Mon
06-Feb-2006

february evening in new york

by Denise Levertov

As the stores close, a winter light
opens air to iris blue,
glint of frost through the smoke
grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk.
As the buildings close, released autonomous
feet pattern the streets
in hurry and stroll; balloon heads
drift and dive above them; the bodies
aren't really there.
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
a woman with crooked heels says to another woman
while they step along at a fair pace,
"You know, I'm telling you, what I love best
is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
to be old and wheezy--or limp! You know?
Limping along?--I'd still..." Out of hearing.
To the multiple disordered tones
of gears changing, a dance
to the compass points, out, four-way river.
Prospect of sky
wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets,
west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range
of open time at winter's outskirts.

Mon
17-Jan-2005

the end is where we start from

Abbie, Josh and I went to the British Library this evening to listen to a reading of TS Eliot's Four Quartets. Edward Fox and Dame Eileen Atkins did the reading, and it was all marvellously, indulgently poetic.

Sun
07-Nov-2004

a scintillation of silver bullets

Cycling along the canal to work this morning was lovely. The air was bitter cold, there was a hint of early morning dew because I was down by the canal, and the sun was piercing and bright, rising up behind the narrow boats and buildings lining the canal so I was squinting into a series of beautiful urban silhouettes. The light glittering on the canal surface was so intense this morning, dissolving me into the world with such a rush of joy.

I arrived at work wanting to drink coffee, which I don't often do at work. I have the poem by Rafael Jesús González running through my head:

'The Consecration of Coffee'
to Archbishop Oscar A. Romero

One day of god
drinking coffee in my patio
nothing is normal–
not the calla
with its penis of gold
nor the iris
like purple lava
a volcano spills.
I find in the depths of the cup
chasubles embroidered
with black moths
& red stains–
the sun fires
a scintillation of silver bullets
& of candles drowned–
there is blood in its shrine.
I place the cup on its saucer
with a most tender care
as if it were a chalice
& say the litany:
Guatemala
Nicaragua
El Salvador
& one side of my heart
tastes white & sweet
like cane sugar
& the other,
like coffee,
bitter & black.

Wed
30-Jul-2003

this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

I've been rereading lots of TS Eliot poems today. Been enjoying this entertaining Eliot website too. They are so good. Turned so tightly around rhythms and images, treading lightly over deep waters! It all reminded me of the hypertext version of the Wasteland I started working on two years ago. I'd really like to finish it. I might make it my August project, as well as playing D&D, before SOAS term starts again.