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Archives for March 2015

Carmina Mucronis: 7


My gift of a silver bangle to you
should balance love’s ledger, that is,
by way of legerdemain, purchasing
a part of the tenure, which ten months
will trick for you your freedom.
O, do not let that Janus-faced owner
of yours – he is neither father nor lover
and everyone knows his legal claim
is specious as his bragging prowess –
lay one shit-smutched finger
on any part of you, your purse foremost,
and least of all the hinges, so fragrant,
smelling of freshly picked lavender.

From the YouTube Music Video Archives: Planctus David super Saul et Jonathan by Peter Abelard, as performed by the Augsburg Early Music Ensemble

The most abstract idea conceivable is the sensuous in its elemental originality. But through which medium can it be presented? Only through music. Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Dolorum solatium,
Laborum remedium,
Mihi mea cithara,
Nunc quo major dolor est,
Justiorque moeror est
Plus est necessaria.

Strages magna populi,
Regis mors et filii,
Hostium victoria,
Ducum desolatio,
Vulgi desperatio,
Luctu replent omnia.

Amalech invaluit
Israel dum corruit,
Infidelis jubilat
Dum lamentis macerat
Se Judaea.

Insultat fidelibus Infidelis populus;
In honorem maximum
Plebs adversa,
In derisum omnium
Fit divina.

Insultantes inquiunt:
“Ecce de quo garriunt,
Qualiter hos perdidit
Deus summus,
Dum a multis occidit
Dominus prostratus.”

Quem primum his praebuit,
Victus rex occubuit;
Talis est electio
Talis consecratio
Vatis magni.

Saul regum fortissime,
Virtus invicta Jonathae,
Qui vos nequit vincere,
Permissus est occidere.

Quasi non esset oleo
Consecratus dominico,
Scelestae manus gladio
Jugulatur in praelio.

Plus fratre mihi Jonatha,
In una mecum anima,
Quae peccata, quae scelera,
Nostra sciderunt viscera!

Expertes montes Gelboe,
Roris sitis et pluviae,
Nec agrorum primitiae
Vestrae succurrunt incolae.

Vae, vae tibi, madida
Tellus caede regia!
Quare te, mi Jonatha,
Manus stravit impia?

Ubi Christus Domini,
Israelque inclyti,
Morte miserabili
Sunt cum suis perditi?

Tu mihi nunc, Jonatha,
Flendus super omnia,
Inter cuncta gaudia
Perpes erit lacryma.

Planctus, Sion filiae,
Super Saul sumite,
Largo cujus munere
Vos ornabant purpurae.

Heu! cur consilio
Acquievi pessimo,
Ut tibi praesidio
Non essem in praelio?

Vel confossus pariter
Morirer feliciter,
Quum, quod amor faciat,
Majus hoc non habeat.

Et me post te vivere
Mori sit assidue,
Nec ad vitam anima
Satis est dimidia.

Vicem amicitiae
Vel unam me reddere,
Oportebat tempore
Summae tunc angustiae;

Triumphi participem
Vel ruinae comitem,
Ut te vel eriperem
Vel tecum occumberem,

Vitam pro te finiens,
Quam salvasti totiens,
Ut et mors nos jungeret
Magis quam disjungeret.

Infausta victoria
Potitus, interea,
Quam vana, quam brevia
Hic percepi gaudia!

Quam cito durissimus
Est secutus nuntius,
Quem in sua anima
Locuta est superbia!

Mortuos quos nuntiat
Illata mors aggregat,
Ut doloris nuntius
Doloris sit socius.

Do quietem fidibus:
Vellem ut et planctibus
Sic possem et fletibus!
Caesis pulsu manibus,
Raucis planctu vocibus
Deficit et spiritus.

Tractatus at a Benedictine Monastery Near Huttledorf: A Propositional Sonnet with Phenomenal Lemma

brother rabbit duck

         But primordial life, wild life striving to erupt into the open – that is lacking.

The world is everything that is the case.
    So garden shears will comprehend the axe.
    I bend at first, then kneel to ask this rose
What case exists as mere atomic facts.
    I feel the soil. The sun is kind to beat
    Upon my backside – meaning what it meant:
The logical picture of facts is thought,
And thought’s proposition, significant.
    Do roots thus know the bloom? Does eye thus see
    Itself? Does work thus play like rose with worm ?
All basic functions of veracity
Can pattern truth to serve the general form:
        Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must
        Be silent: worm to rose and light from dust.

From Four New Messages by Joshua Cohen

I recently picked up this collection of longish short stories on the advice of a friend who noticed that David Foster Wallace was sometimes featured on this blog.

It’s very good. Or rather the first story, “Emission”, is truly excellent, and while the other three are something of a mixed bag, I think there are enough beautiful passages to justify that “very good”.

It all feels very contemporary … more than contemporary, actually, but up-to-date—the word “contemporary” describing, say, the prose style, which is in fact somewhat reminiscent of Wallace, while by “up-to-date” I mean to describe the content. Or can the two be distinguished? Here is a sample from the first page:

Take a pen, write this on a paper scrap, then when you’re near a computer, search:

Alternately, you could just keep clicking your finger on that address until this very page wears out—until you’ve wiped the ink away and accessed nothing.

And if it’s the erotics of art that you want rather than hermeneutics …

They say in this industry you need a professional name because then it’s the profession who’s guilty and not you, then the profession is at fault and not you or your parents, your schools or the way you were raised.

This professional name—and no, it can’t be as rudimentary or flippant as “Professional Name”—becomes a sort of armor or shield, speaking in newer terms a version of what this industry in its more responsible incarnations requires: protection, a prophylactic.

