I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st...
love this one too.
ReplyDeletethe 'third bar' is alluding to the heat settings on an old electric heater... i may have googled the song lyrics on a sleepless night ;)
kat - thanks! that is fantastic. ah, this song! (i really wish i could better express it)
ReplyDeletealso... do i know you outside of the blogosphere? i am trying to recall if we've had this conversation before...so please pardon me if this is an ignorant or obvious question.
becky's roomate :)
ReplyDeletekat - ah, yes. that makes good sense (and that makes terrible grammar).
ReplyDeleteI sang this one for my voice recital last year! Love it so, so much, but can't really do it justice. Martha Wainwright's voice is haunting.
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