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...
WOW, what a dog! Poor kitty. I hope you were not feeling as melancholy as the cat. Remember your door to freedom is always open! I am missing "Dear Stranger". Is that blog on vacation permanent or otherwise?
ReplyDeleteI am not feeling nearly half as melancholy as poor Henri :)
ReplyDeleteUm, that blog is on indefinite vacation. I should probably post something over there about why I've let it slide... Thanks for the reminder :)