I’ve posted this poem before, but this time I have a photo to go with it.
Lacemaker
You sit, bent over the pillow;
beaded memories
click back and forth.Deftly, you weave silk threads:
over, under, twist and hitch;
under, over, pin and twist.Beneath your fingers
a brass forest grows
shrouded in gossamer.
(In the photo, the forest is silver rather than brass, but I think it still illustrates the point.)
Continue reading “it’s complicated”
It’s April 23rd and there are a number of things to celebrate, so, I’ve gathered together some bits and pieces from the blog archive. First of all, it’s World Book and Copyright Day.
Underground literature
A spotless Stephen King
sits opposite Dostoyevsky
on the metro. The Russian
looks a little down-at-heel:
his jacket, once expensive leather,
is now worn and shabby. Sadly,
he is only a translation. Beside him,
a paternal-looking businessman
holds tight to Harry Potter, while,
further down the car, a little girl
in a blue frock, frets and scuffs
her round-toed sandals. Defiantly,
her bare arms clutch Lewis Carroll
to her undeveloped chest.
On a recent walk, I saw a squirrel dart across the path and run up into a tree. When I looked up through the bare branches, I could see his tail splayed wide – presumably to give him better balance – and was struck by how closely it resembled the catkins of the pussy willow.
I posted a photo of a rabbit last week, but it wasn’t a very successful one as the bunny’s colouring blended so well with the undergrowth. I gather that this blending into the background is crypsis (as opposed to mimesis when the creature disguises itself as something else).
Here, then, is a less cryptic rabbit:
Continue reading “seeing and not seeing”
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
but I couldn’t remember who said it.
Knowing I’d kept it as one of a whole list of poetry-associated quotations, I searched my computer for hyacinths.
It turns out it was Carl Sandburg, though further investigation online suggests he may actually have used the subtly different phrase:
poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
The search for hyacinths also turned up the forgotten draft of a poem.
Continue reading “a lack of biscuits”
don't confuse the narrator 