 216 |
| 4 | To desire annihilation is to desire liberation. | 212 |
| 5 |  No text... | 1 |
| 6 | Slaves will bear slaves, more slaves to wither with. | 245 |
| 7 | Freud_Uncanny.pdf | 358 |
| 8 | https://youtu.be/DOYWmxr4GsM?si=aryjm95Vf66hPZbX
https://islgr.wordpress.com/2016/10/17/windbag-of-aeolus/
You cannot conceive the beauty or the ugliness of this world when you are observing it from a distance. You have to approach, dive into its depths and explore… It is only then that awareness and objectiveness are acquired. (From the film) | 359 |
| 9 | https://youtu.be/9cqP5HpEUXU?si=hum_h3gqYgpwu6yl
Rest in Peace to this beautiful soul of a person.
Jan. 22, 1961 - September 11, 2019 | 405 |
| 10 | Есть сборник эссе Мориса Бланшо, "The Work of Fire", среди них есть несколько о сюрреалистах (а еще его великое "Литература и право на смерть"). Надежды и открытия автоматического письма сейчас читаются совсем по-другому. "Автоматическое письмо" тогда отсылало к (личному?) "бессознательному", которое бы двигало текст вперед в отсутствие сознания – но теперь мы видим, что текст отлично двигается вперед и статистическими закономерностями самого дискурса. (Можно, наверное, называть это коллективным бессознательным)
Когда я в первый раз читал эту книгу, я вычитал фразу, которую сейчас не могу найти – видимо я ее сам придумал: То, что обнаружили сюрреалисты через автоматическое письмо, это что письмо без участия сознания вообще мало отличается от письма с его участием.
В общем, Бланшо написал один из самых романтичных текстов о ChatGPT, неспособном потерять сознание:
"Литература - это тот опыт, через который сознание открывает свое бытие в своей неспособности потерять сознание, в движении, посредством которого, исчезая, отрываясь от щепетильности "я", оно воссоздается за пределами бессознательного как безличная спонтанность, отчаянное стремление измученного знания, которое ничего не знает, которого никто не знает, и которое невежество всегда обнаруживает позади себя как свою собственную тень, превратившуюся во взгляд." | 406 |
| 11 |  No text... | 385 |
| 12 | https://theamericanreader.com/jenesuispasliberal-entering-the-quagmire-of-online-leftism/ | 379 |
| 13 | What a poet I search his name up on google and barely anything shows up tbh I forgot how this poem even came to that channel (maybe twitter somewhere from the ether) died in 1981, I wonder what other thoughts he would have had had he witnessed more. | 449 |
| 14 | Oh exiled from the burnt shoulder of the desert to the whorehouse of Tehran!
Tehran turned you, before you died, into an anonymous grave
Do not get up from your bed,
But do tell me: where is your grave so I can shower it with a silken cloth of
words!
Death to the poet who does not know the secret of the trench and of the star!
Long live you who knew this secret!
And through a white breast upon which slept a host of angels
You fed the oblique eyes of the virgin deer with milk
Oh hidden from the eyes of the mateless me!
Oh the only man madly obsessed with Hamlet’s Ophelia!
Oh drowned in silent lagoons, in autumn leaves, in deserted peninsulas, in
fallen avalanches, in salt lakes, in balding hills, in bird nests, in starless
skies, in orbitless suns, in terraces overlooking emptiness, in alleys
devoid of the lover’s steps!
Aided by love, I will drag you out of the grave!
Death to the poet who does not know the secret of the spear and of the blood!
Long live you who also knew the secret of the trench and of the star!
[The first time I saw you, I lost you; I saw you once again, I lost you
once again; when I found you, you were insane. You read poems,
poems, poems; you read the poems again and again, and with a sharp
long scissor, you looked for the throat of a ghoul. It was never clear
why you wanted to knife at a “dream.” Perhaps you wanted to know
what a “dream” meant. And once, you told a “whore,” Please move on
madam, I am not that kind of a man. And once too you wanted to be
shot from the muzzle of a cannon, since a woman who had committed
suicide was dragged out of a motel and the rain was pouring over her
face and you kept saying, “Don’t die! Don’t die!” And the woman? She
had already died hours before. And then you introduced me to the
other patients at the asylum. You sent Simin Daneshvar and me to ask
for the hand of a woman with light-colored eyes whom you had fallen
in love with in the asylum. Saedi asked, “Two insane ones? And then
what?” As if we were all sane! —And that night oh pioneer of the poets
of the world’s aphasia!—what did you whisper in the ears of the woman
with the light-colored eyes? The baffled admirer was looking at your
red hair. Is she alive so that I can ask after the amorousness of your
face from the color of her gaze? And once too you said Zohari was a
good guy and someone asked, “Is he a good poet too?” and you began
hiccupping and I lost you once again, found you once again. Were you
tubercular? Were you insane? Had you had a stroke? You had returned
from India. And you and I and my daughter and your son went to
Darband, or Darakeh, and we took pictures together. The pictures are
depressed Ismael! It is as if the eyes of time have cried over them!
