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rejectomorphMy mind wanders and fails to tell my inattentive self where it has been. Maybe it is gathering revelations while I watch the ordinary world. Maybe someday it will reveal to me thoughts in the calls of birds and words on the wind. Or maybe it only dreams, while I remain here among the leaves and grass and flowers and their dust. I like to think that it has found secrets for which I am unready, but there is no certainty in that. It could be that it is merely absent, and someday will wander and not return while I fade like evening light. Should star emerge I'd like to be ready, but otherwise the lack of any surprise will not surprise me. The world is a strange place, but no stranger than myself, two places at once, each unknown in its own way.
Sunday Verse
by Dylan Thomas
I have come to catch your voice,
Your constructed notes going out of the throat
With dry, mechanical gestures,
To catch the shaft
Although it is so straight and unbending;
Then, when I open my mouth,
The light will come in an unwavering line.
Then to catch night
Wading through her dark cave on ferocious wings.
Oh, eagle-mouthed,
I have come to pluck you,
And take away your exotic plumage,
Although your anger is not a slight thing,
Take you into my own place
Where the frost can never fall,
Nor the petals of any flower drop.
Sunday Verse
One of the Notebook Poems
by Dylan Thomas
I have come to catch your voice,
Your constructed notes going out of the throat
With dry, mechanical gestures,
To catch the shaft
Although it is so straight and unbending;
Then, when I open my mouth,
The light will come in an unwavering line.
Then to catch night
Wading through her dark cave on ferocious wings.
Oh, eagle-mouthed,
I have come to pluck you,
And take away your exotic plumage,
Although your anger is not a slight thing,
Take you into my own place
Where the frost can never fall,
Nor the petals of any flower drop.
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Date: 2015-03-17 08:25 pm (UTC)I read something once, decades ago, about how he (and probably other European poets) would come to the US to read at colleges and other venues, taking advantage of the opportunity to seduce eager young female fans. That's likely what I had in mind when I broached the subject of his looks. I mean, gorgeous writing, but no thanks. ;)
I can (and do) recite tiny bits of Fern Hill to myself once in a while, because the phrases are rapturously beautiful. The foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, you know, and the sabbath rang slowly in the pebbles of the holy streams. *sigh*