Ends Each day I awaken And pursue objectives. I go to sleep when it is over Only to reawaken. These so-called days And nights are curious. They lead to more Days and nights. Maybe there is no Goal in itself but the sun And only maps Which lead to other maps And every day is pursued For its own sake. Impossible Wish I think I prefer it infinitely to be out west. For here the sun sets into the mouth of the sea. And the steam made by this meeting makes the clouds, which soar high up overhead. And when the sky is full of them, clouds, they burst…until the sea is filled again with water… Then, as the moon rises, its light swirls the darkness and the sea around—it fills me with joy to watch and understand. Yet… as the sun rises out of the sea, it means that we’re back in the east. And I know that this is the matter with the west, and I have a sudden need to be in the east at the same time as the west, which is not possible. The Home In my time I have known Great painters great poets Great philosophers and Great pornographers, And still I have not known A great architect. Introduce him to me, And I am bound to inform him Of a huge sadness . . Let him make a house for it. A Concept The athlete awoke at dawn to perform his ritual . . . As he lifted his sack, a sack of stones, he heard the voice of the sea— It awaited him beyond the cliffs! . . “I love the sea,” he sang, “I love you, even if you have no purpose Besides giving human beings pleasure, and allowing them to dream spectacular dreams!” In response, the sea spoke. . “And you too are beautiful, human, Which in itself is enough for me, For the sea, more than anyone else, relishes beauty, I have no purpose!” When the athlete completed the ritual, he lay by the sea, and bathed beneath the sun Which had already made possible everything. “I am the sun,” it spoke— “I give as well as take life, And that is all that I shall ever do. I can conceive of no better purpose, than the purpose Which I have always had—this purpose I have never questioned. . . What is beauty? What is this thing, the sea? What is athlete? But someday I too will perish. What is it, sun? What is this concept which you call purpose?” The athlete lay by the sea, But he did not think at all of the sun’s speech. . . . There he dreamed that he was a sack of stones. . . . from Dreaming at Noon Michael G. Donkin
these are all so nice