They are posthumous pictures Ismael! As if they are pictures in the
hands of mothers with dead sons. Aided by love, I will drag you out of
the grave! Aided by love, I will drag you out of the grave! Aided by love,
I will drag you of the grave!]
Death to the poet who does not know the secret of love and of death!
Long live you who also knew the secret of the spear and of the blood!
translated from the Persian by Poupeh Missaghi | 415 |
| 15 | from Ismael
(A Long Poem)
Reza Baraheni
Dedicated to the tainted memory of my friend Ismael Shahroudi (Ayandeh) [Future] who died in the fall of 1981 in Tehran.
Ismael Shahroudi (1924–1981)
I swear to your red eyes my dear Ismael
That the sun, one day, will shine better than the day you died
I swear to your white hair that was also red for a while
That the sun one day, that the sun one day, that the sun one day
Will shine better than the day you died
Oh you acquaintance of mine in the purple gardens of madness and kisses!
Oh you lying on the spring bed of Mehregan Hospital!
Oh penniless freedom singer standing on the stairs of mercy
Oh lonely tears entrusted to the breeze of the asylum!
Oh more poetist than your poems and our poems!
Oh you devastated in the university, in schools, in cafes, in bars
And in the affections of your wife and child and ungrateful friends like us!
Oh you hopeful that one day Stalin would rise in Churchill Street
And your comrades would send you to Moscow for treatment of your piss
retention!
Oh eternal paradox! Lover of Stalin, De Gaulle, Al-e Ahmad, Ho Chi Minh,
a woman with light-colored eyes, and Siavash Kasraii, all together!
Oh you who in the asylums of Tehran dreamed of hospitals at the beaches
of Crimea!
Oh you who wanted to send your son to the Soviet Union but instead sent him
to the US!
Oh you who, in your rented apartment in Amir Abad, dreamed of the Lenin
Prize!
From the expensive stairs of the private asylum that siphoned off your pension,
You called out for freedom!
And imagined that B. is of Castro’s cloth and K. of Lenin’s canvas!
Oh eternal paradox! Whose soul’s simplicity exceeded all your beliefs’
complexity,
And your simplicity was a beehive that seemed to have just one queen, whose
other bees were not there!
Oh you like an orchard of walnut trees in the mind of the simple children
of poetry!
Oh Ismael!
Oh you standing in line for the city’s medical labs, a tall glass container in your
hand, and a jungle of colorful images in your head!
Oh you sleepwalker of the east and the west!
Oh you the betrayed!
Oh you memory-less after sessions of electric shock!
Oh you fasting of love!
Oh you acquaintance of mine in the purple gardens of madness and kisses!
The half-black half-brown buttons of your swollen breasts smell like kissing
Your two naked shoulders look like two one-eyed ghouls observing the world
through dead skin
You watch
You cannot speak, instead of speaking you kiss
Do not get up, from your bed, do not get up, Ismael! Whenever you speak, I
break into tears wondering why you cannot speak
Oh late spring of words over a tainted flower garden of a depressed mouth, Oh
Ismael do not get up from your bed!
Oh you the same age as the King, the contemporary of oppression, the citizen
of torture!
Oh wandering sparrow in rented houses!
Oh true son of both Ibrahim and Nima
Oh homeless, Oh skyless, Oh roofless, Oh earthless!
Oh empty-handed shadow-dweller of this heavy-hearted era
Oh poet of a hand-to-mouth generation
Where is your grave so that aided by love I can drag you out of its depth?
Oh Ismael! Oh my brother, do not get up from your bed!
Your memory is the breakfast I ate on the first day of the Revolution
The memory of your death
Is the water from the ablution I gave the filled-with-holes martyr of the Revolution
Do not get up from your bed!
Oh you who have forgotten words both one by one and in groups,
For God’s sake, do not get up from your bed!
—Like a sky that forgets its birds in regiments
Like a night that forgets its stars—
Do not get up from your bed!
Oh wounded father of the wailing birds of the sky of Iran!
Oh young poetry reciter of thirty years ago for laborers!
When you should have gotten their autographs because they understood
your poem
Because there was a poem that laborers too could understand— | 366 |
| 16 |  Simone Weil, Human Personality | 412 |
| 17 | The tree is really rooted in the sky.
Simone Weil | 440 |
| 18 |  Pacino Di Bonaguida, Tree of life | 484 |
| 19 |  Simone Weil, Human Personality (useful for those who like plant philosophy) | 444 |
| 20 |  Claire Colebrook | 683 |
