Wednesday, May 24, 2023

T.S. Eliot, "Marina," and a review

Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the stye of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place

What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

-----------------------------------

From poetrynook.com:



Tuesday, May 16, 2023

Waxing and waning


Exek, "Some Background"

 

Margaret Howell's Air Max 90s


British after all

 

Sunday, May 14, 2023

Howard Hodgkin, Clean Sheets (1979-84)

 


"On the content of the picture Hodgkin has stated, 'It's just the interior of a bedroom. But as someone neatly put it, it's full of Friday night thoughts.'"

© CLUB SANDWICH
Maira Gall