Sublime

I loved the idea that a poem written by a young man weeks before his fiery death would be quoted by a speechwriter and read by a president and felt in the chests of a million American children in the wake of another aerial disaster. It showed poetry’s power to circulate among bodies and temporalities, to transcend the contingencies of its

Isolement Où est-ce que je suis ? Qui êtes-vous ? Qu'est-ce que je fais ici ? Emmenez-moi partout, Partout mais pas ici, Faites-moi oublier Tout ce que j'ai été Inventez mon passé, Donnez sens à la nuit. Inventez le soleil Et l'aurore apaisée Non je n'ai pas sommeil, Je vais vous embrasser Êtes-vous mon amie ? Répondez, répondez. Où est-ce que je

But only fools and Americans think they can outrun the past.

Forever in motion, these stationary things.

How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn’t care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.

“Joseph Brodsky