bent to his firmness
Scrivener February 19th, 2008
bent to his firmness: 45, originally uploaded by Scrivenings.
Page 45 of David Copperfield
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Archive for the 'Poetry' Category
I was meditating an escape without having the hardihood
Scrivener February 19th, 2008
I was meditating an escape without having the hardihood: 43, originally uploaded by Scrivenings.
I usually relent, you savage creature! Oh, dear
Scrivener February 18th, 2008
I usually relent, you savage creature! Oh, dear: 41, originally uploaded by Scrivenings.
Page 41 of David Copperfield
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2.2: Fiction
Scrivener February 3rd, 2008
1.2: Fiction, originally uploaded by Scrivenings.
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Mark Strand, The Continuous Life
Fiction
I think of the innocent lives
Of people in novels who know they’ll die
But not that the novel will end. How different they are
From us. Here, the moon stares dumbly down,
Through scattered clouds, onto the sleeping town,
And the wind rounds up the fallen leaves,
And somebody–namely me–deep in his chair,
Riffles the pages left, knowing there’s not
Much time for the man and the woman in the rented room,
For the red light over the door, for the iris
Tossing its shadow against the wall; not much time
For the soldiers under the trees that line
The river, for the wounded being hauled away
To the cities of the interior where they will stay;
The war that raged for years will come to a close,
And so will everything else, except for the presence
Hard to define, a trace, like the scent of grass
After a night of rain or the remains of a voice
That lets us know without spelling it out
Not to despair; if the end is come, it too will pass.
Poetry Saturday: Barbara Hamby “The Dream of the Red Drink”
Scrivener February 2nd, 2008
I haven’t posted any poetry on the new blog site, have I? Well today is Imbolc, and evidently there’s a silent poetry reading in cyberspace today in celebration of the Feast of Brigid. I’m not a member of the pagan net and I only just heard of Imbolc for the first time, but I love me some poetry. I am told that today is sort of akin to the winter solstice, an occasion to declare intentions for the new year again, which I’ve already done in prose form on this blog, so I spent a little while looking around for a poem that might fit the occasion, and decided that there were a few from The Alphabet of Desire by Barbara Hamby that I would choose from to read aloud at a gathering tonight if given the chance, even though none of them’s quite exactly on that theme. I think “The Dream of the Red Drink” is properly epiphanic.