Yes: it demands that meditation, Lawrence.
Still, I was wondering: loved the 'like a soldier' but in that stanza I would likely have written 'but I remember / the insinuation of violent air / trying to open what I had closed.' So, are you working with a particular form of speech from some area of britain there? Or just wanting that more stretched out sense of understanding?
Doug
On 2012-02-09, at 11:06 AM, Stephen Vincent wrote:
> Wonderfully intriguing, Lawrence!
> I am going to let this sit for awhile.
>
> Stephen V
>
>
>
>
>
> ________________________________
> From: Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]>
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Sent: Thu, February 9, 2012 5:12:11 AM
> Subject: Elidius on his island
>
> When I had a door with a lock, the wind
> was often there, trying the mechanism,
> as it would go round back, pushing at walls
> in that persistent manner that it has;
> like a soldier; but what I remember
> is the insinuation of violent air,
> trying to make open what I had closed.
>
> Doors attract gusts as cats bring disasters.
> These things are invisible; but one hears them,
> the noise of their dressing or changing clothes
> before they go to night form; such noises,
> not unlike humanity; but surely dead
> or damned in some other way inhuman.
> And hands touch me in the middle of the night.
>
> Almost every afternoon as daylight falls,
> they climb the hill from the sea and turn about
> my dwelling, following now the western side
> along its great length. I watch them through it,
> keeping myself closed in, not braving
> to exchange vision with these lithe figures.
> Not that I would see insubstantiality.
> They are not there. They look energetic.
>
> One does wonder. It is, I assume, the dead.
> Some days they do not come. Or I’m not there.
> Or else I am not looking through the wall.
> I hadn’t known I could until I saw.
> They seem to coincide with us. We live.
> They have their own time and differing purpose.
>
> Which is the wind and which truly spirit?
> This gate leans out to me if I approach
> and then hangs limp as I take hold of it,
> swinging loose upon a squeaky hinge, soundless
> that moment before I reached and touched it
> as if some other being calmed its voice
> in the man-made mechanism; and that gesture
> is indicative. I must find its meaning.
>
> I was guest in a palace far from here.
> I had leave to wander the large building:
> room led to room, steps, passages:
> and, as I went, each door opened for me,
> as one saying “Please enter” though followers
> thought it suspicious. I joy in welcome.
>
>
Douglas Barbour
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What dull barbarians are not proud of
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