Friday, November 05, 2004
Ahem. Ok, I feel better.
Loving the MacCulloch, though it's eating into my Milton reading. And my Grossman reading. I desire to buy and spend countless hours playing Rome: Total War, though in fealty to either reality or poetry-mindedness I am not going to. Looks like fun though. Desires to reread the Faerie Queene, which I am trying to hold off until I finish Fish and then Paradise Lost. Nothing intelligent to say about any of this, though. Intelligence? A story told to a young boy. The myth--the shadow which existence only accentuates that which casts it, reliable mediocrity. Well, I have nothing reliably mediocre to say about any of this, either.
A poem.
The Lost Republic
There were letters, I swear,
though now I see stars more clear
through the night than meaning
ever managed through those letters’ haze,
which pages I burnt
for warmth, for fear of sleep
alone and cold, exposed,
my body sore, lonely, those letters
which rose sparkless, coherent, a flow
to tattoo/inscribe the sky,
to remind me what this journey is, it is
forgetting where you’ve been
long enough you take description for truth.
Loving the MacCulloch, though it's eating into my Milton reading. And my Grossman reading. I desire to buy and spend countless hours playing Rome: Total War, though in fealty to either reality or poetry-mindedness I am not going to. Looks like fun though. Desires to reread the Faerie Queene, which I am trying to hold off until I finish Fish and then Paradise Lost. Nothing intelligent to say about any of this, though. Intelligence? A story told to a young boy. The myth--the shadow which existence only accentuates that which casts it, reliable mediocrity. Well, I have nothing reliably mediocre to say about any of this, either.
A poem.
The Lost Republic
There were letters, I swear,
though now I see stars more clear
through the night than meaning
ever managed through those letters’ haze,
which pages I burnt
for warmth, for fear of sleep
alone and cold, exposed,
my body sore, lonely, those letters
which rose sparkless, coherent, a flow
to tattoo/inscribe the sky,
to remind me what this journey is, it is
forgetting where you’ve been
long enough you take description for truth.
