Biography of Oisin Vink
“And so I go on to suppose that the shock-receiving capacity is what makes me a writer. I hazard the explanation that a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it. I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become a revelation of some order; it is a token of some real thing behind the appearances; and I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me. It is a rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what; making a scene come right; making a character come together. From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we –I mean all human beings- are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself. And I see this when I have a shock.”
Oisin Vink Poems
The beam of lamplight strides across the water, Ebbing at my feet in off-blue garments - Enamored with the crows, As I pass here daily;
And so she rose again, Attracted to the corners. If only you could have stayed a little longer; To cover over the embers that still burn here.
Maybe I have met you here once before, Long ago, I had walked upon this floor. You have hung up there,
I hear the ticking of the clock, Beating and faceless. The ashen berry stare That straddles at the hip
Fly away my little swallow, Perching there upon those tracks - For we have lain so long.
Burnished black vortex, The water filters through. Siphoning grief at my base as if I were accustomed; Alike the trees above the crag.
The snow always seemed to arrive at the wrong time, During journeys on sidewalks or right before the last stop, Where an old lady keenly eyes the occupied seats and grumbles about Jesus or something.
The stroll has begun again, For the one that made me change my name. No longer am I your dancer in the dark, The tightrope has become quite dated.
She always wondered what it would be like To speak Italian, Because being continental is all the rage these days. Covering over the size 16 with discreetly placed
There was always a shimmer in the bottle, Whilst the ceiling has become my other half; Cobwebbed and stewing in a red afterglow. The street lights flicker toward the surface;
And so you have fallen again, Clatter, clatter – Attracted to the corners.
I have sewn upon “The Tree of Life”, Modest stitches, Yellow, red, A once loving eye
And so it has begun again. A vague touch Or a cold rapture down my spine, Drawing itself in through the glass.
I am happy here, With my worn out clothes, And a packet of cigarettes- That papered gold.
And so she rose again,
Attracted to the corners.
If only you could have stayed a little longer;
To cover over the embers that still burn here.
Ashtrays to cry into -
Once I have laid my head down
You have always become obtuse and spectacular,