A condom, a condom for a name.

We’ve had that conversation here at Korrektiv before, and of course pseudonyms have been around since Kierkegaard. Long before that.

But I don’t think I’ve ever seen the connection between anonymity (pseudonymity) and eroticism and their inevitable pitfalls quite so poignantly before. Poignantly and hilariously.

Within 24 hours, one Richard Monomian, drug courier to the children of the wealthy and successful, finds the story of his most bare-assed embarrassing moment fractaling in variations all over the internet. This might mean internet hell for poor Richard, but it’s all good fun for everybody else.

Within a week a hundredplus results all replicated his name as if each letter of it (those voluble, oragenital os) were a mirror for a stranger’s snorting—reflecting everywhere the nostrils of New York, Los Angelws, Reykjavik, Seoul, as thousands cut this tale for bulk and laced with detail, tapped it into lines, and his name became a tag for abject failure, for deviant, for skank.

To pull a Monomian.
To go Monomian.
Fucking Monomial.

No one, had you asked them, would have thought he was real. Only he knew he was real. And he only knew that, he thought, by his suffering.

Art is one way, maybe the most enjoyable way, of exercizing your empathy, or at least your capacity for empathy. Not a bad thing for a Wednesday in Lent.


First Son has made a sweet study guide for the math portion of the SAT. It’s now in Beta, seeking test users. Check it out.

Ain’t too proud to beg.

Me, neither. Bat Out of Hell has broken 20% on Kickstarter. Please tell your friends, and think about donating. Thanks to everyone who has donated so far. Just 10 days to go!

Carmina Mucronis: 6


It has been nine months now since that first day: your debut
    an outstanding success among the togas and tent poles, when Linus
of the fat ass dragged you down to the Forum with him
    for all to gape and gawk. With you a veritable Galatea,
I, frozen as Parian marble where I stood, watched you take
    your mincing steps, a puppy hang-dogged and heeled in
the dreggy-dark shadow of a senator’s wide passing.
    How soon I found how the necessity of trouble is
multiplied when money’s involved; tripled when love is involved;
    quadrupled when money, love and beauty conspire to spin
like Nona, Decima, Morta: haggishly spinning, spanning,
    and spurning the bladed dross – namely ourselves daily watching
the sun and stars post their gains on the char-black stone
    of the weather-whittled stele – but never any shameful losses
are tacked on for public viewing – ourselves always the one deduction
    which our own vainglory accounts for but fails to delete.
But remember how I soon conducted things? Your onyx eyes, skittish,
    almond-shaped, precious – and plucked for me alone,
who devoured an acre of orchards but never enough, stealing away
    bushels from their owners, with nothing but figs paid in return.

From the YouTube Music Video Archives: Adoro te devote by Saint Thomas Aquinas, as sung by the Benedictine Monks of the Abbey of St. Maurice & St. Maur, Clevaux

The most abstract idea conceivable is the sensuous in its elemental originality. But through which medium can it be presented? Only through music. Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Adoro te devote, latens Deitas,
Quæ sub his figuris vere latitas;
Tibi se cor meum totum subjicit,
Quia te contemplans totum deficit.
Visus, tactus, gustus in te fallitur,
Sed auditu solo tuto creditur.
Credo quidquid dixit Dei Filius;
Nil hoc verbo veritátis verius.
In cruce latebat sola Deitas,
At hic latet simul et Humanitas,
Ambo tamen credens atque confitens,
Peto quod petivit latro pœnitens.
Plagas, sicut Thomas, non intueor:
Deum tamen meum te confiteor.
Fac me tibi semper magis credere,
In te spem habere, te diligere.
O memoriale mortis Domini!
Panis vivus, vitam præstans homini!
Præsta meæ menti de te vívere,
Et te illi semper dulce sapere.
Pie Pelicane, Jesu Domine,
Me immundum munda tuo sanguine:
Cujus una stilla salvum facere
Totum mundum quit ab omni scelere.
Jesu, quem velatum nunc aspicio,
Oro, fiat illud quod tam sitio:
Ut te revelata cernens facie,
Visu sim beátus tuæ gloriæ. Amen

Carmina Mucronis: 5


Take this two-hundred count
of donated denarii, my dear Dido
of golden Arabia. That’s two pounds
worth of purple – yes, wages enough
for two months. But this is not all.
I will return in a week’s time:
Don’t forget to leave your window
unlatched, open, inviting as usual,
with your scarf tied on, drenched
in the newly bought lavender
which my silver gift will allow you
to purchase. Then I will slip the sill
in silence and, holding my breath,
find you by your gentle panting
and the scent of your presence
awash upon the air. Meanwhile,
pocket my coins in the soft bed
of your purse: let it polish and buff
Apollo’s heads as if each were mine –
let it coddle each nude Marsyas too,
he who stands by Minerva as a vow
to share his wineskin with us two,
you and I, together – and let love make
of my sunny currency something
with a proper interest for you.

Four Short Poems About 19th Century American History

Lewis & Clark, November 3, 1805
Not very many have canoed
through such a vastitude.

On the Applegate Trail, April 10, 1845
When the Native Americans set fire
to the settlers’ covered wagon,
Zachariah tried to play flapdragon
with his own funeral pyre.

Cape Fear, Delaware, January 15, 1865: Confederate Lieutenant Colonel Ezekiel Abernathy Confronts General Robert Hoke During the Second Battle of Fort Fisher
“Snatch your saddle or pick your paddle,
but either way we’s got to skedaddle!”

The Battle of Little Big Horn, June 26, 1876
With every warrior he could muster,
Sitting Bull slaughtered General Custer.