Lost in the Dream // The War on Drugs
'Poetry', you are saying, 'is nothing but personality…'
and I look out onto the row upon row of grey hills
and light striking the rooftops, and just at this moment
there isn’t much in my life I’d miss if it were over:
the weird cheerful meanness of people to each other,
about pay, status, odd grudges, responsibility;
work’s meaninglessness – but its opposite, leisure’s abyss!
a snake coiled in the chest morning after morning…
How do I cope when poetry is part of this bullshit?
Part of this racket? What you call ‘personality’
seems something heroic; it seems the rictus grin
on a student’s practice corpse – that breathes iambically
between each line, with their knives parting the skin,
‘love me, love me, love me, love me, love me…’
What she remembersSeamus Heaney, Mother of the Groom
Is his glistening back
In the bath, his small boots
In the ring of boots at her feet.
Hands in her voided lap,
She hears a daughter welcomed.
It’s as if he kicked when lifted
And slipped her soapy hold.
Once soap would ease off
The wedding ring
That’s bedded forever now
In her clapping hand.
The Garden of Saint Paul Hospital - Vincent van Gogh (1889)
The Byrds, I Knew I’d Want You
And then last week I got a surge of joy from the equinox and the high pressure. And I discovered once again that to be a sensate person can be a way through the darkness. To put on the boots and the garden gloves and head into the undergrowth with a clippers is to engage physically with life. It’s not quite as good as an orgasm but it’s a wonderfully sensate interaction with the cosmos.Michael Harding, ‘Gardening, dead wood, and the dark night of the soul’
Alexandra - Hamilton Leithauser