“The worlds whole sap is sunke:
The generall balme th'hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet life is shrunke,
Dead and enterr'd, yet all these seeme to laugh,
Compared with mee, who am their Epitaph.”
A Nocturnall Upon St. Lucie's Day, Being the Shortest Day
John Donne
Here in the bowel of winter
(I always loved those lines from Donne, if not the time of year)
I am speed reading my life, asleep, in dreams,
Feature length with terror and amusement in equal parts—
I sit with my mother in perfect company
Admiring her profile
And the full, dark Lytton Strachey-like beard
That she has decided to cultivate;
I note how well it suits her.
Driving in planes
That balk at becoming air borne—
And life drifts back in briefly during part of a day
With a book,
Or an animal,
Or Vladimir and Estragon, still waiting, this time on TV.
But opposite my desk they are
Bricking up a window;
A terrible omen in the urban lexicon,
And I wonder if some part of me has been
Diligently and thoroughly closed,
A bulb disappearing permanently,
Sealed in brick and hardening mortar
The smell of damp cement
That is not nature,
That is not entirely synthetic—
A token of senses
Once bulging through
Each window
Every crevice.
I live and study in Dublin and reading the description is like rediscovering it, however my description would probably bear more resemblances to that of the feeling of limitations and boundaries, in earlier entries. I do not know if I too will feel comforted on my return to this island after I make my inevitable escape, that remains to be seen.
However thank you for a brief interuption to my study, the writing was enchanting.
|
The generall balme th'hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet life is shrunke,
Dead and enterr'd, yet all these seeme to laugh,
Compared with mee, who am their Epitaph.”
A Nocturnall Upon St. Lucie's Day, Being the Shortest Day
John Donne
Here in the bowel of winter
(I always loved those lines from Donne, if not the time of year)
I am speed reading my life, asleep, in dreams,
Feature length with terror and amusement in equal parts—
I sit with my mother in perfect company
Admiring her profile
And the full, dark Lytton Strachey-like beard
That she has decided to cultivate;
I note how well it suits her.
Driving in planes
That balk at becoming air borne—
And life drifts back in briefly during part of a day
With a book,
Or an animal,
Or Vladimir and Estragon, still waiting, this time on TV.
But opposite my desk they are
Bricking up a window;
A terrible omen in the urban lexicon,
And I wonder if some part of me has been
Diligently and thoroughly closed,
A bulb disappearing permanently,
Sealed in brick and hardening mortar
The smell of damp cement
That is not nature,
That is not entirely synthetic—
A token of senses
Once bulging through Each window Every crevice.
- rachael 1-06-2003 10:56 pm
I live and study in Dublin and reading the description is like rediscovering it, however my description would probably bear more resemblances to that of the feeling of limitations and boundaries, in earlier entries. I do not know if I too will feel comforted on my return to this island after I make my inevitable escape, that remains to be seen. However thank you for a brief interuption to my study, the writing was enchanting.
- anonymous (guest) 2-08-2003 9:54 pm [add a comment]