Boring Myself

[rejectomorph]

Tonight I am a dullard— more so than usual. I blame day after day of excessive heat. Though the evening has turned pleasantly cool, and the air is clear, my head remains as thick as last month's smoke. I might as well down another bottle of beer, as its soporific effect will be unnoticeable.

At least I can still do this:


Sunday Verse

Mid-Day

by H.D.


The light beats upon me.
I am startled—
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor—
I am anguished—defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods—
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shriveled seeds
are spilt on the path—
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its cracked leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.

Comments

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

what a wonderful poem! i've done some perishing on the path in my time, too.

[rejectomorph]

Hilda Doolittle is an old favorite of mine. I'm pretty sure she's writing about writing in this one, though of course it's applicable to many things.

Note: I had to fix a typo I made in the second line of the penultimate verse. I'd typed "split" in place of "spilt."