WickedEye's Quotient

6/29/2008 at 18:37

From Greek, *poein, "to make or compose"...

...from Proto-IndoEuropean, *kwoiwo-, "making", from base *qwei-, "to make".

I've been gone lately (not physically, but in terms of the webernet- and email, and telephone) trying to Get Things In Order. Things, meaning the entire sprawling magnificently labyrinthine intrigue which is my life.

That's far less an exaggeration than it sounds.

I clarify so that those of you reading this will understand my conviction that paring my life down to something only a little past the essentials is long overdue.

And as far as posting my writing, I've had little time for it- or, at least, for the editing my writing requires before I post it.

Nonetheless, I do read. (I will stop that when I'm dead.) All of which is to say that I still take in new material; I'm just not sharing my integration of, or insight into, it at the moment.

Why any of this should concern you greatly or even minutely I've really no idea. But I mention it in building up to the statement that for the next month (at least) I'll be posting poetry- old and new favorites- occasionally accompanied by brief updates about my life.

*Poem. From 'to make'. Oddly appropriate to the prosaic task of re-inventing my life.

Ah, creation.

For now, a writer whose poetry I love far better than his prose.

A Love Song

Reject me not if I should say to you
I do forget the sounding of your voice,
I do forget your eyes that searching through
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice.

Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide
Under the pallid moonlight’s fingering,
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide
My eyes from diligent work, malingering.

Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon.

And I do lift my aching arms to you,
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast,
And I do weep for very pain of you,
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest.

And I do toss through the troubled night for you,
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine,
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.
-D.H. Lawrence

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