and splashes withered faces
smacking day’s rind
lipping desiccated desire
a watermelon splits in swelter
and splashes withered faces smacking day’s rind lipping desiccated desire
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Here a space, hidden cavern receding from underneath the sliding skin of marching, second-ticked moments, tickled present dotted down the stretching line of time-spanned day.
There is a second in every day that, found, can never be quantified and lost, can never be discovered by those prowling, precise watch-fiends. I have searched in the dells and behind the trees of Brescia hill: here is a labyrinth-bathed tree from up whose gorgeously-mottled trunk falls diffuse illumination. There is a second in every day blooming into a vastness beyond day. Fall off the path of accustomed treadings. Forsake known ways. Wander into gemmed grasses. |
AuthorI'm a twenty-something student of English literature and philosophy. When not occupied with one too many essays, I (try to) write fiction and poetry. I adore Virginia Woolf, am permanently inhabited by T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, and feast on the works of Donne and Milton. I am, however, most entranced by the works of the great Romantic poets: Blake, Shelley, Coleridge, Keats. Immersed in such an illustrious tradition, I wonder each time I write how words I string together could say anything that has not been said better before. Still the inexorable drive to partake in this vast universe of word sends me scrawling, typing, tossing fragile scribbles into a plenitudinous void. And when not reading or writing, I may be found playing piano or taking a long walk. A final word: Beethoven renders all words void. Archives
March 2016
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