As/Is







11.15.2003



poem #68 (proust - p.31)

A hazard of death
prevents us from belief. Captive
in some inferior being
so effectively lost.
The day
forms their prison.

Our own past
a labour in vain. The past
hidden beyond the realm of intellect.



Combray
one day in winter
mother offered tea and plump
'petites madeleines'.

To my lips a spoonful
of tea soaked cake. A shudder
an exquisite pleasure invaded my senses
with no suggestion
of origin. At once
the vicissitudes of life
became indifferent to me.

Love filling me with a precious essence.
I had ceased to feel mediocre
accidental mortal.
All-powerful joy I was conscious
transcended.

Did it signify my final enlightment?