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.

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Subscribe with Bloglines