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Ditto

11/11/2014

she said
i haven't heard anyone
use that word
in ages

i said
good words become
lost:
fusty, nookshotten
lost

then i said
that words want to be
lived
and if sent to the trash heap
of language detritus
they turn restive ghosts
wreaking havoc
in our cellars and dreams

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studying sunday

11/9/2014

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the streetlamp
- slighted pumpkin wallowing aloft -
has not faltered
through the morning distended
into an afternoon suspended
in thought
of crouching night's
encroaching

never so dull
a day
has pocked November's
skull
inverted largely over the horizon

but behind the blackening blind
of my sweet sarcophagus
grapes lounge
in candle twilight
while Schoenberg shrills
and books crawl

softly

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Author

I'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.

Ditto

studying sunday

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