GIVE UP THE MAGIC?
Why has someone just told me this (it is far
too perfect, see) : 'The British poet Stevie Smith
once wrote that every poem could be titled either
'Heaven, a Detail' or 'Hell, a Detail.' Something then
at least, about the realtionship between the two.
-
I sit here at a broken table, with a broken lamplight
and - just now - an old pen which will not write.
I use no new words (this time). Everything is old
and squandered. Soiled. Buffeted once already by
life. The only genuine emotion I have is the tracking
after Death - where it has been and where it will be.
-
My landscape is an all-too-human landscape. Young
men making coffee, girls smoking cigarettes while squanching
on their phone. (New Word!!). And look, I look, to
wonder what will be : should I give up the magic? Me?
-
Man is an affair of cities, yet Li Po still
lives in the mountans, alone.
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