1 year ago
Penguin Canard
I had often scowled in the slumberous heavy air,
Closed my inanimate lids to find it palpable
As I knew it would be, the dreaming spires
And pearly domes, carved cotswold stone
All reflected concisely in punted waters-
Not knowing then that Malley perceived it too.
Now I find that once more I have sunk
To a meddler, thief of dead men’s thought
I had read in books that art is an infection
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In their ignorance the vision of myth. You are still
The black swan of trespass on ecliptic waters.
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2 comments:
I like this, it reminds me of converse accidents and reading poetry in meadows.
If I understand, then I too think it's so hard to be original , even perhaps in innocence.
But , whatever the meaning, it paints a lovely picture in my mind.
Thank you.
Yes. Exactly! Sometimes it does just seem like everything has been done before...
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