A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It has new life and motion. It is intermediate between land and sky. On land, only the grass and trees wave, but water itself is rippled by the wind. I see the breeze dash across it in streaks and flecks of light. It is somewhat singular that we should look down on the surface of water. We shall look down on the surface of air next, and mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it.
Strange Condition
almost fifty
wounded
heart’s blood
oozy
raspberry jam
seedless
spilt
warm sun
slow drip
drip, drip
red hands stink
mortally
shake them
wring them
over and
over an open
grave
I will be reading from *Stony Lonesome* (I plan to read some of the poems I haven’t been reading, so if you have been to an earlier reading, you should hear some new poems). I will also be reading from draft poems for my new book, whose working title is *Flirting with Death*. St. Dunstan’s is a great space for an event like this; I hope to see you there.
Alone, alone, about a dreadful wood Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind, Dreading to find its Father lest it find The Goodness it has dreaded is not good: Alone, alone, about our dreadful wood. Where is that Law for which we broke our own, Where now that Justice for which Flesh resigned Her hereditary right to passion, Mind His will to absolute power? Gone. Gone. Where is that Law for which we broke our own? The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss. Was it to meet such grinning evidence We left our richly odoured ignorance? Was the triumphant answer to be this? The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss. We who must die demand a miracle. How could the Eternal do a temporal act, The Infinite become a finite fact? Nothing can save us that is possible: We who must die demand a miracle. –Auden
Take some time–when you have some time–and go visit the post-college try, Jeremy Henderson’s very amusing blog. Jeremy can write. But I warn you: he is the transcendental punner.
Quantum Est In Rebus Inane 