any object--it can be big or small . . .
emotion clings to it--I need it
must have it
it defines me--
and then, after a period of time . . .
it can be three months, a day, or a half-hour
does not hold the mysteries to my desires anymore.
What a strange feeling!
to go from a state of anxiety, of constant worry over a thing
to not wanting it at all--
seeming indifference, nonchalance . . .
what happened in the mind?
I'm reading Eugenio Montale's Cuttlefish Bones, translated by William Arrowsmith. Here is the first poem in the volume:
Rejoice when the breeze that enters the orchardbrings you back the tidal rush of life:here, where dead memoriesmesh and founder,was no garden, but a reliquary.That surge you hear is no whir of wings,but the stirring of the eternal womb.Look how this strip of lonely coasthas been transformed: a crucible.All is furor within the sheer wall.Advance, and you may chance uponthe phantasm who might save you:here are the tales composed and deedsannulled, for the future to enact.Find a break in the meshes of the netthat tightens around us, leap out, flee!Go, I have prayed for your escape--now my thirstwill be slaked, my rancor less bitter . . .