. . . . . the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shals and hot stoves to sleep on as snug as though you are dead and yet you are alive , , , , , [As translated]
From “Crime and Punishment” by Fyodor Dostoevsky
My song is the soft surge chant,
the metric measure of meaningless moments,
the times that lisp to all craven course,
the precocious promise of a poached egg.
I give neither to melancholy,
la malheureuse;
cast not hither or thither
the priggish pomposity, nor bid to
the bastard’s bombastity -
But, to look past
the obvious,
peer precipitously into
the imperceptible and flush free
fresh creed of
the same reality.
I seek neither like nor as for
such righteous
pursuit, but then
the first press of Provence,
the purple of puce,
the plural of pleasure,
the cristylyn cakes,
the t of the past,
the butcher's reserve,
the prides restraint in
the midst of madness . . .
Châz
