I always think that I have run out of good poets to read, but Alejandra Pizarnik has taken me by surprise. There are still poets to be found!
Pizarnik wrote “When the sun sets, they will lock up the tightrope-walker in a cage and take her to the temple ruins and leave her there.” I feel like that, like people have taken me to the ruins. I feel like ruins, something, not so much from that past, but from a different time, that no one wants to use, but everyone likes to look at and take pictures of, but only for a short time.
Pizarnik wrote “The water is rippling, busy with the winds.” This feels like a soft lingering sadness, that never completes itself, always there, the water never settles.
Pizarnik wrote “Horror of searching for your eyes in the space that is full of the screams of this poem.” I often wonder if I look strong enough, that her eyes will be found, but I never find them, and it feels like screams.
Extracting the Stone of Madness is the kind of poetry book, that will lead you to taking pictures of the pages and sending them to friends via text. Your friends will respond “Yes, that is a poem.”
Pizarnik seems to have insomnia, she is up at night, writing, her fingers scrambling over the keys. Somewhere in the Buenos Aires night there is a sleepless ghost typing “The sea hides its dead. Because what lies below must stay below.”