It’s been a while since we had any Cavafy here. His sense of wonder is always marvelous. This feels like an excerpt from a story someone should write.
This speaks to the heart of your humble host.
We work long for short moments of reward. Is that wrong?
It doesn’t matter: it is.
Sara Teasdale returns to suggest to us that it’s worth it.
It’s not quite winter – just one month to go! – but the changing weather and daylight makes this poem feel about perfect.
Robert Burns single-handedly made the Scottish way of speaking English not only known but genteel. Or so goes the story. He definitely contributed to its popular knowledge and popularity with his poetry, written in the Scots dialect. As odd as it seems, especially to those for whom English is not their first language, there is a wonderful honesty to the way it is worded and spelled.
And, of course, it’s good poetry.
It’s been a while since we had any e.e. cummings, and as your host is devoted to that unusual and insightful gentleman’s work, let’s have another!
The Raiment We Put On
Do you remember? We were in a room
With walls as warm as anybody’s breath,
And music wove us on its patterning loom,
The complicated loom of life and death.
Your hands moved over my face like small clouds.
(Rain fell into a river and sank, somewhere.)
I moved among your fingers, brushed by the small crowds
Of them, feeling myself known, everywhere,
And in that desperate country so far from here,
I heard you say my name over and over,
Your voice threading its way into my ear.
I will spend my days working to discover
The pattern and its meaning, what you meant,
What has been raveled and what has been rent.