I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
“They do not understand how, while being at variance, it is in agreement with itself. There is a back-turning connection, like that of a bow or lyre” (Heraclitus, frag. 51; translated by T.M. Robinson).
By D. J. Reddall8 months ago in Poets
“I am aware, sure, I am aware. Catastrophically aware.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath A time unwelcome
Your death postponed mine Thighs cooked with soy and ginger What is gratitude?
There are others who Have everything you covet And lack happiness
By D. J. Reddall9 months ago in Poets
"Focus on the journey, not the destination." What terrible, foolish advice If you do not think carefully about the destination
Visitors are we, to this loud, crowded place Offering our words at its dirty altar Coaxing meaning from the mayhem Assigning phonemes to their patient parts
Voices lifted in the seething, emerald cathedral Offering immortality to the dying Inviting the isolated into infinite intimacies
It is not your reading that he resents You could be reading scripture, or cook books Think of the problem a novel presents
From "I do not know" To "I do not care," the road Is short and baleful
You can remember All that I have forgotten Please, remember me
Why do we allow ghosts to tell us what to do? Because the ghosts did too, while they still lived They permitted the dead to linger in their minds
Like all who linger I am dwindling but not Yet prepared to end
