Wrangling the ones and zeros. Dreaming of the mountains.
Let me fall
in love one last time, I beg them.
Teach me mortality, frighten me
into the present. Help me to find
the heft of these days. That the nights
will be full enough and my heart feral.
From I Imagine the Gods by Jack Gilbert.
That we could, amid all this distraction and distress, find that heft.
& I am tired
From It’s 6 am & the Sun Is Out by KB Brookins
of making peace with small
progress being a precursor
for my death
Link, via Erin Watson
A couple of years ago, in response to a challenge from one of my children, I wrote a poem. It’s not a good poem, and even a Vogon would be embarrassed by it. But nevertheless, a poem it is. A while back I found it tucked inside a book and, since there is unlikely to be a follow-up, immediately thought I should expose myself to ridicule by posting it here. It’s really bad.
For those who can’t read my writing:
Plato, in the cave,
Watches the firelight shadows dance.
And dreams of Wittgenstein
In the trenches
Lit by flickering phosphorus flares.
Neither of us know what any of this means,
Do we?
No, he says, but at least
We tried
See?