Some people these days say that poetry is dead, some violently deny
it. My current image of the art is that of Desdemona while being, and
after, suffocated by Othello: murdered but still talking in its last
gasps, raising up from its pillow on a final breath. The
Wilhelm-Baynes translation of the I Ching has a line somewhere :
'persistently ill, but still does not die' , which takes one beyond
poor Desdemona, as of course her last revival is, well, curtains for
her if not quite then the play.
--
David Bircumshaw
Website and A Chide's Alphabet http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/
The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html
Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk
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