from *l/anguish by M. NourbeSe Philip
by Angelica van Clarke (all work my own)
Two questions for today.
- Can language care?
- Can language redress a wound?
Think of it as a wound, which disguised itself under many plasters. The nurse dressed you, then left. You then began to dress yourself. When the plaster ceased to be of use you held on to the strands. (It is not quite clear what is wound and what is padding, to say the least.) They separate. Fizzle out, cling on, want significance. (Meaning: meaning). I am told to be sincere… I am grateful for your care… You come to my aid, wrap my dressing, and pause – revoke, change, transform. Poetry is a craft. Poetry is a craft.
(from notebook, date unknown, late December).
(note: ‘they say ideal beauty cannot enter the house of anguish’)
Cat_s cradle (or what…) (click to open: 579 words on relevant theme)