And none is loved as he deserves.
--E. Jennings
Though, sounds like Larkin, Larkinesque. Except for the 'and'..
And death is a disguise.
__ _ _______ ___ ______ _______
Today feels like the first day of summer and so already your mind is lost. Your thoughts widen to beyond the immediate exchanges that fill the days. Nothing to be found at Wisdom Inn, Old & New Books, Book City or Iqbal Book depot, but you weren't looking for nothing anyway.
The first day of winter continues to dazzle..you find your place in it in mid-stream, the sketch never drawn out, a few fundamental gestures you sense are all that is left in the hard and slow place, the one-dimension of a life like a tomb, or an old mirror in which we see ourselves imperfectly. How does gentleness survive in the harsh world without turning to bitterness, without being reified into 'knowingness'?
There is ice in the grass, the sky is full of stars and frost and he imagines that there is no life that is complete. He waits for the return of J_ but knows it won't happen..we wait for what is impossible, the moment he walks through the door and the old times are restored, brought back.
Winter life, like the way we conceal our life from our self. And he thinks, after all this time: what do I owe you? And he hates himself for this but is incapable of a love that is any more than small acts of kindness. The land, his inner life, is fragile, open and dead; the ghost on the dark windows shows a face that he once knew. The line is broken and won't be fixed, but it will carry on like this, probably forever.
--E. Jennings
Though, sounds like Larkin, Larkinesque. Except for the 'and'..
And death is a disguise.
__ _ _______ ___ ______ _______
Today feels like the first day of summer and so already your mind is lost. Your thoughts widen to beyond the immediate exchanges that fill the days. Nothing to be found at Wisdom Inn, Old & New Books, Book City or Iqbal Book depot, but you weren't looking for nothing anyway.
The first day of winter continues to dazzle..you find your place in it in mid-stream, the sketch never drawn out, a few fundamental gestures you sense are all that is left in the hard and slow place, the one-dimension of a life like a tomb, or an old mirror in which we see ourselves imperfectly. How does gentleness survive in the harsh world without turning to bitterness, without being reified into 'knowingness'?
There is ice in the grass, the sky is full of stars and frost and he imagines that there is no life that is complete. He waits for the return of J_ but knows it won't happen..we wait for what is impossible, the moment he walks through the door and the old times are restored, brought back.
Winter life, like the way we conceal our life from our self. And he thinks, after all this time: what do I owe you? And he hates himself for this but is incapable of a love that is any more than small acts of kindness. The land, his inner life, is fragile, open and dead; the ghost on the dark windows shows a face that he once knew. The line is broken and won't be fixed, but it will carry on like this, probably forever.
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