The following prose-poem was written a long time ago. The photo was taken in September 1993 in Dorset, England.
This is a photograph of me sitting by Hardy's statue. His enduring, heart-broken face is looking towards the street. My own face, pensive, faces the camera. The tree to the left hasn't begun to turn, and it towers, still green in September. My hair is longish; I'm bearded; I'm wearing a tweed jacket, my knapsack at my side. This is Dorchester, the town where Thomas Hardy left the human heart threadbare. The photo is a few years old. I look much the same though my beard is salt and pepper. I'm looking at this photograph late at night, far from Dorset. And I still believe the spirit can rise, rise and fall, without landing.
10 comments:
Another Sunday morning treat. You are spoiling us. Lovely.
Lovely.
Oooooh...
You know we all have big fat crushes on you, don't you?
I was just going to post that, IB. I've got a crush on Deloney. There, I said it, but I've been thinking it for a while.
Thanks y`all.
You made it disappear again.
And I had lots to say.
So ephemeral.
My crush is more aptly described as slim and jaunty.
Crush schmush.
However: is this a different prose poem you also wrote a long time ago, or are you tinkering? Or is it a Borgesian library of Babel kind of thing?
The only tinkering I did was to change October to September. I`m not good with dates. The typography turned out the way it did because the photo squished some words over to the right.
This heatwave is turning my brain into mush.
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