this is quite beautiful. I feel adrift in all that imagery! there's a
wonderful rhythm to this as well, asymmetrical & interesting; there's
enough to interpret too -- nothing too shallow, nothing too delvingly
profound to interfere with enjoyment.
there seems to be an act of 'retreating' into a world other than that
which is reflected, a "wild place". a very good feeling of being torn,
or being stuck between, & the relation to writing (because this is so
obvious metapoetic) is intriguing.'
KS
On 17/03/07, meikamonagmail <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> _the politics of writing and reading in a time of torture, or, we,
> the coterie, unblogged_
>
> Describing the river, I flow like a drain fed lake,
> while in expressing myself, I become the butcher bird
> crying in a tree,
> so I tell stories to order the day: sit, grind, pound and fly away,
> until, eventually, in reflecting the world
> I eagle home away to a wild place
> making things make do
> until the words cry
> I am the wholeness I am not
> in you that you saw in me
> searching for rare words among the tumbled querns
> and so the flour cakes my beak and the ink tears
> drip down the mountain to the sea,
> before we remember to breath.
>
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