Podcast
good works
Hosted by samantha · EN
5episodes
Episodes
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Woman, The Hour Is Coming
Nov 17, 202200:10:17Tap to summarizeWoman, The Hour Is Coming. part 2 of the sermons of Meister Eckhart series. translation by Reiner Schürmann, from his book Wandering Joy Get full access to good works at goodworks.substack.com/subscribe
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See What Love
Nov 10, 202200:14:24Tap to summarizeSee What Love. part 1 of the sermons of Meister Eckhart series. translation by Reiner Schürmann, from his book Wandering Joy Get full access to good works at goodworks.substack.com/subscribe
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good works podcast ep. 12 . being to timelessness as it's to time
Aug 19, 202100:00:56Tap to summarizefrom the og doesn’t-capitalize-anything weirdo himselfbeing to timelessness as it’s to time, love did no more begin than love will end; where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim love is the air the ocean and the land (do lovers suffer? all divinities proudly descending put on deathful flesh: are lovers glad? only their smallest joy’s a universe emerging from a wish) love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun more last than star —do lovers love? why then to heaven with hell. Whatever sages say and fools, all’s well — e.e. cummings Get full access to good works at goodworks.substack.com/subscribe
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good works podcast . André Breton
Jul 15, 202100:04:02Tap to summarizeAlways for the first time Always for the first time I scarcely know you when I see you You return sometime in the night To a house at an angle to my window A wholly imaginary house From one second to the next There in the complete darkness I wait for the strange rift to recur The unique rift In the façade and in my heart The nearer I come to you In reality The louder the key sings in the door of the unknown room Where you appear alone before me First you merge with the brightness The fleeting angle of a curtain A jasmine field I gazed on at dawn on a road near Grasse The jasmine-pickers bending over on a slant Behind them the dark profile of plants stripped bare Before them the dazzling light The curtain invisibly raised In a frenzy all the flowers rush back in You facing this long hour never dim enough until sleep You as if you could be The same except I may never meet you You pretend not to know I’m watching you Marvellously I’m no longer sure you know it Your idleness fills my eyes with tears Meanings swarm around each of your gestures Like a honeydew hunt There are rocking-chairs on a bridge there are branches That might scratch you in the forest In a window on the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette Two lovely crossed legs are caught in long stockings Flaring out in the centre of a great white clover There is a silk ladder unrolled across the ivy There is That leaning over the precipice Of the hopeless fusion of your presence and absence I have found the secret Of loving you Always for the first time On the road to San Romano Poetry is made in a bed like love Its rumpled sheets are the dawn of things Poetry is made in the woodsIt has the space it needs Not this one but the other shaped by The hawk’s eye The dew on a horsetail The memory of a bottle frosted over on a silver tray A tall rod of tourmaline on the sea And the road of the mental adventure That climbs abruptly One stop and bushes cover it instantly That isn’t to be shouted on the rooftops It's improper to leave the door open Or to summon witnesses The shoals of fish the hedges of titmice The rails at the entrance of a great station The reflections of both riverbanks The crevices in the bread The bubbles of the stream The days of the calendar The St. John's WortThe acts of love and poetry Are incompatible With reading a newspaper aloud The course of a sunbeam The blue light linking the blows of an axe The kite string shaped like a heart or hoop net The beavers' tails beating in time The swiftness of lightning The casting of candy from the old stairs The avalancheThe room of marvels No gentlemen it is not a courtroom Nor the haze of a roomful of soldiers some Sunday evening Figures of a dance transparent above the marshes The outline on the wall of a woman's body at daggerthrow The bright spirals of smoke The curls of your hair The curve of the Philippine sponge The twists of a coral snake The ivy into the ruins It has all the time it needsThe embrace of poetry like that of the flesh As long as it lasts Shuts out all the woes of the world Get full access to good works at goodworks.substack.com/subscribe
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good works podcast ep. 11 - soneto XI . pablo neruda
Jul 5, 202100:02:06Tap to summarizeSoneto XI (Spanish)Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado, no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia, busco el sonido líquido de tus pies en el día. Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada, de tus manos color de furioso granero, tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas, quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra. Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura, la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro, quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.::Sonnet XI (English)I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.translation: Stephen Tapscott Get full access to good works at goodworks.substack.com/subscribe
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