Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

By Olivia Macassey

 "The phrases range from details of an inner city Auckland skyline to desire to colloquialisms to the mechanics of sex, through to continental theory to myth to the perils of gendered embodiment and back to love, to wanting, missing, fullness and the mysteries of attachment. Everything is allowed in, and is kept under exquisite control. In this poetry, giving oneself over to the affect of the unknown is the key to love; the shape of the self can be seen through attention to luck's accuracy." Stephanie Christie, Brief 35, 2007

 

"Her poetry is deeply lyrical in a manner that's not specifically tied to the printed page and which belongs to the spoken word as much as it does to its visual representation . . . Best of all, though, is the totality of the experience Macassey's poetry offers—the complex variety and subtlety of aesthetic flavours and the sensations it allows readers to share with her." Alistair Paterson, Poetry NZ 29, 2004.

 

"In rich and beautifully chosen words, Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction offers a disquieted world of shadow, an intermediate state where reality is where you find it, not where you might feel entitled to find it." Brenda Allen, Takahē 56, 2005

• Language: English
• Publisher: Titus Books
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781877441714

Book preview

Love_in_the-Age_Macassey

ISBN: 978-1-877441-71-4

©Olivia Macassey 2005, 2020

All rights reserved.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

First published by Titus Books in 2005

1416 Kaiaua Road, Mangatangi

New Zealand

www.titus.co.nz

Front cover photo: P Schreiber

Cover designed by Cyhtle Heal

Published with the assistance of Creative New Zealand

Contents

love without bodies

days that went on for days

inscription on a forearm

the star of the lost

life before memory

the uncanny truth about Abelard

I [ Convince me that I exist so. ... ]

II [ A thursday. Une femme. ]

III [ Your Huis Clos dream. ]

love in the age of mechanical reproduction: 1

love in the age of mechanical reproduction: 2

dance of the seven veils

[ veil I ]

politics of the gaze [ veil II ]

where pixels gnaw at your face [ veil III ]

trapped in the body [ veil IV ]

[ veil V ]

if, on sunday [ veil VI ]

beneath silence [ veil VII ]

Leda and the Swan

I

II

III

IV

two fools

liquid

traffic

exciting poses

myths of origin

awkward positions

a night without a staircase

underwater

last section

Acknowledgements

for those who want

love without bodies

ad te omnis caro veniet

all flesh shall come before you

days that went on for days

They say word is the only word you should

never use.  Once someone gave me quite a

list of words not to say; I particularly

remember ‘mirror’.

mirror blood knife moon love. Tongue.

kiss, ocean, light, me.

me and my heart.

My imaginary heart.

Where are you, that I may walk right through you?

Tell me what you remember.

They search the city, bearing flowers still wet with the night. 

Have said before

that the past is nothing like I think it is, and she has mentioned flooded landscapes, singing  lullabies to herself,    and the colonies of ants.

I have to admit: I don’t know the back of my hand

all that well. Though

I know what it should be.

But grace is still possible.

And now these people are everywhere.

life becomes full of their shadows

They are light and beautiful.  Their skin. Their hair…

They speak of looking for him in trees during parties, or

glancing uncertainly  up the spindling construction sites

after the hours of day have passed          and the movement has all gone home.

they always find him. Here

where days can be defined by a series of doors, of

where you went, what she saw,          jealous smiles

and millions and millions of steps,

we talk of ‘experiencing bad coffee’

and watch the wry trees

assemble for another summer.

The footpaths are the same temperature as skin,

but our feet burn  with it.

Dead ivy, shadows, steps, obscure cats hunched

into the posture of snails. The late

afternoon dust rising from demolitions

and stray seabirds over the fingers of the city…

Without bodies, all things become

implicated: yellow leaves, glimpses,

keys, concrete and words for these things

Coffee and ceiling fans; messages and reasons

tell me what you remember of

life before memory.

At this point he steps forward in a mask,

and we strip him and strip him,

sentences reeling away into the night

Extremes of diffidence, water drinking, dead